Disclaimer: If you think that I am JK Rowling at this point, idk what to tell you. You're wrong.

AN: HAPPY HALLOWEEEEENNN! (late). Huge thank you to all who have followed/favorited this story, and a MASSIVE thank you to those of you who have commented. Seriously it is so exciting when you guys comment. Here is chapter 9!

Chapter 9

To live is to suffer

to survive

is to find meaning in the suffering

- Friedrich Nietzsche

The sound of the door opening and closing yanked Hermione out of her thoughts. She turned around to see Ron standing there, hands in his pockets, his face looking anxious. A part of her paled, afraid of what he had to say.

"It's horrible. And wrong. But after everything, Hermione, can you blame them?" He looked down, shamefully avoiding her eyes. It took her a moment to reply to that.

"I know." She sighed, walking up to him. "It's just that, we never really seem to think about what this must be like for the Slytherins. So many of them have parents in Azkaban right now." She swallowed hard, thinking about how it would feel to learn that her parents would lose their souls. Her own may not remember her, but at least they were alive and happy, something she could take comfort in. She wondered how many students would find their lives shattered by the news. She wondered how many conflicting feelings they must have, knowing their parents had done horrible things, but wanting them to be forgiven, to remain human and intact, to be given a chance at redemption. She wondered about the anger and fear and desperation and sorrow.

"By 'Slytherins', do you mean Malfoy?" There was a guarded curiosity in Ron's face, so fleeting that she almost missed it. Almost.

"Not just Malfoy, Ron. I think this will be terrible for all of them." He blinked at her, watching her face as if trying to catch her in a lie.

"Hermione, what's going on between you and him?" Her heart skipped a beat and she was suddenly nervous.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean." He looked her dead in the eyes, a hard expression cast across his face.

"Some people said they saw you two earlier, walking through the halls holding hands." She felt a slight blush begin to creep over her features, the memory of that electricity burning just beneath her skin. She willed herself to remain nonchalant.

"Yes, that did happen," she replied evenly," but it isn't what you're thinking. We were walking to McGonagall's office to tell her about the Dark Mark."

"And you had to hold his hand to get there?" She saw the twitch of amusement and something else on his face, and for some reason it made her furious.

"I don't know why I did it. I think it was more for my own sake than his. I needed something to hold onto so I didn't fall apart, okay?" His eyes fell to the floor as she spoke, her voice shaking at every word. She had tried to keep the anger from staining her voice. Tried. Her eyes drifted to the ceiling and she took a slow, deep breath. Ron was not the villain here.

"I didn't mean to accuse you," his voice was soft, "I just wondered if maybe something had happened. I – I think he deserves a second chance, Hermione, but I'm not sure if he deserves you." And there it was. The truth beneath it all.

She couldn't help the pain she felt at his words. She bit down on her tongue hard, unsure why Ron's words felt so raking, it wasn't as if she were dating Malfoy, but still, the more she learned about the man he was becoming, the less she thought of him as something sinful. He had been thrown into an evil world and forced to conform to it. And she could see he was working to make amends. That wasn't nothing.

"We – we're trying to be friends," she blurted out.

"I see," he said carefully, "and how is that going?"

"I – I guess I'm just realizing how little I actually know him. And you know what, I forgive him. I forgive the monstrous things he's done, because I think that if I had been forced to live my entire life in his world, I'd have done them too. It's like Plato's cave. He spent his whole life believing in those shadows, and had to fight so very hard to turn away from them, to believe in something different and see the good. And I see the good in him." She felt like some great weight had been shed from her shoulders. Saying it all out loud, and to her best friend, it reminded her that it was real. That all that she saw in him was real. Her throat seemed to close with threatened tears when Ron pulled her into a tight embrace. She hadn't realized just how much she needed that comfort.

"I forgive him too, Hermione. And you're right, okay? We can't allow ourselves to be dictated by prejudice, or we will be no better than they were. I just need you to be careful, okay? I don't want to see him drag you back down into the darkness." She felt herself pull away and stare up into his sincere eyes.

"What do you mean, Ron?" His hands tightened slightly around her shoulders at the hurt in her voice.

"I just mean that he has a lot of problems, 'Mione, he isn't a happy person and I just worry that getting involved with him will pull you back to that place. It's been so painful to see you so hurt for so long, and you're in such a good place now. I feel like I can finally see you in your own eyes again. So you have to forgive me for being so worried, alright?" He had bent down a bit to look more directly into her face, as if hoping that seeing his own more clearly would help her understand more what he meant. She took a slight step backwards, out of his grasp.

"Ron," she let out an exasperated breath, "seriously? Do you honestly believe that I'm so fragile that someone else's unhappiness would be enough to send me spiraling into depression? That's a bit offensive. Yes. I KNOW that I have struggled, believe me, but I've also been pulling myself out of it, and I'm strong enough to hold the ground I've gained. Alright? And for the record, there is absolutely nothing wrong with feeling sad under the weight of all we have been through and lost." For a moment he just looked at her, his lips tight as countless thoughts that she couldn't understand layered themselves inside the blue of his eyes.

"Alright. You're right," he said, then reached his hand out to hers, gave it a squeeze, and led them back into the kitchen.

Plans were already being drawn up as to how the Order could best aid the aurors in uncovering the locations of the few remaining Death Eaters still in hiding. Hermione immediately plunged herself into the conversation, doing her best to ignore the furtive glances Ron kept casting at her. The meeting wore on, and by the time Hermione and Ron finally returned to Hogwarts with McGonagall, it was nearly night. It had been decided that the students in the Order would be kept out of the search. They had lost their education to the war once already. Hermione felt both relieved and frustrated by it. She could feel the shaking in her palms recede with the knowledge that, at least for the moment, her battle was over. But she wanted to help end the violence for good, wanted to be a part of bringing it all to a close.

Not wanting to face another uncomfortable conversation with Ron, she had wandered off after dinner and found herself upon a boulder high on the cliffs looking out over the lake. She sat there, watching the dark from the sky unfurl around her. Mist began to collect in the evening air until it lay thickly upon her skin. Every breath felt heavy in her chest, coated in a dewdrop moisture that somehow made the air taste so sweet.

Quietly, seamlessly, the night took over the day. Eventually, Hermione stood up, moving back towards the castle, and it seemed to her a mountain of stone, the yellow light within it a stranger to the shadows that still clung to her. Outside, the darkness felt more alive than anything behind the walls rising before her. She walked through a chorus of swaying trees, bare branches knocking together, of trickling water and loose snow. She turned once more to stare into the darkness behind her before pushing through the doors and into the light.

The warmth seeped back into her body as she walked through the castle towards her dormitory. Suddenly, all the exhaustion of the day dropped into her limbs. Climbing the last stairwell, she pushed through the portrait hole and was almost tempted to fall asleep right there on the floor. Her eyes rested on the embers of the dying fire. They glittered like sun struck water, shimmering as though they possessed a secret. Walking towards the fireplace, she rubbed at her eyes. Some days just felt so long. And then she felt herself stop, slowly like the whole world was stopping with her, like it was the most natural thing to do, because there on the couch was Malfoy and Hermione couldn't stop herself from staring at him.

So this was the intimacy of sleeping. There was no smirk on his face, no arrogance, no look of cunning, no calculating smile, no guarded expressions. She had never realized just how many walls he kept up until she looked at him now – they were all gone. And in that moment, she felt that she really saw him – a him she was only just starting to understand. All the hardship and sorrow had fled from his features, and a look of such peacefulness was on his face that it made Hermione want to cry and smile all at once. She was suddenly so afraid of waking him, of shattering this image. And yet – and yet, she couldn't stop her feet from stepping quietly closer to him, couldn't help her hand from reaching out and brushing the hair away from his forehead. The faintest of smiles pulled at the corners of his mouth upon her touch. She wanted to hold onto that innocence forever. But seeing him like that, it was suddenly too much, so she turned away, and quietly went into her room, trying to understand the tears that poured down her face.

xxxxx

Hermione woke up late in the day to the sound of music softly drifting into her bedroom. Blinking away her weariness, she slowly made her way out of her room. The cool floor on her feet was strangely pleasant after the heat of the blankets. Malfoy was sitting on the ground in front of the gramophone, still in his sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair messy in an alarmingly attractive way. Records were strewn across the ground surrounding him. He was holding one by The Ink Spots and "I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire" was playing gently into the room. He looked up at her as she entered.

"Morning." His voice sounded hesitant, unsure.

"Were you questioned last night?" Oh god, she couldn't help herself. His face turned stony.

"Always straight to the point, Granger." He said, his voice cold. He obviously didn't want to talk about the experience. She said nothing, simply looked at him, expectant.

"Yes. I was," he said, his voice reluctant and definitely irritated. She raised an eyebrow at him, urging him to continue. He pushed himself to his feet and walked until he stood directly in front of her, crossing his arms over his chest and giving her a scathing glare. His breath caught at the slight blush that colored her cheeks. He was so damn affected by her.

"It really wasn't anything at all. They asked me about my previous involvement with Death Eaters and my current alliances. It was routine. Orderly. Nothing worth talking about." He brushed past her and walked over to the kitchen, reaching for a glass. She swallowed hard at the bruises coloring his wrists. He was lying and they both knew it.

"Draco." His hands stopped their movements, his heart seeming to stumble stupidly at his name upon her lips.

"I'm sorry," she said, "about your father."

She watched his hand lower so painfully slowly to his sides. She wondered if it had been a mistake to say anything. She bit down on her lip hard. She needed him to know that she cared. Without saying anything, without looking at her, he walked into his room and quietly closed the door. How apt, considering he was a constantly closing door himself. She wondered if he would ever let her close enough to really know him. Suddenly, she was struck by an idea and was glad Malfoy wasn't around to see the excited, mischievous grin suddenly plastered across her face.

xxxxx

Draco was lying on the floor, his head by the glass doors leading outside to the balcony. The world looked strange from this angle, familiar yet distorted. Emotions were surging inside of him like a waterfall crashing violently and ceaselessly on the rocks beneath it. Fear. In 28 days, he would truly and utterly be alone. His family killed, criminal, convicted, cut away. He would be an orphan. The thought sliced at his lungs. Sorrow. Maybe for himself. Maybe for his father. Maybe for the children stuck on the wrong side of this accursed war. Maybe for all of it. But it pressed down on him, crushing him. Anger. She had told him she was sorry. As if he needed her pity. As if he needed kindness at all. He'd spend his entire life without it. He didn't want her to be sorry for him. Hope. That maybe she just fucking cared. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his hands. Maybe she cared. Maybe she cared. Why did he need her to care. And now the tears were pouring down his face because he was losing it all, but too guiltily felt more like he had it all to gain and that was somehow so much worse.

He cried like he hadn't since he was young. Hard, quiet sobs making him shutter as his world broke and refracted through crystal clear tears that wouldn't seem to stop. Why did he have to care so hopelessly about a girl he would never deserve? The more and more he actually came to know her, the more reasons found to just fall madly, head over heels for. Then again, nothing stings more sweetly than the thorns of a rose. He had every reason to fall for her. Her brilliance. Her fierce kindness. Her unwavering determination. Her quiet and infallible strength. The way she made him feel like someone worthwhile. But her? What reason did she have to possibly fall for him? A pretty face? That was worthless. He moved his hands to cover his eyes, hating so deeply when he got like this – hopeless and afraid of his own self.

The sky was slowly changing with his thoughts as the time ticked by. It was a dreary grey, not crisp and bright like the winter was so ought to be, but heavy and bleak. It almost made him laugh. The world is like a mirror of us, we see in it what we see in ourselves. His tears had stopped, and now all he felt was numb. He sniffed and then immediately sat up and blinked a few times, his brow furrowing - something smelled amazing. He blinked a few more times. It didn't concern him. Hermione was probably just baking something. He blinked again, then pulled himself off the floor. Like a fool, he couldn't help himself.

As he opened the door, he was hit by a wave of smells – sweet chocolate and tart blueberry. There she was, her long, curly hair messily pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, a few strands falling softly around her face. She was carefully putting blueberry icing onto a dozen large chocolate cupcakes. She glanced up and him and smiled. He couldn't help but smile back at her. She picked up a cupcake and held it out to him.

"I require your services, Mr. Malfoy. If you would please be so kind as to be my taste tester?" He smirked at her, walking over to take the cupcake and biting into it with a lascivious look in his eyes. It was delicious. The flavors blended together perfectly. Damn, the girl could bake. She smirked back at him deviously as he took another bite.

"Acceptable, Mrs. Granger," he said after finishing the entire thing. At that, she gave him a shy smile, but there was something else beneath it, something almost like sadness. Draco was curious, but didn't ask.

Hermione felt the iceberg sitting in the pit of her stomach thaw a bit. He was smiling, and oh my god, he was beautiful. She glanced away. These were her mother's recipe, the one she would make everything Hermione felt like giving up on something hard. She'd always said that something sweet was all you needed for a new perspective. She was again painfully aware of the ice sitting in her stomach. Suddenly she looked up at the boy grinning at all the cupcakes in front of him. He, too, had lost his mother and was about to lose his father. She wondered if Narcissa, if either of them had ever done anything like this for him. She couldn't help but feel guilty. At least she had known her parents loved her deeply, had taken care of her in every way, supported her, encouraged her. At least they were still alive. Without thinking about it she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close to her as her head rested on his chest. After a moment, she felt him relax and slowly wrap his arms around her. There was something so deeply comforting about his warmth.

"Hermione." He breathed the word against her hair and she was silently thankful he couldn't see the blush that crept across her features. Attraction is a funny thing. Just her name out of his mouth made her feel like she might lose her balance. Pulling away from him she studied his face as he fought to find his words, his hand gripping the table beside them. The boy was as closed off as a bank vault. And yet, just one look at his eyes was enough to hint at the incredible depth within him. Even simply the way he read his books, as if they were conversations meant to be had, was enough to tell anyone that he was no simple man. He cared, she could tell. He cared a great deal about things and people and growing wiser in the world. She saw the intensity of it in his grey eyes.

There had been a moment in her 6th year when she had started to think of Malfoy differently; as something better, perhaps, than what he appeared to be. She had been walking the halls late one night, something she had done too frequently, comforted by the quiet darkness, needing time to think. She had quickly hidden herself behind a statue as she heard someone running around the corner towards her. Someone yelled, "Pansy!" and a moment later, Draco Malfoy had caught up to the girl. Pansy was crying, and without hesitating, he pulled her into his arms holding her so desperately close. Hermione had felt like she was intruding on something she wasn't supposed to see – it was so tender, so gentle the way he brushed his hand across her hair. He had whispered into her hair only a few words, but Hermione would never forget them. Later she found out that Pansy's parents had been taken to Azkaban for their involvement with the Death Eaters. It was unlikely that she would ever see them again. Hermione couldn't help but believe that maybe Pansy wasn't a cruel person, she was just afraid. That maybe when she had wanted to turn Harry in, it was in the hopes that it would end all of the violence and hardship, that the loss of one was better than the loss of many. But that night, Draco had held her while she cried. Had told her, "They can take our families, but they can't take the love we feel for them". She had thought that maybe the Death Eaters weren't so different from them after all.

"I've been thinking that friends – well, they know things about each other." His voice tore her from her reverie.

"What would you like to know?" She asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and moving to sit on the edge of the table as he leaned himself against the wall, contemplating her.

"Tell me about your favorite book," he said. A small smile pulled at her mouth. Books. Something they both seemed to obsess over.

"It's a bit strange. It isn't well known or anything like that, but it's the most beautifully written thing, like opening your eyes to someone else's world entirely. It's called The Soul of the Night, written by Chet Raymo." His eyebrows lifted and she wondered what he was thinking.

"I don't quite know how to explain it," she continued, "Really it's just an account of this man's observations on astronomy, but its beautifully philosophical and poetic in the magnitude of what it relays."

"The way you talk about things – that's what's beautiful." He was studying her then, and the heat between them forced her to turn away.

"Tell me about yours," she said with a deep breath, looking back at him, determined to hold his gaze.

"Vergil's Aenied. But in the original Latin, too much is lost in translation." She had remembered seeing it on his nightstand, the only thing that indicated his existence in that room.

"The cadence and the meter of the poem, the deliberate arrangement of the words – there are things in Latin that cannot be replicated in English. The story is complex and interpretable, but Vergil is an artist in the meaning sewn into it all. He knew how to make words into precious things." As he spoke, Hermione felt like he had opened a door for her, the distance he kept between himself and everyone else beginning to evaporate.

"That's why I love books," she said, "they have this way of speaking to parts of ourselves we never knew were there, giving us the words we never knew we needed." He smiled at her, nodding, his eyes bright.

"I think it's the same with music. It's a different kind of language, one that communicates things that words just can't. And the way that everyone hears a song differently – its thrilling," he said, and his eyes were dancing silver. Looking at her, listening to her, he suddenly didn't want to conceal any of what he thought about.

"Sometimes I'm consumed by the beauty of people, of human beings," he said, watching the curiosity in her eyes, "it's hard not to be, knowing the extraordinary depth that each of us contains. And yet, walking down the street, our lives collide and coalesce, but we barely notice each other. We're all too busy with what's happening in our own heads."

She bit her lip. As if caught up in a rip tide, she couldn't help but be pulled out into an ocean of his making, and she didn't know if she would drown or float beneath a sky of stars he'd sewn there himself.

"I suppose it's just that all beautiful things are flawed. In a lot of ways, that's what makes them so lovely," she replied. A boyish half smile lit up his face.

"You're right. Beauty always holds a knife. Which is why pain is so valuable – it brings us closer to ourselves. It's the fool who would tell you to turn away from your sorrow because it hurts; growing is always painful."

She felt herself, yet again, surprised by him. There was still so little they knew about each other, but the thought thrilled her. She wanted to know him, to learn about who he was, what he'd seen, what he thought about when no one else was around. She suddenly realized they were there staring deeply into each other's eyes, the quiet room looming around them.

Love. She saw it there so clearly and it made her want to cry. He had known so little kindness, so little affection, been surrounded by hateful and cruel people his whole life and been taught to cherish those things, and yet he could still tear open his chest and care about her, while she, who had known love, known kindness, been always cared for and always protected, could not.

"Do you love me?" She whispered. He wouldn't look away from her. He refused to look away, wouldn't be the person too afraid to face what she was asking. Instead, he felt his nails dig deeply into his palms.

"I think I might," he whispered, his voice rough. She wouldn't look away from him. She refused to look away, wouldn't be the person too afraid to face what he was saying to her, what she had asked him to say. Instead she took a deep breath, holding it there in her lungs before letting it go.

"I know that – listen before the war I was horrible to you, but it was never because I hated you. I hated myself for the way I noticed everything about you – the careful way you turned the pages of a book, the way you always watched Ron and Harry, ready to catch their falls, the way you never looked behind you, as if you were so sure of where you were going, the fierceness with which you defended your friends. And while they came to know you from up close, that was the only way that I could know you at all. From a distance, hating myself for it. And I studied every detail. I know that I have done unforgivable things. I don't expect anything from you. But what I feel for you, I can't help myself." For a moment she just stared at him. Then, as if she were dreaming it, she felt herself suddenly on her feet, inches away from him, yelling with every ounce of breath in her lungs.

"You ignorant fuckwit! All this time, all these years, you've been so unmanageably horrible, and now this?! Do you know what whiplash feels like? Damnit!" She yelled, and found that she couldn't stop the anger from pouring out of her. She couldn't understand why she was so suddenly furious at him. Maybe it was confusion, about his feelings and certainly about her own. But maybe – maybe she was just angry at him for all that he had put her through, and now to face the real him and find that he didn't match up to the story book villain she'd always thought him to be. To find that he was good – it just made her… furious.

"How can you just stand there and say all of that to me?" She continued, her voice starting to slip, "I hate it! I hate that I forgive you. I hate that I trust you. I hate that I care about you. I just can't stand – " Without realizing it, her hand had reached into her pocket yanking her wand free to be raised in front of her like a talisman.

So quickly she barely even had time to process it, he captured her hands in his, pulling them above her head and spinning her around until she was caught between the wall and his body, her wand nothing more than a clatter upon the floor. Her words vanished in her mouth, overtaken by shock. His eyes were flashing like mirrors, his own astonishment at himself blatant and hollow. Reaction. It was something that had been hard wired into their systems, learned from the war. In a split second he had disarmed her, as he had been trained to do, as he had been forced to do. She had pulled her wand, always ready to defend, never feeling quite safe with adrenaline coursing through her. They were creatures stuck on autopilot. Still stuck in reaction.

Slowly, like the movement within clouds, his eyes began to change, enveloped by so many other thoughts and feelings. He had never felt so intoxicated by someone. Her mere closeness was enough to steal away his wits, and breath, and words, and fears. His eyes flitted down to her lips, and he had to fight every pull inside himself not to kiss her, reminding himself that just seconds ago she had been tearing him a new one. He released her hands, pushing himself away from her. He knew there was no need to explain. He had seen the understanding in her gaze. He wondered, though, which of them was left truly disarmed.

"You were the one person I was never meant to love." His voice was hardly above a whisper. "You don't need to tell me how stupid it was of me to fall for you." She stared at him, remembering too clearly the feel of his lips upon hers.

"I just – I just need a minute to be angry at you. It's a lot to accept, Malfoy. And I know so little about you, I know that, it becomes more and more apparent all the time how little I know you. So I know I have no right to judge your decisions. I know that people mess up. We can't always know the right thing to do. I forgive you, I just need to be angry with you, okay?" He closed his eyes, shaking his head as if in pain.

"I don't deserve your understanding. I don't deserve any kindness from you at all. How can you just look past it all? I've killed people, Hermione! For terrible reasons! How can you forgive that?" He shook his head, stepping further away from her, "you're too good. You look at people and you see hope, but I don't deserve that. I know what I am. I'm a monster, Hermione. Seeing the less monstrous side of me doesn't change that fact."

All she could do was look at him. How injured he was. Swallow down the shock of it.

"We will never be together." His voice was a thousand feelings. She felt the iceberg in her stomach settle deeper, freezing everything inside her. How could he say that? After everything else, how could he say that? She didn't quite understand why it hurt her so deeply to hear him say those words, not when she knew it already, knew that there was no chance in hell for them.

"Then why say that you love me?" Her voice shook with anger.

"Because you asked, and I can't refuse you. And it's because I love you, Hermione, that we will never be together." His eyes were hard and unreadable. He was shutting her out. Just when she thought she was getting closer to him, he slammed the door in her face. It infuriated her.

"Why? Because you think I deserve better? That isn't your decision, Malfoy! I decide what I do and don't deserve. I decide who is or isn't good enough." His eyes widened at her words, but she stormed past him, pausing as her gaze snapped down to her wand lying on the ground. It flew upward and into her hand. For a moment she was surprised – wandless magic was quite rare. Blinking it away, she continued across the room, closing her door behind her and turning the lock. She spun around and ran to her bed, violently punching the pillows. She wanted to scream. She didn't understand him. She didn't understand herself. She couldn't stop the guilt that tore at her stomach for yelling at him with everything else going on in his life. Lying down amidst the pillows she had just assailed she took a deep breath, hoping it would be enough to anchor her. Tears began to slowly crawl down her cheeks, and she found herself staring at the white, blank ceiling. What did she want from him?