Edited 10/11/15
24. Anecdote, Lie
Once held a magpie in the palm of my hand and the blood in our veins flowed faster, as I'd planned
Got a heart full of love and a head full of more but a fist full of threads from the seams
and I saw a smile in that beak.
Oh I was a bird right then, one day I will be again
I've been telling jokes while selling rope to you
[Selling Rope (Swan Dive To Estuary), Los Capesinos!]
Hermione twiddled with the scroll in her hands, unrolling it and letting it spring back up into a curl of paper, listening to Cho, Ginny and Luna talk. A constant wash of muted chatter and soft giggles as they talked boys and gossip, with Luna's occasional comment on how that sounded just like Polliwiggles, or Humptyscrumps, whatever completely imaginary creatures they might be. Hermione sat in the big overstuffed armchair at a right angle to the couch Ginny and Cho sat on, Luna sitting cross-legged on the floor and making little flowers out of some coloured paper she'd found somewhere. It was cosy and relaxing, despite Hermione's worry about how his reunion with his mother was going for Draco. She wanted to be there with him. Well, she didn't particularly want to see Narcissa Malfoy, but she wished she wasn't just sitting here waiting uselessly.
What if Narcissa was a horrible cow and made Draco feel terrible?
It was nice to be sitting with Cho, Ginny and Luna while she waited for Draco to come back, though. So far they didn't seem to expect her to do much more than interject an occasional comment into the conversation, or absentmindedly agree with something one of them said. They seemed to understand that she had something on her mind. Hermione suspected they thought she was daydreaming about Viktor, the thought of which made her flush, mortified. But at any rate, sitting here and thinking and half-listening to their conversation was far better than sitting up in her room alone. Her head was stuffed full of thoughts, mostly about Draco, how on earth to break into Gringotts, and Tonks.
She wanted to corner Tonks later, and make sure she really hadn't told anyone. Maybe ask her for a little advice at the same time... Hermione hadn't had anyone to share her feelings with, and it wasn't fair. Most girls got to giggle and sigh over falling in love; with their friends, or even their mother. Hermione's mum had no idea she existed, and her friends... Hermione looked at the group of girls in front of her. Luna was stringing the paper flowers onto a shoelace she'd unthreaded from her sneakers, and Ginny was making a horrified face as Cho said:
"...and Merlin, he's the best kisser ever. I could spend hours snogging him -" Ginny clapped her hand over Cho's mouth.
"I do not need to hear that about Ron, thank you very much. I saw enough of that disgusting carry on when he was dating Lavender. Ick." Luna smiled up at the other two.
"I think it's romantic. You two make such a good couple. Opposites attract, just like the Purple-Livered Pickwick and the Grubbulous Truss." Ginny snorted at the blonde, who threaded a horrendous orange and puke-green flower onto her shoelace.
"It may be romantic - not that I can ever picture Ron being romantic - but as the sister of Mister Romance, I still don't want to hear about it."
Hermione grinned, shifting in the chair, legs tucked up under her, running her fingers through her waving hair. Ginny and Cho were good friends, but she couldn't talk to them about Draco. They would be horrified. They would react just like Harry did, with concern and accusations, and even if they accepted it in the end; they certainly wouldn't want to hear about her relationship. Luna...Luna wouldn't have a problem with Hermione and Draco being together. She already knew there was something going on between them - but if Hermione asked her for advice she'd probably get some vague sayings and comforting words, and nothing useful or properly supportive. Luna was a lovely person, but she had always irritated Hermione slightly. There were no such things as bloody ridiculous Crumple-Horned Snorkacks!
At any rate, it would be nice to have Tonks to talk to - if she was happy to talk to Hermione, anyway. She might not be. But Tonks hadn't seemed disapproving of their relationship. She also had experience in difficult relationships; relationships that society frowned on. It hadn't exactly been easy for her and Remus in the beginning - between the age gap and the fact that he was a werewolf, they had overcome their fair share of problems to be together. She gazed over at the two of them - Tonks lying back against the arm of the sofa she and Remus sat on - he sitting at the other end and trying to read, his book propped up on Tonks' feet which lay in his lap. She murmured something to him, her hand cradling over her belly, and Remus dropped his book and placed a hand over the swell of her stomach, smiled tightly and said something, their fingers lacing together over her belly.
A thought flashed sudden into Hermione's head and she stifled a small sound, crushing the scroll as her hands spasmed. What about the future? If she survived this goddamned war, if Draco survived. Would she have children, one day? Would she have children with Draco? Hermione had no idea if what was between them would take them that far, but she thought of Draco looking at her with that terrified happiness Remus had in his eyes when he looked at Tonks, and her heart skipped. Hermione would very much like to see that look on Draco's face. God yes.
Hermione found herself picturing babies with scrunchy-red faces and big grey eyes; toddlers with lovely straight brown hair and pointy little chins; little school-age mini-Draco's - but without the bigotry - going off to Hogwarts on the train. Draco would probably want to name the child after some astronomical thing, to continue the apparent family tradition, and she imagined a dark haired, grey eyed little boy with a pointy chin and a name like Pollux. A delirious smile spread over her face for a moment, and then faded too quickly. Hermione stifled a hysterical, teary laugh; she knew dreams of babies and ever-lasting love were silly thoughts, she knew even the probability of both her and Draco surviving was slim enough.
It was a painful flash, from fantasy to reality.
Hermione didn't know what would happen after the war. For some reason the thought of the war ending made her feel nervous now, as much as she wanted it to. She liked to dream of happy endings, but she knew that wasn't how life really worked. Her and Draco being together during the war made some sort of weird sense. But afterwards...?
He would probably be pushed away by the fact that all her friends disliked him, and drift back towards his old life and the old friends that survived. Draco would live in his old family home where Hermione was tortured, and she wouldn't ever want to go and visit him there because of that. And she would get some boring position at the Ministry, and Harry and Ron would nag at her about Draco, and they would never see each other between Harry and Ron's disapproval and Draco living at the Malfoy Manor and...and...and they'd eventually realise they just weren't compatible, and split up - and he'd find some more suitable pureblood witch to marry, and she'd end up a workaholic spinster living in a tiny flat with only a cat for company.
Tears bloomed in Hermione's eyes and she felt sick for a moment, before she shook herself and cleared her throat firmly. God, she was being ridiculous; she'd just plotted out the demise of their relationship. The awful thing was, she really could see it happening that way. But it didn't have to be that way. It didn't. Not if they wanted it to work. She looked up at the doorway, waiting for Draco to appear there, so she could make her excuses and slip away from the others, down into the cellar. Hermione sighed, mushing her cheeks into her hand, elbow propped up on the well-padded arm of her chair.
"Looking for Viktor?" Ginny's teasing voice broke into Hermione's internal mad gibbering, and she looked up with a start, chin digging into her palm.
"Sorry, what?"
"Viktor? I saw you two talking earlier, before the meeting." Ginny waggled her eyebrows and leered at Hermione, who blushed. God, this was the last thing she needed.
"Seriously, no, Ginny. I'm just thinking about ways to get into Gringotts."
"Oh, sure you are. I know that look anywhere. That was a 'I'm thinking about a boy' look," Cho pinpointed triumphantly, and Hermione groaned under her breath. Of all the moments for them to pay attention to her, it had to be now.
"Honestly, I am not daydreaming about Viktor. He and I are friends - friends. That's all."
"Well, if that's the case, I'm not entirely sure he knows that, Hermione," Cho continued lightly, "Didn't you see the way he was staring at you all through the meeting? I was glued to Ron and even I noticed." Ginny made a face at the 'glued to Ron' comment, but nodded agreement.
"He likes you, definitely. I can't believe you don't like him! I mean, come on, have you seen him? He's just..."
"Uh huh... How could anyone not like him?" Cho sighed, both she and Ginny staring into space with faraway looks in their eyes - Hermione could practically see the metaphorical drool dripping off their chins.
"I don't know..." Luna disagreed idly, tying off her hideous-rainbow-shoelace-necklace of paper flowers and flipping it over her head. "I'm not that keen on him."
"Yes, but that's because you have a crush on Neville," Ginny pointed at Luna, grinning. Luna didn't blush, just nodded, head canted to one side, and said:
"Yes, that's true. He has such lovely stubble now. And his teeth fit his head, too, which is always something I look for in a boy." Hermione couldn't help snorting a muffled laugh at that, covering her mouth with her hand.
"Yes, teeth..." Ginny side-eyed Luna and went on. "But Hermione doesn't like anyone else, so there's no reason for her not to like Viktor." And of course, when Ginny said that Hermione didn't like anyone else, Hermione just had to look involuntarily embarrassed, and Cho just had to notice.
"You like someone? Who do you like? Tell us!" Ginny glared at Cho and elbowed her, and Cho looked mortified, "Oh. Oh, it' not Ron, is it...?"
Hermione recoiled. "No, god no! My feelings for Ron are purely platonic. Honestly."
Cho looked relieved, and then her dark brows furrowed. "So who do you like?"
Hermione groaned, audibly this time. "No one. Honestly! I wasn't thinking about boys before, I was thinking about Gringotts. There has to be a way to get in there." Ginny shrugged.
"No one else has thought of one yet."
Hermione waved Ginny down. "No, but we've only just started seriously considering the matter. With enough research, time and careful thought, there has to be a way."
Cho shifted in her chair, rubbed her stump through her pinned up trouser leg.
"Could there be a Muggle way to do it, maybe?" Cho looked around the small group, "Hermione was telling me about Muggle prosthetics - is that the right word? Anyway, fake legs, made with Muggle methods. Apparently, they're far superior to the more ordinary magical replacements. Is there some Muggle thing that could help us get in?"
Hermione frowned, racking her brain, but nothing popped to the surface, except for the smug thought that she had successfully redirected the conversation. "I can't think of anything off the top of my head, but I'll talk to Harry about it, and Dean and any other Muggleborns. Maybe we can come up with something." Hermione grinned at Cho. "That's a brilliant idea."
"Well, I am a Ravenclaw," Cho began saying, and then the sound of the front door slamming made everyone sitting around in the lounge jump, and Tonks swear, and then heavy boots clomped on the foyer floor. Draco! Hermione thought immediately, and her heart did an odd little leaping thing as he rounded the corner, tromping into the lounge. And then her heart sank just as quickly as it had leapt up, and twisted with sharp sympathy and concern. Draco looked awful. His head was bowed and his shoulders slumped, his left sleeve shoved up above his elbow - but he never showed his forearm in front of the others, Hermione thought, confused - and the Mark was excruciatingly obvious to everyone. His voice was low and rough as he stopped in front of Remus and growled:
"The damned nosy Auror said you wanted to see me?" The glare on his face made Hermione shiver with perverse lust, and she shifted in her chair, trying to see him properly - trying to catch his eye and smile at him.
"I wanted to talk to you about future missions," Remus said, loud enough that anyone who really strained to listen could hear, and Hermione was straining - so were the other three girls, from the sound of complete silence that filled the lounge. Draco raised an eyebrow, Hermione thought, and his hand ran through his hair. Merlin, he was gorgeous. And rather distressed looking, Hermione reminded herself, steering her thoughts back on track.
"Can it wait?" Draco snapped out, and Remus blinked, taken aback.
"Well, yes. I suppose so."
"Good." Draco whirled on his heel and stormed out of the lounge, eyes flicking over Hermione as he went and she saw they were red-rimmed like he'd been crying. Draco gave no real outward sign he'd seen Hermione curled up in the overstuffed armchair, but she saw a glimmer of recognition as their eyes connected briefly - his were bloodshot grey and sparking with tarnished silver, dark bruised shadows stained around them. And then he was gone, the sound of his boots thudding away and fading to nothing, and Cho puffed a breath out, fringe fluttering.
"Well he was pissed."
Ginny snorted and picked at her jeans. "He's always pissed. Arrogant bastard. Did you see how he was flaunting the Mark? Like he was proud of it or something. Fucking dick."
Hermione felt her blood pressure skyrocket as she listened to the others, and she sat forward in her chair.
"He's not proud of it," she snapped so harshly that she almost startled herself, Ginny's eyes wide as she shrank back from Hermione. "And if you ever talked to him without being a total bitch, then you'd know that!"
"I just -"
"No!" Hermione cut off Ginny's excuses. "He fought with us last night. He killed one of his old friends to save my life! He's not a bad person!"
"He certainly fucking acts like it," Ginny sniped back. "Sorry, Hermione, but he's hardly likeable, is he?"
"So? That doesn't mean it's okay to make out that he's flaunting the Mark, when he's not. He regrets what he did, I know that, because I've actually tried being nice to him!" Hermione's pulse raced and she felt nervous, angry sweat prickle up on her skin as her adrenaline flowed. She didn't want to argue with Ginny, but she was being unfair, and Hermione couldn't let her jabs at Draco slip by without comment. Ginny gave Hermione an assessing look.
"If it wasn't the Ferret, I'd think you had a crush on him. What, was it him you were gazing over at the door looking for?"
"Ginny, don't be mean," Cho chided, dark eyes censorious, just as Hermione huffed and snapped at Ginny.
"Don't call him the Ferret! And maybe I was just thinking, did that occur to you? Like I said, I was trying to think of ways to destroy a Horcrux - an actual important thing, unlike gossip about boys! Relationships aren't all there are to life - we have things like a war to worry about." Ginny went a shade of red that clashed terribly with her hair and opened her mouth to rail back at Hermione. But before Ginny could say anything, Luna piped up, eyes glinting.
"Oh, but war is where most of the best love stories come from. Lots of them are terribly sad though. I remember one about a wizard from Britain, Celar Note, who fought in the war of Le Guerra di Indipendenza Magico in Italy, centuries ago. That was the war when intelligent magical non-humans in Italy fought free of Wizard rule," Luna added, and Hermione nodded, still fuming but not wanting to interrupt - waiting impatiently for Luna to hurry up and finish her silly story.
"He fell in love with an Italian Muggle, whom the story calls Della Fanciulla, the Maiden. Celar used to slip away from his fellow wizards, and Della from her family home, so that they could meet for secret, ah...trysts. And they were happy, and fell deeply in love through their many meetings." Luna was suddenly speaking with such lilting, sad serenity that the others found themselves transfixed, Hermione included. She had never heard this story before.
"One day Celar Note crept away to meet with Della before a battle. But the Centaurs they fought that day were wise, as Centaurs are, and they ambushed the Wizarding side near where Celar was meant to rendezvous with Della. Celar waited for her in the doorway, ignorant that the battle was raging nearer and nearer. Time passed and she still did not come, and Celar became worried. And then Celar heard a woman's screams - Della's! - and the clattering of hooves sounded; the cracking of spells. He saw Della, with her long dark hair streaming out behind her, and she saw Celar and ran to him. Kissed him on the mouth in the doorway, she was so relieved and frantic, because being a Muggle she had no idea what was happening to her... And as Celar held Della in his arms and kissed her back, a flash of green light lit up his world, and she went limp in his arms, her dark eyes went blank."
Hermione gasped aloud, and then covered her mouth, embarrassed. Luna smiled vaguely and went on, "It was one of the wizards, whose Killing Curse had gone awry. Della had been killed by one of Celar's own friends." There was a collective sigh from the girls, and Luna finished quietly.
"My father told me that the moral of the tale was that, 'Secrets are like a sickness in the soul; they eat away what is good and leave only destruction behind.' If only Celar and Della had been open with their love then they would have been able to meet in a safe place, and she would not have died."
"That's so sad," Cho said limply, looking deeply disheartened, and Luna nodded sagely. Hermione felt distinctly uncomfortable. Was Luna looking at her out of the corner of her eye? Was that story aimed at her, and her relationship with Draco? It had to be. Didn't it? Hermione shifted on her chair, clearing her throat.
"Luna? What happened to Celar afterwards? What did he do?" Luna's protuberant pale grey eyes fixed on Hermione's, solemn and earnest.
"Celar laid waste to both sides in the following battle, killing enemies and friends alike, including the one who accidentally killed Della. He didn't appear to care whether he lived or died, and he was said to have fought like a demon. And then he fled Italy, hunted by the rest of the Wizarding community for his treason. No one knows, but it is said that he became a drunk, and reckless with his life, and not several years later was killed by a wizard he would have easily bested if sober."
"How depressing," Ginny said flippantly, and Luna beamed at the redhead, flopping down on her stomach and fiddling with her paper-flower necklace.
"It is, rather, isn't it?" And Hermione just sat there, lost in thought. Luna had cleverly both diverted the argument brewing between Hermione and Ginny, and used her choice of story to make a point to Hermione that Luna obviously thought Hermione should hear - and she'd done it in such a way that her point had been firmly stuck in Hermione's mind. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Luna was a Ravenclaw.
"How do you think we should get into Gringotts?" Hermione asked Luna, and the younger witch smiled.
"I don't quite know, but I'll have a think about it, shall I?"
Hermione ran a hand through her hair distractedly, nodding. "That's a good idea, Luna," she said absentmindedly, deep in thought herself.
Earlier
Draco was perched on the edge of a worn antique sofa, back stiff and shoulders knotted with tension. His mother sat down on a sofa opposite him, across a short stretch of green and gold paisley carpet.
"So...your father used the Cruciatus Curse on you?" Narcissa's voice was subdued and nervous, and her hands trembled as she folded them neatly in her lap. Draco ran the question through his head again, the sheer incongruity of having one's mother have to ask that sort of thing making his mind tumble and spin. He wished he'd never come here. He had thought seeing his mother again would somehow miraculously fix the rents in their relationship, but instead it had only torn the rips further. Draco's lips split into a humourless smile.
"So surprised, mother? After this?" he said and lifted his broken, maimed arm. The mending bones itched and ached as the pain potion he had taken before bed in the early hours of the morning began to wear off, and Draco resisted the burning urge to scratch at it.
His mother turned her face away from his arm and her mouth thinned. Draco wondered if it was that she couldn't stand looking at it because of the guilt and pain it made her feel, or if it was just too ugly for her delicate sensibilities. There was a short silence, and then Narcissa whispered - "He had no choice, Draco. The Dark Lord ordered it."
"He had a choice this time, mother. He didn't have to crucio me; he did it because he wanted to. He called me a traitor, said I wasn't his son, that I was a disappointment...and then tortured me." Draco said, and then added with brittle faux-brightness. "Oh, and he asked after you, too."
"Were you fighting on their side, Draco?" His mother's voice was grief, anger, and fear, all wrapped in shreds of Malfoy pride.
"Were you coddling their children?" Draco shot back. Pangs of jealousy. Draco could barely remember those times long ago when his mother had treated him like that little boy; like a memory of a dream. Draco was jealous of a small boy getting scolded for making a bedroom mural from condiments. Fucking sad.
"No, actually. Arthur is Hestia and Edmund Harkness' child, and Margrethe is the Leviathans'," Narcissa answered primly and Draco frowned.
"But, they're..."
"Death Eaters? Yes. I was brought here to help care for children taken in raids." His mother's fine features contorted with distaste. "The so-called good and righteous Order of the Phoenix - ripping families apart." Had Draco sounded like that? No wonder despising him had been so easy for the Order members. Draco loved his mother - despite everything, he did still love her - and even so, he wanted to shake some fucking sense into her after that illogical, self-righteous little statement.
"And what would your side do with small captured children, I wonder?" He said it and there was no coming back from that wording, that implicit statement of position. Your side. It was strangely freeing. His mother flinched and protested regarding the children, although Draco knew she noticed his emphasised word choice.
"The Dark Lord has no quarrel with children, Draco." She sat there, trying to appear serenely self-confident, but Draco could see the same doubt and fear and denial rippling over her face that he had felt when he had been a Death Eater. She knew fucking better than that, she just chose to deny it. Pretend it didn't happen. Draco's skin felt stretched and tight around his eyes and his voice shook as he thought of what the Dark Lord did with children. Remembered what he did, pictures clear in his head. Too clear, and guilt swamped him like acid and regret.
"I can see it now. The pureblood children would be adopted by couples that could raise them to be good little Voldemort-worshippers, but the rest? The pretty ones would be parcelled out as presents, and the unattractive ones handed to Greyback to keep him entertained. You know perfectly well where some of the Death Eaters tastes lie - you know what would happen to those pretty little kids. And everyone knows what happens to the ones Greyback and his people are given - they leave the remains lying in full enough view." Draco's stomach lurched; his entire being shrinking away from the mental images the truth conjured.
"Remember how he used to make me clean up the leftovers, mother? Do you remember that?" Draco had thrown up for days afterwards every time he remembered the smell, the feel, and the faces... Fuck. He tried not to picture it again, but he couldn't help it, bile rising harsh in the back of his mouth. Narcissa sat pale and still as marble.
"I - I don't - Draco, I..."
"Yes, mother. I know you don't approve of that," Draco said sharply, acid lacing his tongue.
"No child deserves that, mudblood or not," his mother said, as though she thought she deserved a prize for believing in the most basic human decency, her glacial eyes watery and reddening.
"No, no one deserves it. Child or adult, in fact. And yet, as much as it sickens you, mother, you still appear to support Voldemort's regime."
"Your side," Narcissa repeated his words of a moment ago. "Voldemort's regime. So you have truly defected, then."
"Yes. Yes, mother. How else do you think I managed to have my lovely little reunion with father? I met him on the battlefield." Draco's eyes glazed and he remembered, speaking slowly and with increasing venom. "I stared down my wand at him, and I thought about what he did to me, and I still couldn't fucking curse him." Draco glared at his mother, words beginning to spill harsh and desperate.
"I remembered the look on his face when he told me to take your punishment like a Malfoy, before the knife cut my flesh. And I still couldn't..."
"Draco...Draco." Narcissa reached out toward Draco across the short stretch of paisley carpet that may as well have been an abyss for how distant he felt. He caught her eyes and her hand wavered in the air and withdrew, curling up on her lap like a wounded animal; pale fingers crumpled and tense.
"I begged the Dark Lord not to hurt you. I begged him. Both of us did! You're our son, Draco. I went on my knees before the Dark Lord and I offered him anything - anything - for him to stop punishing you." His mother's voice was low and overflowing with shame, and pain, and abject failure and Draco listened in horror. His mother's pallid cheeks flushed with colour and her gaze slid away from his. Anything; the word hung in the air between them.
"I - I didn't know." He looked down at his boots on the carpet, his own cheeks burning. Anything. Fuck. Fuck. Draco didn't want to know that. He felt ill. What if Voldemort had taken his mother up on that, and hadn't kept his word? Draco didn't want to look at her. She had done that for him? Offered...offered herself to that snake for him? He felt like he should thank her, but that would be so wrong. He felt like he wanted to ask her if Voldemort had, but he didn't really want to know. Draco clamped his mouth tight shut and stared at the scuffed toes of his boots, stomach churning up into his throat.
"But the Dark Lord would not be dissuaded," Narcissa continued, and Draco shuddered a sigh of relief; and yet the crawly, awful knowledge that she would have remained. He didn't want anyone to do anything like that for him ever, let alone his mother - with Voldemort. "I suggested to Luc- your father that we flee - I begged him too, but he refused to run -"
"Yes. If we had run, he would have missed out on the opportunity to sever my hand. It's not often you get that chance." Draco was shivering uncontrollably; try as he might he couldn't hold himself together - rage and despair drowning him.
"He - he said it was better for him to do it than leave it to someone who hated you, who would want to hurt you," Narcissa said in a small, doubtful voice, and Draco snorted violently.
"He enjoyed it mother. You know that as well as I," Draco bit out past gritted teeth and bloodless lips, and his mother's face crumpled just a little.
"He's been...different...since he came out of Azkaban. The Dementors... He hasn't been himself."
"Mother, he's mad."
"They caged him like an animal! They took away his happiness! For months and months. He just...he just needs a bit of time." Tears were spilling over onto Narcissa's cheeks. Draco felt a tug in his chest, and he forgot everything and became the small child who didn't want his mother to cry. He was up on his feet, and then sitting on the sofa beside her before he made the conscious decision to move. His hand patted her shoulder awkwardly as Narcissa wept, silent and shaking.
"I'm sorry, Draco," she whispered at last, hands blindly seeking his and pulling it off her shoulder, clutching it tight in both of hers. "I'm so sorry. For everything. I - we - were meant to protect you, but..."
Draco listened to Narcissa apologise in a hushed, tear-filled outpouring, and he didn't know why, but each word felt like a slap in his face. "It was the Dark Lord, and betraying him by leaving would only - only have sealed our fates. Your father stayed loyal because of you - he stayed to try to safeguard you -" Draco extracted his hand forcibly from his mother's grip, anger a seething mass in his chest.
"Well it didn't work, did it?"
"Draco..." She pleaded with him to understand, but he didn't.
"Why didn't you go to Dumbledore when Voldemort first came back? Seek protection?" he asked tightly, and Narcissa's tears began to ebb, and she produced a handkerchief from somewhere, and dabbed her face delicately.
"Draco, Dumbledore was an advocate for mudbloods! Your father and I might not have been comfortable with the Dark Lord's methods, but we have always approved of his essential goal." Draco recoiled, and stood stiffly. His blood thrummed loud and hot in his ears, and he looked at his mother and saw only Narcissa Malfoy. The memory-mother of his childhood - that rose-tinted glasses view of the past Draco had clung to, was just...gone. Obliterated.
Draco looked at his mother and saw only a woman who had made terrible, awful mistakes - mistakes that had nearly cost her son his life. That had maimed him and twisted him, hurt him and in the end ripped everything he had cherished and believed away from him...all because of blood. Because of some senseless fucking bigotry about blood, that meant absolutely nothing.
"I'm in love with a mudblood," he said thickly. He felt so strange. Like he was moving in water, like he was drugged. Narcissa jerked her head up to look at him, eyes piercing him.
"Who?" she demanded, and Draco shrugged, mouth a pained sneer.
"It doesn't matter to you. To you she's just a mudblood. But I love her. And..." His voice broke and his cheeks flushed at the sheer emotion in his words. "And she loves me too. I know it. She told me," Draco insisted, and it was like he was still trying to convince himself that Hermione had really meant it. He still found it hard to believe.
"Is it that Granger girl?"
Draco ignored Narcissa's pointed question. "And you think...what, mother? That the person I love is lesser than us, just because of her blood? I thought that too. For most of my life I looked down on Muggleborns. I resented them. I thought they were little better than savages, and that Muggles were just animals. That they should serve us, not live alongside us." It felt good to admit to that, even though it hurt him - knowing that he had believed that up until so fucking recently was frightening. Awful. Abhorrent.
"I was a cruel, horrible, arrogant bigot." Draco felt so ashamed, looking back. All the things he had said to people who hadn't deserved it. All the things he had done. Mocking, tormenting, hexing, hurting.
"She is the most incredible person I have ever met, and I don't deserve her. She deserves so much better than me. And yet I always thought she was dirt, because she was just a mudblood, because you raised me to be a hateful little bigot. I treated her like dirt..." Draco sniffed loud and wet, and was mortified to find he was crying, and he tried to stem the tears, smudging over his face with the back of his wrist.
"You - you let father try to make me into a monster," Draco said, and stared at his mother, sniffing back his tears. Narcissa was so white Draco thought she was going to faint, and her face was sopping wet, her handkerchief a drenched ball of cotton in her fist.
"I'm so - so sorry. It was what I believed...what my parents taught me, what your father - father believed," she hiccupped through her tears. "I did what I thought was right! I didn't know... I tried to protect you, I -"
Draco's heart was thundering, and he felt phantom prickling in the non-existent fingertips of his missing hand, breath coming ragged and jerky. "Protect me? Protect me?" Infuriated disbelief saturated his words. He stared at the sleeve covering his left arm helplessly for a second, and then grabbed the unbuttoned cuff in his teeth - the only way to drag his sleeve up.
"This!" Draco thrust his arm out - pale, smooth skin forever marred by the ugly Mark; horror and Dark magic infused into his very flesh. "This is what your protection got me!" Voice raw, cracking and shattering on the words, face twisted and dark with incoherent fury.
"And this." Draco thrust out his other arm; the ugly stump with its ragged purple-red scars webbing over it. "This is your protection, mother? This was the best you could do?"
Narcissa sat horrified and frozen, shame enveloping her tangibly, and she choked on her tears. Draco was glad.
"Draco, I'm sorry," she repeated frantically, and Draco snapped, stepping forward fast and looming over her, yelling.
"Sorry doesn't fix this, mother! Sorry doesn't give me my hand back! Sorry doesn't change a single fucking thing!" He stepped away from her jerkily, heaving jagged breaths and coming apart at the seams. There was a slight sound, and he spun toward the doorway, reaching for a wand that wasn't there, with a hand that wasn't there either. Delia Tiptree stood there, hand wrapped around the hilt of her holstered wand.
"Is everything all right, here?" Tiptree frowned cautiously. "No. No it's fucking not." Draco snarled tiredly, and his shoulders slumped.
Draco walked away from his mother.
Tiptree stood alert but ready; hand still resting on her wand as she waited for Draco to walk past, her expression impassive.
"Draco! Please! Please, I love you!" Narcissa cried, and the depth of emotion in her tone made Draco's steps stutter to a halt. He had rarely heard his mother sound so much like she meant something, meant it with all her heart. And so let it burst free in front of an Order member was just another sign of how desperate Narcissa was, all traces of her dignity fleeing. Draco took a breath and began walking again, reaching Tiptree and searching for words, standing there like a fucking idiot.
"Malfoy?" Tiptree asked and Draco met the tall woman's eyes.
"Take me home." Tiptree stepped aside and let Draco pass out of the drawing room.
"I love you!" his mother cried as he crossed the threshold, and Draco's chin trembled with trapped sobs as he walked away; striding fast down the wide hallway with his boots thudding muffled on the carpet.
Tiptree dogged his heels, and Draco knew without having to look that her hand was still wrapped around her holstered wand. He snorted. He was unarmed, and she was a trained Auror, and she still felt the need to watch him like a hawk?
"Draco!" His mother's voice rang out as Draco reached the kitchen door. His head bowed and he gripped the doorframe, leaning on it heavily. A sigh seeped from his lips. Draco looked back and saw his mother standing in the middle of the hallway; naked desperation carved into her every feature.
"Don't. Don't," he said, and pushed himself away from the doorframe feeling leaden and exhausted. He heard her footsteps rushing after him, out of tune with his and Tiptree's, and he winced. Why couldn't she just fucking leave it?
A hand closed over his arm in the middle of that sunny, cheerful kitchen, and Draco looked down at it. Slim and graceful, fingers digging hard into his bare forearm and half covering the Dark Mark.
"I love you," she said, and Draco kept his eyes on her pale hand and the Mark that peeped out from between her fingers. The coils of the snake broken up by his mother's grasp, the uncovered eye that stared hollow and evil.
"That's not how love works," Draco said dully, and waited.
"Mrs Malfoy..." Tiptree stepped up and told his mother to let him go, to go help someone called Mika to see to the children, but she tearfully refused. Told Draco over and over again that she loved him, and with each repetition he grew angrier. But he stood frozen, turning his face away and looking at the floor, the windows, the wall - anywhere but his mother. In the end Tiptree had to physically pry his mother's hand away, and she seemed to give up at last, dissolving into noisy, ugly sobs.
Draco didn't look at her. Not once.
And then he was out the door and into the sunny afternoon, blinking against the light. The bright blue door slammed shut behind Tiptree a moment later, cutting off the sound of Draco's weeping mother. His heart ached in his chest.
"She does love you, for what it's worth," Tiptree said, deciding unexpectedly to communicate more than the essentials, and Draco growled.
"It's worth less than nothing. And it's none of your fucking business," he spat out and seized Tiptree's arm, and felt that familiar awful tug behind his bellybutton, and then they were both sucked away.
Draco stormed back into the lounge only a few moments after he'd left it, preceded by his snarled: "Why are there people in my fucking cellar?"
Hermione bit her lip, the remnants of conversation between her and the other girls dying a quick death. He still looked as awful as he had moments ago; eyes suspiciously red-rimmed and tension radiating off him. He was so angry he seemed like he was about to spontaneously combust.
"Well?" He swept a livid gaze around the room, shoulders hunched up and hand balled into a fist, the Dark Mark writhing horrifyingly as the tendons and muscles in his forearm bunch and twisted under the strain. Remus gave him a careful, neutral look and said mildly:
"Karkaroff's group are staying here, and there' no room except in the cellar."
"For fucks sake, what about an extension charm?"
"We're not wasting time and effort on fiddly, unnecessary spells when there's plenty of room available already, Draco," Remus answered, still calm and Hermione gnawed at her lip, shuffling forward onto the edge of the armchair, ready to get up and drag Draco out of the lounge if needed. He looked like he was about to explode, or perhaps crumble apart, a vein in his temple throbbing and his mouth sneering and furious, his fist trembling a little. Hermione swore inwardly, berating herself. She should have fobbed the others off as soon as Draco had gotten back. She had seen he was upset, but she'd thought he would be fine for five minutes while she extracted herself unsuspiciously from the incessant girl talk. She should have gone downstairs. Damnit. She was a terrible girlfriend.
"So I have no say in whether or not I lose my privacy? I bet you wouldn't make Potter share a room with a gaggle of fucking oversized idiots without so much as a by-your-leave." Draco's voice was strained as he forced it out through gritted teeth.
"No, and no. That's just the way it is, Draco," Remus said with kindness in his firm tones. "Don't make trouble for yourself. Just leave it." Draco blinked hard and rapid, like he was trying to blink back tears, and Hermione got to her feet. Draco didn't seem to either notice or care that there was a roomful of people staring at him. She needed to get him the hell out of the room before he did something that would embarrass him horribly later on.
"I'll talk later," she whispered to Cho, Ginny and Luna, and picked her way past Luna, who was sprawled full length on her stomach on the floor, chin resting on her hands.
"Don't make trouble...? You fucking self-righteous prick." Draco's face was dark with rage as he continued. "Fuck -"
Hermione grabbed his wrist and cut him off. "Don't," she said in a low, firm voice. Draco looked down at her hand and she realised it was over the Dark Mark, and her skin crawled in reaction. She didn't move it though. He looked at her, dull eyes sparking off further worry. It had to be something Narcissa had said or done. It had to be. God, why hadn't she excused herself from the others straight away? Maybe then she could have talked to him, figured out what was wrong before he came in here and made a scene that was going to mortify him once he'd calmed down.
"I -" he began and Hermione shook her head, trying to communicate reassurance and love with just her eyes.
"Leave it. Remus is right. Just leave it."
Everyone was staring at them both, and even though holding someone's arm was hardly romantic, it was still intimate, and Hermione could feel eyes burning into her and Draco. Hermione felt like everyone had to have figured it out now, and her face went hot and she turned her head so her hair obscured her flaming cheeks from the others.
"Draco," she pulled at his arm, but he stood rooted to the spot, chin trembling the tiniest bit and she realised he was trying not to cry. Her heart swelled with pity for him, and she smiled faintly, reassuringly.
"Come on. Draco, just leave it." She pulled at him again and he went with her, stumbling in her wake out of the lounge, and everyone was still staring and Hermione wanted to sink into the ground. What were they thinking? She felt hot and her palms were clammy with nervous sweat. And then they were in the foyer and she pulled out her wand and flicked it at the lounge door, and it swung shut, blocking out all those morbidly curious looks and whispers.
"Draco, what happened?" Her hand was still on his arm and she didn't want to let go, despite the creepy feeling down her spine triggered by knowing her hand was on his Mark. His hand fumbled and twisted around and gripped her forearm, so they were locked together.
"'Mione." He'd never called her that before, and now when he did, it slipped out brokenly, sounding wrong on his lips. His eyes were fixed unblinking on hers; grey irises dulled and the whites laced with burst capillaries, his expression pleading and angry and hurt. "Hermione, I..." He exhaled sharp and shaky and Hermione pulled on his arm again.
"Come on. We need privacy."
"There are people in the fucking cellar. Remember?" Draco said with a curious mix of listlessness overlaying seething, suppressed emotion, and Hermione nodded.
"I know. We're not going there." She led him up the stairs, and he followed without resistance, fingers wrapped around each other's arms and she could feel the tension running through him like a live wire. What had Narcissa done? What had she said to do this to Draco? His self-control was in tatters, and it frightened Hermione. She had never thought he could get so close to losing it in front of the others. He was always so in control. Whether he was being snarky, or nasty, or cold, or civil...it was always something he chose to do. This had been...a near bloody breakdown. Hermione wished she could hex his mother. It had to be her that had triggered this. It had to be.
Draco's arm was cool under Hermione's fingers, and his breath was shallow and hitching as they crested the stairs and she pulled him quickly down the hallway to her room. He paused abruptly at the doorway and her grip on him made Hermione jerk to a halt too.
"Come on," she urged and squeezed his arm and he stepped through, staring around the tiny space as she hurriedly locked the door and cast a good half dozen privacy spells on it. She didn't care what anyone thought if they tried to get in and couldn't. They knew Draco was her friend, and if they suspected he was something more, then...well she'd deal with it if that happened. She turned around and put her wand on the dresser by the door, and faced Draco. He stood by her bed, biting his lip, eyes on the floor.
Hermione went to him. One hand slid up to cradle the back of his head, fingers digging into his hair; the other clutched up around his shoulder, and she pressed herself against him, holding him tightly. Draco's body was tense and his arms stayed stiff at his sides.
"It's all right," she whispered, tilting her head back and staring at him; emotions held back by a tenuous thread, teeth pinning his lower lip hard. He looked brittle and angry.
"I love you," Hermione told him softly, not knowing what else to say or how else to help, and a sigh shuddered from his lips and his eyes slid shut. "It's all right," she said again, fingers dragging through Draco's hair and stroking over his scalp soothingly, and he made a small soft sound and his arms came up around her; fingers digging into her back and splint pressed uncomfortably against her side. Buried his face in Hermione's wild hair, his juddering breath hot on her head, as she made small soothing noises, like he was a child or small frightened animal she was calming. She didn't know what else to do.
"I love you," he said, urgent and rough into her hair. "I love you," he repeated the words muffled, fingers imprinting bruises into her skin, and Hermione's heart started beating hard and fast. Her blood felt like it was singing hot in her veins, a fierce joy warring with her worry. Draco loved her and he'd said it. Said without an, I think, just...said it. He loved her. Hermione scraped her fingers through his hair and buried her face against his chest, lips pressing a hard kiss on the cotton of his shirt.
"I love you too," she murmured, and he held her tighter. Wet warmth dripped onto her scalp through her hair, and she stiffened in his arms. "Draco? What's wrong? What happened?" Fear fluttered as she said his name.
"I went to see my mother," Draco said stiltedly.
"I know." Hermione's hand stroked down the back of his neck and kneaded over his shoulders gently, feeling twists of knotted tension. Draco pulled back from her and her hands fell back to her sides, craning her neck back to meet his eyes.
"She...she still thinks...well, everything. But then what did I expect? For her to have the same fucking epiphany I did? That would just be fucking stupid of me, wouldn't it?" He drew shaky breath, swiping his hand over his face and wiping away the lingering tears that stained his sharp angles of cheek and jaw. "And when I asked her about why...why they stayed, why they didn't go to the Order for help when Voldemort first returned... She said they were trying to protect me."
Hermione made a small sympathetic noise and captured Draco's hand in her two, pulling it gently away from his cheek. Kept it trapped with her left hand and lifted her right one up to stroke over his face with her thumb. Draco's skin was soft and cool, with tiny trails of damp from the tears. He sighed with small contentment, and instinctively pressed into her touch, nuzzling into her palm.
"She tried to justify..." Draco's mouth worked fruitlessly and he trailed off into silence, eyes watering and flicking down to his maimed arm. Empathy made tears prickle behind Hermione's own eyes. The bitch. The horrible, heartless bitch. How on earth could you say that to your own child? What the fuck was wrong with her? Anger boiled up but Hermione shoved it back down ruthlessly. She could be angry later; right now Draco needed her sympathy, not her fury.
"There's no justification for that. You know that, right?" Hermione asked gently, and Draco hesitated for a second, and then nodded, small and unsure.
"Yeah." His voice was husky and barely audible. "And she was going on about mudbloods, and...and... I told her I loved you." Hermione tensed, and he felt it, looked at her with worried eyes. "I didn't tell her it was you. I mean, I didn't tell her your name. I think she suspects it's you, but..." Hermione smiled faintly, not letting herself worry about secrecy right now; her thumb still stroking over the sharp angle of his cheekbone.
"It's all right. It doesn't matter." She quirked her mouth at him. "How did she take it?" Draco snorted with bitter humour.
"She didn't say much about it, actually." His lips flattened. "I didn't give her much of a chance, thought."
"I'm sorry." Hermione clasped both hands over his, playing with it idly, turning it over and smoothing her thumbs over his palm, repetitive and lulling. "I know how much you love her...I mean, she's your mother. Of course you love her," she amended awkwardly, feeling stupid and tripping over her words.
"I don't even know her." Draco stared over Hermione's shoulder at nothing, looking hard and lost at the same time. "Fuck. I used to be just like her. Exactly the same. Maybe not a believer in Voldemort's cause to the extent that Aunt Bella is, but still... I believed in blood purity - that Muggleborns were lesser, and Muggles were just clever animals. I...I don't understand why you ever looked at me as anything other than your enemy. I don't understand why you ever... After everything I've done."
"Draco..." Hermione sighed his name. So that was what was wrong - a toxic stew of rejection, anger, and guilt, all bubbling over. She pushed him back until the back of his legs hit the bed, and he sat down abruptly with an 'oof' of surprise, and pulled his hand away from hers, drove it through his hair angrily. His head was bowed, and his shoulders slumped; the picture of defeat, and Hermione wrung her hands together, feeling helpless. "It doesn't matter," she said in a small voice, wanting him to believe it and knowing even as she said the words that he wouldn't. But she didn't expect what he did do.
"Don't say that," he hissed vehemently at her. "Don't you dare fucking lie to me!"
Hermione took a stumbling step back, recoiling from Draco's sudden, vicious anger. "I'm not! I -"
"Last night you had to ask me if I was a rapist! Don't you dare say it doesn't matter to you, who I was - what I was. Because it does." Draco took a shuddering breath, canting his head, those red-rimmed eyes boring into hers. "It should. It should matter." Hermione shook her head automatically, instinctive denial.
"No. It's in the past - you're not that person anymore." She wished she'd never said anything last night. Wished she'd kept her big mouth shut. Hermione Granger, the witch who had to know everything, and now that insatiable need to know had come back to haunt her. And it was so stupid, because most of the time it didn't matter. She it didn't even enter her head.
Most of the time he was just Draco - her Draco - and Hermione didn't think about what he had done. Who he had been. It was just that sometimes...sometimes she was reminded. Like an ice pick in the chest. And when that happened, Hermione needed Draco to reassure her that he wasn't that person anymore, even though she knew. In her head, she knew. It was just that when Hermione was reminded of the bad, she needed a reminder of the good as well. To balance it out, or something like that.
"I am," Draco said, keeping his voice even with obvious effort. "I am that person still."
"No you're not!" Hermione was shouting, but she couldn't help it. She refused to believe that about him, and her palms sweated and her whole body felt so hot. She was sick with fear. She was afraid. Why?
"Everything I was and everything I did is part of who I am now, Hermione. You can't just wipe the slate clean. It doesn't work that way." Draco was implacable, and Hermione the one crumbling into tears now. She shook her head again, panic making her heart beat erratic and frantic; a trapped bird inside the cage of her ribs.
"But you're sorry! You never wanted to do it! You didn't have a choice!" Her voice was so loud in the enclosed space, terrified and insistent, and part of her mind thought about how tragically funny life was. Not a month ago Hermione had been the one arguing that Draco had had a choice, and had used that to try to hurt him. Now...
"Don't do this to yourself, Draco. Please. It might matter, but not enough to change the fact that I love you," Hermione pleaded with him, trying to be reasonable once more.
"I don't deserve it." His jaw was set and his eyes dropped away from hers as he said it reluctantly. Hermione wrapped her arms around her middle.
"You do. And you don't get to tell me you don't think I should feel a certain way because you believe you don't deserve it," she mimicked that last part in a bad exaggeration of Draco, and a corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile for a brief second. "I can feel however the hell I want about you, and I don't need you telling me that you don't serve it. You saved my life last night, more than once! You and Ron actually worked together! You're the one who figured out where the diadem was and how to get it in the first place!" Hermione glared at him, half-angry now.
The muscles in Draco's jaw jumped and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, eyes seeking out hers. He looked like death warmed up; tired and worn, dark shadows around his eyes, and the yellowing bruises leftover from the mission a patchwork on his pale skin. The Dark Mark stood out starkly on his arm, and Hermione fought the sudden urge to yank his sleeve back down and cover it. That would not help her point. She felt shivery and cold. Draco's eyes were so terribly grave and sad.
"I told myself what I did wasn't that bad. That I had no choice. That I could have done far worse. But today I realised those were all just bullshit justifications and excuses. Just like my mother tried to use on me today. You can feel however you want about me Hermione, and fuck I am so glad you do, and I love you too... But... You can't make me think I deserve to be with you. Because I fucking well don't."
Draco fell silent, still staring at her with those unflinching grey eyes. It was like he thought what he said was the truth, and that was that - subject closed. Hermione bit her tongue to stop the welling tears that were on the verge of spilling over. She stepped forward so that she stood snugged just between Draco's knees. Put her hand on his cheek, and tipped his face up to hers. Lowered her mouth to his and kissed him. Soft and tender, and he tasted like salt, and his lips were cool and passive under hers. Her lips enclosed around his bottom one, and she sucked on it gently, swiping her tongue over the plump flesh, waiting for him to react. Nothing. Draco just sat there. Tears sprang to Hermione's eyes and she drew back.
"You do. You do, you do, you do!"
"I tortured Muggles and Muggleborns," Draco said, lower lip glistening with a faint sheen where Hermione had laved it with her tongue. She gulped but nodded stoically. She had known that.
"I know. I set Theo's dad on fire."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "That was during battle. Kill or be killed. The torture I carried out was for Voldemort's pleasure, not in self-defence." Hermione felt unease creep up her spine.
"I don't care," she told him, ignoring the uneasy feelings.
"I never once protested the way Voldemort or other Death Eaters treated prisoners," he stated next, and Hermione shrugged.
"So? What could you have done? They would have just...well, done what they did when you did start protesting..." She looked awkwardly at the place where his hand should have been.
"I heard the Death Eaters torture and rape prisoners just for fun - behind closed doors mostly, but I could hear. Sometimes they even did it in front of me, and I never did a thing to help - even when I could have helped." Draco's gaze was unwavering, and Hermione wanted to look away but she refused to give in to him, to what he was trying to do. It wasn't going to work. She may not have heard the awful truth from Draco's lips until this moment, but she had known it was what must surely have happened.
"I don't care." Her voice shook as she spoke, belying her words. Draco smiled sadly at her, knowingly, and Hermione bristled and shrank at once under the brunt of his expression.
"I used Sectumsempra on someone once. They were going to die - I would have murdered them, but Snape stepped in and killed them before they died from my curse. But they would have died if he hadn't done that, so it's like I killed them, isn't it?" He looked at her like he really wanted an answer. It wasn't a rhetorical question.
"I - I don't know," Hermione choked out. Draco's and snapped out and grabbed her wrist - he stood, looking down at her, the power balance completing its shift from her to him - Hermione could feel it happen, like a crackle in the air.
"Was it murder, or not, Hermione?" he asked coldly, and her mouth stretched and contorted into a tearful grimace,
"Yes. Yes it was murder," she said at last, truthfully. "But I don't care." She was stubborn. She was Hermione Granger and she wasn't going to let him win. He licked his lips nervously, and his eyes skittered away from hers nervously for a moment, before he steeled himself. Hermione watched frightened, dreading whatever it was he was going to say next. Draco forced himself to meet her eyes, his fingers curled around her wrist, cool and dry.
"I captured children, knowing they were going to be given to Fenrir Greyback and his people," he said, and Hermione's mouth trembled. "I captured them, and I handed them over to Fenrir myself, crying and wailing with terror. Screaming for their mothers. And after Fenrir and his, his pack had...finished...I went into their rooms and cleaned up the mess. The leftovers. The remains. Little bodies torn apart and scattered on the floor. Mutilated. Unrecognisable. Eaten."
Hermione was shaking uncontrollably now, and Draco's hand on her wrist felt like a manacle, trapping her. She cried; not sobbing, but a silent rush of tears that bathed her face as she stared at Draco, horror-struck. The hand that held her wrist, that touched her skin, had...cleaned up... God. She wanted to block her ears, wanted to run away, wanted to not have heard that.
"You...you didn't have a choice, though. Did you?" Hermione's voice was a hoarse whisper, her throat clogged and filled by a burning ache. Draco released her wrist and it was with an effort that she didn't instinctively retreat from him. He lifted his hand to Hermione's face and she stayed still by force of will as he drew his fingers over the contours of her features.
"I could have refused and died, rather than be party to it. You would have refused. Potter would. Weasley. Fuck, everyone here would have refused," Draco choked the words out with self-loathing, eyes squeezing shut and then flying open again, piercing into hers.
Hermione tried not to picture what he had just described to her, her gorge rising already, and made herself think logically. Sensibly.
"And then you would be dead, and someone else would have captured those children. Someone else would have...cleaned up." A shudder ran through her as she said the last two words, but Hermione kept her eyes on his.
"But I wouldn't have done it." Draco's hand slithered down her throat, over her collarbone and shoulder, down her arm. "But I did, and I can't ever get rid of that. I can't wipe that fucking slate clean. I am the person who took children to brutal, bloody deaths, and then disposed of them afterwards. I will never not be that person. Do you understand?" Draco ground out, fingers clamping down on Hermione's arm unconsciously, and she nodded, ignoring the pain, not wanting to break the moment.
"That matters. That matters a lot," she said, and Draco's shoulders slumped, his fingers loosened around her arm, like some of the tension had run out of him.
"It does," he said in quiet agreement.
"It does," Hermione echoed him, stepping closer. "But I still love you. It doesn't change that. I refuse to let it change that. Because your only choices were death, or obeying your orders, and I can't blame you for wanting to live. Because you're so sorry it's eating away at you from the inside out. Because if you were ever in that situation again...what would you do?" Draco lifted his bowed head.
"I'd tell them to get fucked. I'd die rather than be part of that again."
Hermione smiled, weak and shaky. "I know you would. And that's why you deserve to be with me, if that's what you want. Because you've changed. And that's why I don't care, and why even though it matters, it doesn't matter at the same time. Because yes, you will have to carry what you did around with you for the rest of your life, but you aren't that person anymore."
Hermione slipped her hands over Draco's shoulders and around, her arms linking around his neck, her breasts pressed lightly against his chest. Yes, when she touched him she pictured him...disposing of... But he was still Draco - her Draco.
"I'm not the same person I was a year ago. Or two years ago, or three years. We're always changing. Growing. That's the nature of being human. Your change has just been more...extreme...than most people's." She kissed his mouth, his parted lips, gently and brief. Pulled back and stared into his pained grey eyes. "I love you. Not what you were, but what you are now. I love you." And he groaned softly, like he was breaking in half, like he was crumbling away, and his arms crushed around her and this time when Hermione's mouth sought his, Draco kissed her back.
His mouth was cool and hungry, his teeth nipping and tongue delving and sweeping, sending delicious shivers down into her core, hot and electric. They swayed on the spot, clinging together, Hermione melting and trembling and coming to pieces in Draco's arms just from a kiss. Maybe it was the heavenly release of all the fear and worry and tension. The fiercely joyous relief and hope that bubbled and fizzed through her as she jerked Draco's shirt open unceremoniously, mouth still locked to his, buttons popping off all over the floor. It was fun doing it that way, and she grinned, sucking on his tongue and revelling in his obvious pleasure; the bulge in his jeans pressing against her, hard and prominent.
Hermione felt almost high with relief, drunk on it. Draco's chest was smooth and lean and delicious under her questing hands, and Hermione ran her palms over the planes of his abdomen, the ticklish spots on his sides, fingers creeping up and tweaking his nipples and making him 'mmph' into her mouth and squeeze her bum in retaliation.
They had a brief struggle as Hermione tried to pull his shirt off completely. Draco didn't want to let go of her so she could slide it off his arms, and she didn't care - she just wanted his damned shirt off. But he wouldn't let her go, and she wasn't strong enough to make him. Hermione changed tactics, her hand slipping down to his jeans, nimble fingers popping the button open before she could even think about it, as Draco distracted her with his tongue and lips and teeth all over the delicate skin of her throat. Hermione's heart beat up into her throat and her pulse thrummed, blood humming and the room feeling suffocatingly hot as she pushed down the consuming nerves that nearly overrode her desire, and unzipped his jeans, pushed them down so they crumpled to the floor, tangled around his boots.
Draco froze, and pulled back a little, looked at her questioningly.
"What are you...?" Hermione was breathing shallow and quick, and she felt light-headed, adrenaline and lust a heady cocktail threading through her veins.
"I'm...I just..." She didn't know what to say. She'd never done anything like this before. Hermione was nervous enough without him questioning her. "Is it okay, if I...?" she asked in a small voice, and Draco groaned and nodded.
"Yes. Fuck yes. Feel free." Her hand slid and wriggled under his jockey shorts, and- oh god that was it. That was it. Hard and hot and velvety, her fingers, her hand - curling around it and grasping, her grip firm but not too hard, just like her research had told her. Draco whimpered involuntarily, and nuzzled his face into her hair, his breath hot and ragged on her temple, his hand cool under her shirt, on the bare skin of her waist.
"Fuck," he mumbled in a tight, blissful voice as Hermione twisted her hand a little as she slid it up and down, and he wobbled on his feet, making them both sway on the spot and her smile triumphantly. "Oh fuck..."
Hermione researched everything.