A/N: Can I say sorry again? I really am. I just had midterms over the past two weeks and the week before that I went out of town and crammed the entire weekend so full of family time that we didn't even get to all of that. But I had some time this week, so I prepped this chapter and a few new things for posting! And I promise that the next chapter will be up next weekend! Meanwhile, here's this one!

Nothing seemed to make sense in that moment, but nothing needed to. I was kissing Hermione Granger, and it felt right. I couldn't say when my eyes had closed, when my hand had cupped her face, even when our lips had first touched. But I knew my eyes had to be closed (because I saw her face as if I was standing a meter away rather than mere centimeters), I knew my hand had to be cupping her face (because I could feel her incredibly soft skin that felt more soothing than cashmere or silk), and I knew for a surety that my lips had to be on hers (because it was at my lips that this wonderful feeling began, spreading warmth and affection and joy rushing throughout my body).

After a moment that could have spanned eternity, she pulled back slightly, just enough to sever the connection. Her eyelids still blocked my sight of the emotions her eyes would have told me, and I realized that I wasn't sure if I wanted to see those emotions. Did she…?

"Merlin," I whispered, pulling back further. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean… I mean…" A heavy sigh escaped my mouth as I bit my lip, not being able to look at those confused eyes with a hint of hurt swirling within them. "I shouldn't have done that."

Turning around, I wondered if it would be better to wait for a response or just run on home. Just when I was about to take a step away, she spoke.

"It's okay. You didn't… I mean, it wasn't your…" I turned around, trying to figure out what she was going to say. Of course it was my fault! I kissed her! I made her, I forced her. Why wasn't she angrily yelling at me? Why was she looking so shy and small and fiddling with her fingers like that?

"I wanted to, too," she admitted softly, finally bringing her eyes back to mine. For a few seconds, my mind was blank, shocked to speechlessness at her confession.

"Oh," I answered awkwardly. "Er, okay then."

Silence blanketed us as I stared at my hands, refusing to look up at her.

"Is that offer still good?" she asked quietly. I sent a questioning look her way, and she explained, "To walk me home?"

"Oh," I repeated, feeling horribly stupid for not having a working brain at the moment. "Yeah, of course." As soon as we started walking down the path once more, the thought struck me that maybe she didn't want me there. "Unless you don't want…"

"Don't be ridiculous," she chided, flashing me a small smile. When her hand grasped for mine, I let them rejoin as we walked down the path out of the park. My brain wanted nothing more than to sit down and do some serious thinking, but I ignored that pressing desire to chat casually with the girl at my side. More than anything, I was amazed at how relieved I felt as we joked and teased like nothing had changed. Perhaps nothing needed to really change for this… well, whatever this was. It didn't need to tear down our old (er, new) relationship as friends to bloom; maybe it would build upon the friendship we had strangely developed over the past two weeks.

Or maybe I was getting ahead of myself. I really needed to sit down and think.

As soon as a made a mental note for myself to dwell on this subject once at home, Hermione stopped. Blinking once in surprise, I realized that we had already reached her house.

"Thanks," she said, giving me a smile.

"No problem," I responded, wondering when I should let go of her hand. Did she expect me to say something? Did she expect me to kiss her again? Did I want to?

Before I had time to do anything, she dropped her hold on my hand to cup my face and reached up to lay a soft kiss on my cheek. Lingering near my ear, she whispered, "You really do make me happy."

Dumbstruck, all I could do was stared into her eyes for the fraction they remained locked with mine and then watched her retreat inside. When she gaze me a quick wave and slight smile before closing the door, I lifted my arm automatically, even though she couldn't see it through the wood. After standing still for a few more seconds, I turned around and headed towards my own house. Rotating my head around to look one last time at the building that held the girl I had somehow grown to care about, a grin spread across my face.

Echoes seem to travel down the large hallway, reminding me a thousand times over that I had actually gone through with it and knocked on my mother's door. Doing that much had my heart banging against my rib cage, since I was explicitly taught not to disturb Mother or Father at their room. But Father wasn't there, and since my mother wanted to speak with me but I couldn't find her among her favorite gardens or rooms, their room was my last guess.

"Mother?" I asked hesitantly. Rustling and the tread of footsteps sounded on the other side, coming closer and closer until the barrier was drawn back to reveal the figure of my mother.

Except it didn't really look like my mother. Or at least, not how she usually looked. Her hair was unkempt, bags layered the skin beneath her eyes, her skin seemed paler than the last time I had seen her – at King's Cross mere weeks ago.

"Draco?" she questioned, as if she didn't believe I was there. Her voice was light, not in the happy way, but like something had leeched most of the air from her lungs. The look on her face right then almost brought me to my knees. I had done this to her, I had dragged her down to such a state. "Draco," she repeated, overjoyed. She threw her arms around my neck and literally fell lightly.

Unable to control them any longer, I felt water build in my eyes as a weight settled in my throat. Wrapping my arms around her frailer than normal body, I vowed not to ever do this to her again. Stumbling around the lead in my throat that made swallowing hurt, I managed to mumble, "I'm so sorry, Mum."

"No," she responded, voice heavy with emotion and cracking slightly. She pulled back somewhat, just enough to look my in the face. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, sparking the release of one of my own. "No, Draco. It's not your fault, sweetie," she told me, shaking her head slightly and brushing away the streaks on my skin, leaving her own untouched. "Don't ever think that."

"I don't mean Dad, Mum," I protested, breaking my hold on her to find a little room. "I mean you. I… I haven't… I let you…"

"Neither of them are your fault, Draco. Neither of them. Don't… don't think that, okay?" she practically begged me. Her eyes pleaded for me not to feel guilty for this thing I had done. I hadn't realized how much I was affecting my mother by completely ignoring her. Especially now, at this time, when her husband was in Azkaban… I, her son, wasn't there for her. I failed my own mother.

"I didn't know," I told her, needing her to know it. "I didn't know what it was doing to you."

"It's okay," she assured me. But the tears still sparkling in her eyes – those eyes that drooped with black rings from crying mixed with a lack of sleep – revealed how deep of a lie her words were.

"No, it's not," I insisted, angrily wiping at my eyes. "It's not okay, Mum."

"But it will be," she promised, bringing up the smallest of smiles – the smile of a last hope – to give to me. "That's what matters."

I sunk against the wall with the burden of that smile, bringing my hands to my face as I gave into the emotions overflowing within me. Milliseconds after I reached the ground, I felt her arms encase me. Comforting words floated over me that I didn't hear, but the tone, the voice, was enough.

Eventually, after a long period of time that seemed to stretch into the night, my sobs had quieted. Only the soundless caressing of my mother's comforting hand on my shoulder permeated my senses.

"How did this happen?" I asked, drained and exhausted in every possible way.

"I ask myself that, too, honey," my mother replied gently. I couldn't remember the last time she had used these terms of endearment so freely. And so often.

"But why did they let it?" I pushed, needing an answer to the question that had been pestering me for the past weeks.

"Why did who let it?" she asked.

"Them, the world," I responded. "Me. Us. Why did we let it happen?"

"Oh, Draco," she whispered. "It's not that simple. Some things can't be stopped."

"Why, Mum? Why did it have to be us?" I pleaded for her to provide insight. Something happened, we were cursed, maybe. Or punished. Was it punishment?

"There are no reasons for some things," she replied morosely. "Sometimes you get bit by an insect, sometimes you manage to keep the flower. We have to have some bite marks."

"But I don't see any flowers, Mum," I insisted, still staring at the walls. "Why don't we get any flowers?"

"Of course you have flowers, sweetie," she answered, voice cracking with emotion as a smile broke through to her face for a moment. I watched as it struggled to stay, flickering back and forth with sorrow. "You have me, and you have your friends, and you have school. You're young, you're healthy, you're strong, you're loved."

Before she even began listing the other flowers in my life, I thought of one. As soon as I asked her that question, an image of Hermione flashed before my eyes. With the words of my mother hovering in the air and the vision of a smiling girl fastened in my mind, my worries drifted away.

"You'll see, Draco," my mother whispered. "In the end, the flowers make the bites worth it. You'll see."