Disclaimer: Of course, I do not own these characters or the world in which I'm writing them.

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Draco and Hermione started their potion on the night of the full moon. Hermione's cauldron was set up in the sitting area of their little cottage, on top of another one of her beautiful conjured flames. Draco spent most of his days checking and rechecking his magical theory books against his own notes, in constant worry that he had missed something important or dangerous. The thrill of potentially inventing a new potion was dampened greatly by the very real possibility that he could cock it all up. What would happen if his brew didn't work? In the best case scenario, Hermione would have spent two weeks in vain, no closer to having her parents back for real. In the worst case scenario... well, then they may be the first muggles to take a long term stay at St. Mungo's...

When he wasn't obsessing over his books or the cauldron, Hermione would drag him out into the fresh air to bask in the crashing surf. Sometimes they would talk, sometimes not. Usually a proponent of good old fashioned peace and quiet, Draco found himself enjoying their moments of conversation more and more. Once, only once, he stumped her during one of their "did you know" contests (involving another potion inventor, Gregory the Smarmy) and Draco had gloated for the rest of the day. She had thrown him an elbow to the ribs but laughed when she finally admitted he was right (after looking it up in a text to confirm, of course).

Most days, they would share a meal with Hermione's parents. Even though they were muggles, they were refined and intelligent and Draco felt comfortable in their company as well. Every once in a while when he spoke with them, he imagined he was talking to Mr. and Mrs. Granger instead of Wendell and Monica, but as far as he could tell by Hermione's reactions, they were largely the same. Draco was only put off once when, after an extra glass of wine, Monica had stared a bit too long at his teeth and commented on someone's "work". Hermione explained later, gleefully, that her parents had been dentists, and if Monica was fascinated by his teeth she might be remembering more of her old life than they thought.

The new moon was looming over him, though. The day the potion was set to be finished was Hermione's birthday, as if he needed more pressure. His mounting anxiety over completing the potion correctly kept him scrambling. With only a few days left, Draco was rushing around a second flame with a teapot, explaining to Hermione in an exasperated tone for the third time what he was doing.

"I have to make the blessed thistle into a tea first and then add it or it won't have the same potency. No, I'm not going to use the stove, I don't know how, that's muggle stuff. Just let me..." He thrust his arm out and hung the teapot over the new fire, but accidentally knocked over the open jar of blue calcite powder in the process. Hermione dove to catch it and stuck her arm into the blaze in her haste. She recoiled immediately, yelping in pain, and clamped her free hand against her left forearm. A puff of blue powder mushroomed in the air around her.

Draco jumped to her side and grabbed her arm roughly, wrenching back her singed shirt sleeve to examine the burn. What he saw stopped him dead. Under the fresh red heat mark was her scar- a scrawled slur that he had used so many times in his life, both derisively and casually. The letters were white and raised. He could read it with his fingers with his eyes closed if he tried. Hermione tried to pull her arm away but he tightened his grip to hold her steady. Draco's shock was genuine. Yes, he had known the scar was there, but he had long ago stopped using that word at all, let alone thinking of her that way anymore. Besides, after all the time they had spent together recently, he could hardly believe she could have been anyone's victim; she always had such enviable strength. So had he just, what, forgotten about her scar? Wishful thinking, he supposed. The harsh reminder had slapped him across the face.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in his grasp. "It's not that bad, really. I'm fine," she mumbled. Draco forced himself to look her in the eye but his eyes were stinging with a threatening tear, causing her image to swim in front of him. Finally, her arm relaxed into him, like she had resigned herself to finally let it out.

"I was caught," she explained, her voice almost too low to hear, "during the war by a Death Eater. She wanted information and..."

Draco blocked out the rest. He didn't need to hear her words to know what happened that day. His aunt had tortured and degraded her within earshot of him. It had taken him weeks to get the image and her cries out of his head, and he would give anything to not have to relive it again. He wished he could stop her, tell her she didn't have to relive it either, but he couldn't. If she wanted to tell him she deserved to. He owed her that at least, and much more. So he waited, and when she was finished, he let his eyes close to push the terrible reality away. Tenderly, he brought her arm up to his cheek, resting his face against the scar.

"I'm sorry," he breathed. She would think he meant sorry for the burn, maybe. Or perhaps she would think he meant it in the way people give their condolences, but he meant so much more than he could put into words. He was sorry that he had ever used that word for her. He was sorry that anyone would have done this to her, let alone his own flesh and blood. Draco felt her pulse against his cheek. Slowly he turned his face toward her arm so his lips brushed ever so lightly against her skin. She shivered and his eyes shot open, realizing what he had done. Draco opened his hand and released her arm which fell heavily to her hip.

He was getting too close, he could see it now. At first it had been slow, but this... the pull to protect her, to heal her... was too much. It would lead nowhere, without a doubt, how could it not? He couldn't pull off this masquerade for the rest of his life and she wouldn't deign to touch him with a ten foot pole if she found out who he truly was. Even if she could get past it, by some miracle, there was no place where Draco Malfoy would be an acceptable companion for Hermione Granger in the eyes of the wizarding world at large.

He had to push her away, that's all there was to it. He knew just the cruel way to do it. "There's something I need to show you," he said, but his voice was quaking. Before he could change his mind, he lifted his own shirt sleeve. He couldn't stand to look at her, but when she gasped his eyes found hers. He was desperate to see her repulsion so he could drown whatever delicate feelings had inadvertently bubbled within him.

The girl was quiet for longer than expected. Pain flashed on her features. "Why..." she croaked out, unable to speak yet. Then her pain turned into betrayal. She found her speech again and roared. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

A small voice answered, so small that at first Draco didn't realize he was the one that spoke. "I liked the way you looked at me when you didn't know."

Hermione's expression changed again, this time to confusion, then slowly morphed into something Draco didn't quite recognize. Softly she asked, "Why did you tell me now?"

Draco blinked rapidly. Against his will, the waiting tear finally fell. Was it self-preservation? Self-loathing? A little of both, probably, because how could anyone love someone who hated himself so deeply?

"Because I didn't deserve that look."

Her arm extended toward him and he flinched. Her fingertips were gentle and shy against the marred skin on his forearm, his own scar from the war. She traced the ruined Dark Mark and then copied his movements from minutes ago, bringing his arm to her cheek. "You've known who I was since we first met. Which means you knew my background and what I stood for." She paused, searching him, pleading with him for something but he wasn't sure what. "I think if you believed in this mark, you wouldn't be here now, helping me. You would never have come."

Draco felt more exposed to her now than when the court had used the sorting hat on him. She read the emotions he had hidden from everyone, including himself, for longer than he could remember. "So maybe there was a time when you didn't deserve it, past tense just like you said. But does that mean you don't deserve it now?" She turned in to his arm to let her lips brush against his skin, just as he had done to her. He cringed and pulled his arm back violently.

"Don't!" he warned. She looked hurt and he instantly regretted his tone. Without thinking, his hand reached up to cup her face and his thumb grazed her lips. Her bottom lip was indented where she had been biting it.

"You are too... pure... to touch such darkness." He moved his fingers to her hair and let them tangle in one dangling curl that had escaped from her ponytail. There was too much irony in a pureblood ex Death Eater calling a muggleborn pure, but that's what she was. Pure good.

Her hand was on top of his now. Recognition finally caught up to him, naming the expression that was all over her face: forgiveness. Was he worthy of that? Was he worthy of hers in particular? He felt her start to move closer, licking her lips and focusing her gaze onto his mouth. Draco froze. He didn't have time to decide if he was going to let that happen, as a sudden shrill noise sent them leaping apart.

The tea kettle.

Hermione looked at the kettle, then back to Draco. He could ignore the whistling and reach for her again. He could borrow some of her Gryffindor courage and kiss her square on her expectant red lips, use her tenderness and fuel his dead end feelings for a little bit longer. But he wasn't brave like her. He hesitated too long and the moment slipped away. He spun around, allowing his back to form a physical barrier between them. Wordlessly he picked up the teapot and checked the blessed thistle tea, trying to ignore his racing heart and her frenzied pant behind him. Perfect for the potion, he concluded. He poured the tea directly in the cauldron, careful not to raise his head again.

"Here, stir four times anti-clockwise, then let it sit again," he said gruffly around the lump in his throat. "I have to..." but he didn't finish his sentence. He handed Hermione the oversized spoon they had been using to stir and stalked out of the cottage. Once outside he felt like he could breathe again so he took huge calming gulps until he could see clearly again. Seeing her scar had unnerved him, caused him to let his emotions take over. He needed to control himself.

He could leave, he considered, but he'd still have to go back in for his belongings. Anyway, the potion wasn't exactly finished, and even with his jotted notes, he predicted Hermione would still need his help to get it right.

Draco looked around in the hopes that someone would come out of nowhere and tell him what to do. A face caught his attention through the main house's window. It was Wendell, smiling cheerily. A deep sigh escaped him and Draco pulled his shirt sleeve down to cover his scar. He would have to suck it up and stay, at least for a couple more days. Then he could call his debts paid and he wouldn't owe her anything.

A/N: Wow, there it is! This is the scene that I imagined in a daydream that started this whole fic! Not necessary, but in case you were interested in a song suggestion, I've been picturing this scene with the song 'Issues' by Julia Michaels.

Hope you guys like it! Again, sorry if I missed any edits, will try to go back and work them out as needed. As always I appreciate all of you and will see you all soon :)