songs: 'science and faith'/the script

'shattered'/OAR

'you found me'/the fray

Chapter Fourteen: Mother Knows Best

Draco sat awake in bed for six hours after Hermione's little golf cart escapade. After his startling revelation at Ilvermorny, the only thing he wanted to do was sit in a dark corner, reflect on his life choices, and maybe end the evening by washing his brain with acid. He tried pushing away the feeling, tried to return to the way he felt before their 'friendship' ever happened. He brushed off her jokes and ignored her attempts to make pleasant conversation, but then Hermione decided it would be fun to drag him out to buy greasy Muggle food and nearly drive him into a pond.

The worst part was, he actually thought it was fun. After getting past the sensation that he might vomit at any moment, riding a golf cart was a lot like riding a really bumpy broomstick. And then there was Hermione herself, like he had never seen her before: eyes wild, hair even wilder, squealing with glee as she took them up and down the hills. He tried his best to keep his mind on other things, to avoid eye contact, but then she had to go and Apparate them away and he landed right on top of her. He felt her entire body shaking with laughter and her warm breath on his neck, and the amount he enjoyed the feeling made him nauseous.

He wondered if that was the type of thing she, Potter, and Weasley used to get up to when they were younger. He recalled their first year at Hogwarts, when he snuck out to catch them with Hagrid's illegal dragon, and how he felt jealousy more than anything else at the fact he wasn't transporting dragons with his friends. His friends didn't do much besides talk disparagingly about others, drink heavily, and occasionally play games of chess.

Maybe he didn't like her, but rather the way he felt when he was around her. Those were two different things, right?

But then there was also the way she argued with him so passionately, and the way she made horrible jokes and laughed at them, and the way she got all huffy when he was being annoying. He tried to talk himself down by thinking about her tangled, bushy hair, but even that seemed endearing to him now.

Sweet Merlin, he was losing his mind. He'd been spending too much time around just her, and it was driving him mad. How was he expected to think rationally when his only company the past few weeks was a bloody Gryffindor?

Draco groaned and threw his head backwards onto his pillow, wondering if his friends and family would even recognize him anymore. He was in dire need of some Slytherin company.

Then, struck with an idea that hadn't occurred to him until that very moment, Draco pulled some parchment and a quill from his briefcase and began to write a letter. He was in need of some rescuing, and the only person he knew to turn to in moments like these was his mother.

Draco awoke the next morning to Hermione ripping off his bedsheets. "Malfoy, it's nearly ten-thirty! We were supposed to check out a half hour ago."

He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. Judging by the bright rays of sun peeking through the window blinds, he had indeed slept in. Bugger.

"Get up!" she demanded, pulling at his pillow.

Circe, she was like a cross between an impatient toddler and a bossy mother. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Draco rose from bed and dared to peer in the mirror: he was dissatisfied to see red eyes and hair so messy it put Potter's to shame. He tried to remember when he fell asleep the night before—the sky was tinged pink with the first rays of sunlight, so it had to be around seven in the morning.

"Malfoy!"

He groaned. "Give me a minute, will you?"

Five quick minutes later, he was changed and his things were tossed messily into his trunk. He went to the bathroom to take a piss and when he emerged, Hermione was waiting for him on the edge of her bed, arms crossed and leg bouncing impatiently. "We missed our portkey."

"We can Floo," he said. He went their itinerary last night and saw they'd be staying in an actual cottage that wasn't far from where they currently were in Pennsylvania. They would be staying there for two weeks, so the Ministry saw fit to give them an actual living space rather than another hotel room.

"They told me the Floo at the cottage hasn't been used in years. It might not even work anymore."

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I couldn't fall asleep last night and I overslept. But Floo seems like our only option right now. I'm sorry."

Her bouncing leg steadied. "You're sorry?"

He gritted his teeth, not in the mood for a psychological analysis about his willingness to apologize. "Yes. Now let's just try the Floo."

"Fine." She took her two suitcases, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, and stepped into the fireplace. "1500 Brandywine Place!"

With a flash of green she was gone, so Draco, taking this as a good sign, took a handful as well and followed suit. A moment later he was standing in a very dirty fireplace that exploded into a cloud of soot the moment he touched down. He felt the particles tickle his throat as he breathed. Somewhere in front of him, Hermione was coughing deeply.

"Merlin, they weren't lying when they said it hadn't been used for awhile."

"Or cleaned for awhile," she added.

He looked up at her and laughed. She was coated, head to toe, with a thin layer of soot. "Granger, you're covered in soot."

"As are you," she said. He looked down, and sure enough, his white dress shirt was spotted with ash. "It doesn't matter, it's not like we're going anywhere today." Hermione brushed off her t-shirt as best she could and then took a look around. They were in the living room, which looked like it had come straight out of a furniture store catalog. There were white armchairs with matching throw pillows, a seafoam blue rug, seashells on the wall, and a peaceful painting of a pier at sunset above the mantel.

"Why is the fireplace such a mess while the rest of this looks like it was just used for a bloody carpet cleaner commercial?"

"They probably rented it out to Muggles. They use fireplaces for actual fires." Hermione put down her bags and went to explore the rest of the cottage. "Oh, this kitchen is just adorable."

The kitchen was painted a pale yellow with white accents. Above the sink there was a window that opened up to a small backyard garden with overgrown tomatoes and a small apple tree, there was a cross stich by the stovetop that read 'Welcome Home', and the fridge sported several small magnets shaped like farm animals.

"It's… cozy," Draco said. "Not exactly my taste."

"I think our rooms are upstairs." Hermione turned the corner and went up the carpeted stairs up to a narrow hallway. "I want that one," she said, pointing to the bedroom with the larger window. The other room, which was substantially darker, suited Draco better anyway. He threw his briefcase onto the bed, and no sooner did he fall onto the pillow beside it did a loud tapping begin on his window.

It was his mother's barn owl, Ella. He opened the window and Ella swooped in and perched in a very noble fashion on the edge of his bedframe. For an owl, she was scarily clever and had perfect manners—no other creature could suit Narcissa Malfoy better.

He unwrapped the small scroll from Ella's leg and smiled at his mother's familiar narrow cursive.

Darling,

I do appreciate hearing from you. I know you have been busy with work, and I have also been busy preparing for your father's upcoming work social. You remember how revolted the Rosiers were last year about the sausage mishap? That's what I get for believing some Knockturn peddler, thinking it was actual dragon meat. We won't have any similar incidences this year.

But I digress. Things are quite well back home, so don't you take a moment to worry about me. I'm very busy of course, picking décor and preparing menus, but I do think I can fit time in to Floo you today. Perhaps around five? I look forward to your call.

Love always,

Mummy

Draco spent the better part of the previous night drafting a letter to his mother. It was so hard to talk to her these days after what happened. He couldn't deny how disappointed he was with her response. Even though he knew she wasn't going to get better, he always held out hope that perhaps one day she would come back to her senses. That she would be his mother again and he wouldn't have to keep feeding her delusions.

Draco had actually been living not far where they were staying now when he received the call that his mother had severely damaged her mind. Narcissa had been admitted into St. Mungo's psychiatric ward months earlier after her first suicide attempt. Draco knew the first attempt wasn't to actually kill herself—she simply slit her wrists and left a dramatic note. If she really wanted to hurt herself, she could have. He made her promise to never do it again, and left her at St. Mungo's to receive treatment. She was cleared to leave St. Mungo's after a week, but never did. Draco assumed it was because she liked being at the hospital around other people rather than alone at the Manor, even if the people she was around were crazy.

Then one day he was sitting at the dining room table in the house he was renting when he received a Floo call. It was a young Healer, probably an intern, who could never have been ready for Draco's assault of questions. Was she okay? Who was with her? Why wasn't anyone watching her? Would she survive? Could he come straight away?

By the time he reached St. Mungo's and was allowed into her room, they had healed most of her external wounds and she was in an induced sleep. She was lying on a white hospital bed in her own private room, her long gray hair splayed around her head like a faded crown. There were cuts on her forearms, a mark on her chest, but most disturbing was the bruise on her forehead: a blueish, purplish, brownish spot the size of her fist that was much darker than a regular bruise.

"It happened during the shower," the head healer explained to him. "She snuck her wand in her robe and then sent her supervisor to get extra soap. When the supervisor was gone, she did it."

"What is it?" Draco asked, touching the bruise gently with his fingers. It was startlingly warm.

"We're not sure, but it appears as if it might be a dark curse. She doesn't remember anything, thinks it's the 1990s. We think she might have gotten the idea from…" the healer swallowed and looked at Draco uncomfortably. "From those books you brought her from the Malfoy libraries."

Draco spun on the healer with a snarl. "You think this is my fault? It was your job to keep her safe. It was your job to make sure she didn't try suicide again, it was your job to make sure this didn't happen!"

Narcissa wouldn't wake up for two more weeks, during which time Draco kept constant vigil by her bedside. When she did finally come to, she was forgetful and lived in some fantasy version of the past—she tried to send Draco off to Hogwarts repeatedly, begged to see Lucius, and asked where her sister Bella was.

Draco stayed with her for an extra month to consult with specialty healers and set his mother up in a nicer facility where she could spend the rest of her days. Presently she was living at the Gertrude Quarier Center for the Elderly and Mentally Afflicted. It was an upscale home specializing in those with memory or cognitive problems. Draco spent all his remaining money for Narcissa's room to be redecorated to match the master bedroom at the Manor down to the tiniest details, and most days she was compliant, believing herself to be at home. But every once in awhile she became troublesome and would fight with nurses, ask for her house elf, or demand to see her husband and son. Draco stopped visiting after a few months—it was both too confusing for her and too painful for him.

Draco hadn't talked to his mother in person for almost six months. He didn't return to Rhode Island after the incident, but he also couldn't stand to dwell by her side, so he dove into a career as an Auror and channeled his frustration into something productive. In his spare time he did research in his family's library to find the spell Narcissa had inflicted upon herself, but a small part of him didn't want to know the countercurse. Narcissa seemed happier in her own world, away from the bleak post-war life of a Malfoy. How was he supposed to take that away from her, even if it did mean he would have to suffer alone?

Ella hooted impatiently and brought Draco back to the present. He rummaged in his briefcase for a treat, which Ella swallowed happily before stroking Draco's hand gently with her head and then taking off again out the window.

His room in the cottage was dark and cold, so Draco unpacked his things to make it feel a little more like home. Because they hadn't stayed in one place for much longer than a few days, he hadn't unpacked his entire trunk, but they would be here for a whole two weeks. He reached into his briefcase and found several things he forgot he packed: his old Slytherin scarf, which had a hole in one of the silver stripes, a pile of old letters tied up with a piece of twine, a custom set of cufflinks engraved with his initials, and an enchanted necklace his mother gave him on his twelfth birthday. It was a silver pendant on a black string that Draco used to always wear beneath his shirt.

"Whenever it warms up, it means I'm holding my own necklace and thinking of you," Narcissa said as she held up a duplicate charm around her neck. At twelve, he felt as if he'd outgrown such sentimental presents, but the necklace ended up being the only reasons he survived his sixth year at Hogwarts. When it felt as though he was utterly alone in his hopeless mission, he always had his mother tied around his neck. But nowadays, in her current mental state, the charm didn't work and the pendant was always ice cold, doomed to be another stony reminder of an undesirable past.

Draco palmed the small piece of silver and sighed before throwing it back into his briefcase. He heard it clang somewhere near the bottom, but it was probably best down there, lost amongst his dirty laundry and empty firewhiskey bottles.

After he finished unpacking he knocked on Hermione's door and peered inside. Everything in the room was tucked away nice and tidily, but it appeared as though a tornado ravished just the two-foot radius around her. She was seated with her legs crossed in the middle of the room, pen firmly clamped between her teeth, hands both tangled in her bushy hair, trying to pull it into a manageable ponytail. Around her was a mess of papers, notecards, binders, and colored sticky notes.

"Granger?"

She was so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't heard him knock, and she looked quite amusing with her eyes wide in surprise. She spit out the pen, still wrangling with her hair. "Oh, Malfoy—I was actually doing some research on astrology for your project. Did you know there's an ancient ritual in which one carves the phases of the moon into a stone—"

"Wait," he interrupted. "You're doing research for me?"

"Yes," she said. "You said that would be okay. Is it okay?"

He blinked. "Oh. I thought you only meant it as a courtesy…"

"Of course not. I want to help."

Salazar help him. Why couldn't she be bloody irritating and shrill again? "That's… nice of you. I'm actually going to go lie down, I'm quite tired. I just wanted to let you know that I'll be taking a personal call this evening at the Floo."

"Sounds good," she said with a smile that was polite and cheerful and utterly impossible to hate.

He floo-called his mother at exactly 5 o'clock. He would never get used to how uncannily similar Narcissa's room at the facility was to the one at Malfoy Manor. From his position in the fireplace he could see she still had her meticulously organized bookshelves and those delicate white curtains she hung on her bedposts. Ella was sleeping in her cage by the window.

The sudden roar of the fireplace startled Narcissa, who was sitting on a rocking chair by the bed, fingering through an interior design book. She smiled and clasped her hands together upon realizing it was her son. "Draco!"

"Mother."

She was getting older, and it showed. The skin that was once smooth as porcelain was now marred by fine lines that spread like cracks in a vase, settling most heavily under her eyes. Her hair was now white as snow instead of glowing blonde, but she still kept it long and pinned up in a complicated twist.

"I completely forgot you were going to Floo. I'm so caught up in choosing a color to repaint the drawing room. I've had the house elves bringing me paint chip samples, but nothing matches the vision I have in my head—it's sort of a deep olive color, but not quite olive, though, because olive is much too green for my liking…"

Draco smiled sadly as his mother rambled about shades of green. The healers kept pressing him to find the countercurse to the spell she performed on herself, but part of him wanted to respect his mother's decision. She didn't want to die—if she wanted to kill herself, she could have done it. Narcissa Malfoy didn't want to end her life, she just wanted a happier one.

"…I know you think these things are vapid, but color schemes are immensely important in determining the success of an event. And as a wife, this is my duty: to ensure the success of my husband. And to raise my son, of course." She smiled, the cracks around her lips deepening. Despite the inevitable scars of age, Narcissa still maintained an aura of power and royalty. Even as she knelt on the floor to talk to Draco, her posture could put a princess to shame.

Draco spent the next ten minutes bent over in the fireplace, legs cramping, but happy nevertheless to help his mother pick out color schemes, table centerpieces, and hors d'oeuvres for a party that didn't exist. Once she seemed content with her choices, Draco took the opportunity to seek the motherly advice he'd so lacked over the past year.

"Mother, I have a question for you."

Narcissa cocked one perfectly lined eyebrow. "Yes?"

"It's about women."

"Draco, have you met someone? How dare you not tell me sooner!"

"No, no, no," Draco said quickly. "I just… have a question."

His mother sat back on her heels and bent her head curiously. Even in her delirious state, she could still tell when her son was hiding something. "Go on."

Draco glanced over his shoulder to make sure Hermione was still upstairs. "I came to the realization recently that I may have inappropriate feelings for someone who, under normal circumstances, I would never even think twice about. In fact, she's someone you and Father would downright disapprove of. Lately… I don't feel like myself. I don't feel like I'm making decisions like I normally would."

"Perhaps that's due to the fact you haven't visited home in months," Narcissa sniffed. "I'm starting to think you don't like being around your father and I."

"Mother…" said Draco exasperatedly. "I've been busy. In fact, I've been so busy with work and I can hardly remember who I was before… all of this."

"All of what?"

In Narcissa's made-up world, the war never happened, which made talking about his life twice as difficult with her. "Nothing, Mother," he muttered.

Narcissa sighed. "I know things have never been easy for you, Draco, but I always considered it a job of mine to ensure that you grew to be a better person than your father or I ever were. And in that respect, I am proud to say I have succeeded."

Draco felt the spot where his necklace used to hang burn, and he wished he had the courage to step through the Floo and sit with his mother, but he knew it would be too much to handle. Her room was like a wax museum version of the home he used to know, and he couldn't bear to relive the past like that.

"People change, Draco," she continued. "It is not a sign of weakness to change, but a sign of resiliency. Of course, there are some things that I believe should remain traditional—and I hope to God you haven't developed feelings for one of those feminists—but I have high hopes for the man you have become. I raised you in the very best way I know, and I trust you to make the best decisions for yourself."

Draco groaned inwardly. He was hoping his mother would go on a long diatribe about how if he thought she would disapprove, it was probably a bad sign, and that there were so many respectable witches available to him, and that he shouldn't go around making choices based on feelings. A wife, besides being a spouse, was a partner, a colleague, and an accomplice. She should be chosen wisely, with feelings being the last priority. Where did that Narcissa go?

But Draco knew that as much as his mother loved to play the role of traditional pureblood wife, she couldn't squash the part of her that wanted, above all else, for her son to be happy. In fact, the only unconditional love he ever bore witness to was the love his mother had for her family, as misguided as it may have been.

He sighed. "I just wish things were simpler than they are now. Everything is so… muddled. I want to be ten years old again."

Narcissa smiled warmly. "Remember when we used to spend the entire afternoon playing hide and seek in the gardens?"

"And I would always reveal where I was by accidentally sending off sparks?" Draco chuckled. "Father used to tell me I had too much magic for my own good."

"It's true," she nodded. "You still do."

Suddenly there was a stomping noise behind him and a yell: "Malfoy-!"

Draco jerked around and hit his bead on the top of the mantel. "Ow—" Hermione was standing behind him, clutching a piece of parchment to her chest, tapping her foot nervously, and chewing her lip. There was a terrified look in her eyes and he knew immediately something was very wrong.

"Mother, I have to go," he said, turning back to the Floo.

"Is the girl there? Oh, may I meet her?" begged Narcissa.

"I really do need to go, but I'll talk to you soon, Mother. Work emergency, you understand." Draco pulled away from the Floo and the green flames disappeared. "Granger, what's wrong?"

She pursed her lips and blinked rapidly as if trying to keep herself from crying. "Harry wrote to me. There was another attack."

"Who?"

The shoe-tapping quickened. "Pansy Parkinson."

Draco's breath caught in his throat and formed a painful lump. Pansy? Last he heard about her, she was living quietly with a pureblood man somewhere in Scotland and working as a clothing designer. Why in the hell would anyone target her?

"What do we know?"

"Not much. Harry said he would be sending you a full write-up the moment he finished with the debriefing. He wasn't even supposed to write me until the department discussed the matter formally, but he thought… He knew she was your friend…" She looked at him sympathetically with those big doe eyes of hers. "Draco, they tried to save her, but the injuries were too much. Right now they're determining whether or not it was related to the other attacks."

He stiffened. Of course it fucking was. He wanted to drive his fist through the wall, to scream—this was supposed to be over. The dying part was supposed to be over. The war was supposed to be the end of it.

"Thank you for telling me," he said stonily.

She reached out and touched his arm lightly. "Draco, I'm so sorry." He didn't look up and she took away her hand. "Would you like some time alone?"

No, in fact, time alone was not what he wanted. He wanted her to stay there and keep her hand on his arm and that was the whole problem, wasn't it? But he couldn't tell her that, so he jerked his head 'yes'.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated before grimacing and heading back up the stairs.

Draco leaned back against the mantle, his legs feeling weak. It wasn't as if he was close to Pansy. She, like many of his friends, was a companion of convenience, not useful for more than complaining about Potter and the occasional hormone-fueled snogging session. And yet, he felt strangely empty, as if part of who he was had been ripped away. It was different than his father's death, which he understood was inevitable, even justified. But Pansy was never evil.

It confirmed what he thought all along: these attacks were not aimed at the Order. Something new was creeping up from under them, and it was beginning to hit too close to home. Draco lowered himself into one of the white armchairs, his mind whirring so fast it made his head throb.

The full report arrived around nine at night, delivered by one of the Ministry's cranky tawny owls. He read through the entire thing twice in less than an hour. It was much more graphic than he expected—one page included photos of Pansy's body, bruises staining her neck, her limbs twisted like a doll's.

This attack completely changed the game: before, it was still possible that the attacks were connected to Voldemort's old followers. But killing loyal purebloods was against everything the Death Eaters stood for. No, this was a new enemy they were facing, and the rules of the game were beyond Draco's understanding.

Hermione stopped by his room before she went to bed. She was fresh out of the shower, hair wet and sticking to her neck, soaking through her thin striped. He could see her skin through the transparent fabric. She wore glasses that he'd never seen before, large with thin black rims. Maybe they were reading glasses. They made her eyes look even larger and more curious.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay," she said gently.

"I'll be okay. Go to sleep."

She chewed on her bottom lip anxiously and he wondered for a moment what it might be like to kiss her, to be the one nipping on her lip. A fire warmed his abdomen and flooded Draco with shame. His former friend was dead; he shouldn't be thinking about that sort of thing. He waited for her to leave his doorway before clenching his fist hard in an attempt to distract himself from the embarrassing pressure in his pants.

He tried to focus on the case file, but his mind, ever the enemy of his sanity, wandered to the conversation he had with his mother. He'd hoped so dearly that she would give him a good reason to not want Granger, but it was his father, not his mother, who could be counted on to always disapprove of what he did.

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered why he didn't want to like Granger. No one else in his life except for his mother had ever cared about him enough to check up on him before bed when things were rough. When Lord fucking Voldemort assigned him the task of killing their headmaster, even his own friends couldn't have been bothered to ask him how he was doing.

Maybe that's why he couldn't accept it—because even if he could deal with his feelings, he knew he could never deserve her. She might be a muggle-born, she might have horrendous hair, she might be obnoxious as all hell, but he couldn't deny that she was an infinitely better person than he could ever be. At the end of the day, he still bore the mark of his mistakes on his arm and carried the name of a family that chose the wrong side. He might be able to redeem himself enough to become an Auror, but there was no amount of redemption that would make him equal to Hermione Granger, war heroine, muggle-born genius, magical justice saint.

Draco groaned and clutched his head, digging into the sides with his fingernails. He was insane to even contemplate the idea of being with her.

Just wait until this mission is up. Once you're away from her, you can feel normal again. You can focus on your work, your mother, and yourself again.

He took several deep breaths before diving back into the files, trying to distract himself from thinking about Hermione and the way the water soaked her shirt enough to reveal the black bra she was wearing underneath… Fuck, he was hopeless. He hated himself.

Eventually he refocused and ended up re-reading the files and taking notes until four in the morning. At a certain point the pen grew heavy in his hand and he decided it was probably time to tuck in for the night. He was finishing up the last of his notes when there was a thump from Hermione's room that shook his headboard.

"RON!"

Draco snapped up straight like a corpse shocked back from the dead. She was screaming, her voice sharp and deafening in the early morning silence. Heart beating fast, he grabbed his wand and charged into her room.

"Granger?"

He didn't know what he was expecting to see—maybe a werewolf kneeling over her body, an intruder holding a knife to her neck, a fire engulfing her. Instead, he saw Hermione crouched underneath a fort she had constructed on her bed. Her pillows were stacked up around her and a sheet was hanging over them, shrouding her face from view. All he could see was her torso, glowing pale white in the moonlight. She was wearing nothing but a black lace bralette that barely covered her breasts, which were heaving heavily from her screaming. She kept calling for Weasley, her voice desperate and hoarse.

"Harry," she whispered. "He left. We're going to die, Harry, we can't do this on our own…"

Draco lowered his wand slightly, not knowing if she was having a nightmare or sleepwalking or if she was in some sort of fugue state. He checked over his shoulders—had she been cursed? There was no sign of intrusion.

"Maybe if we destroy the locket, if we prove we know what we're doing, maybe he'll come back…"

He took a hesitant step forward and Hermione's face came into view: she was crying silently and her lips were swollen and red from that nervous chewing she always did when she was upset. Inappropriately, all he could think of was how strangely beautiful she looked: hair wild and curly, skin glowing, breasts framed by black lace, lips ruby red. A picture of perfect brokenness.

"Granger?" he asked again. This time she heard him, and suddenly her wand was pointed in his direction.

"Who's there?" she called. "Who is that?"

"Granger, it's me."

"Ron?" Her voice was full of fragile, childlike hope.

Draco sighed. "No. It's me. It's Malfoy."

She gasped and jumped to her feet, standing at least eight feet tall on top of the bed. "Stupefy!"

Just barely in time, Draco threw up a shield and watched Hermione's spell ricochet backwards, throwing her back down onto the bed. She sobbed.

"Granger, wake up!" he called from the other side, but she wasn't listening. She wasn't herself, and he was fairly sure he wasn't going to be able to wake her up.

"Ron, come back…" she cried.

Then he had an idea. He looked back at the wall that his room shared with hers and thought longingly of the soft sheets and fluffy pillows that were waiting for him. But then he looked back at her, tears falling from her eyes. Fuck her and her big, brown doe eyes. God, how he hated those eyes for making him care so damn much.

"Grang- Hermione," he called out again. "Hermione, it's me. I came back. It's Ron."

Hermione stopped crying instantly and lowered her wand. "You came back?"

Draco dissolved his shield and stepped forward. "I would never leave you, Hermione."

She smiled so innocently, her nose running and her eyes puffy. "You came back." She held her arms out expectantly and Draco hesitated.

This was a line. If he crossed it, he couldn't go back.

But then he looked again at those swollen lips bent into the warmest of smiles and his feet were moving of their own accord, reaching out to hold Hermione close. The moment her arms wrapped around him, he felt his breath hitch in his throat.

It didn't matter that she wasn't herself or that she thought he was Weasley. The moment she touched him he felt warmth crawl from his toes to his neck, and suddenly he was the most calm he'd felt in ages. Her skin was so inexplicably warm, like a cozy blanket on a winter night. She pulled him closer, pressing her breasts into his bare chest. He felt a twitch in his shorts and immediately pulled back, flushed.

"No," she whimpered. "Stay."

She was looking right at him and for a moment he thought maybe she knew it was him. But of course she didn't, because there was no way in hell Hermione Granger would be asking him to stay with her. She thought he was Weasley. She thought he was someone different, someone better, someone worth staying.

He heeded her request nonetheless. Quietly, she disassembled her fort and pulled her bed sheet back over their bodies. She pressed her back against his chest with a small, contented sigh. Her hair tickled his nose. She smelled like vanilla and old books and clean linen. Instinctively, Draco reached out and held her shoulder, pulling her in closer, breathing her in.

And it was then that Draco knew he had more than just crossed the line: he had run across it, leapt over it, he had all but erased the line completely. He was so far into the other side, there was no turning back.

Fuck her for making him care.

Fuck her for having crazy hair that smelled of vanilla. Fuck her for having skin like a fleece-lined jacket. Fuck her for having gorgeous lips that curled upward when she was teasing him.

Fuck her for making it impossible to hate her.

Fuck her for still wanting Weasley.

But most of all: Fuck her for being everything he didn't deserve.

A/N: … Poor Draco. At war with his own feelings. The last scene was another one of the first ones I wrote—I always imagined Hermione being doubly traumatized by Ron's leaving because she loved him. It must have been horrible to see one of the only people in the world you could rely on walk away. Maybe Draco can heal her? Or will he only damage her more? Hmm…

Review question: Do you think Narcissa was a good mother? (This is a complicated one. I have mixed feelings on her, myself)

-potato.