Chapter 13:

Crimson. Vermillion. Scarlet. Not a single one of these shades was harsh enough to describe the variation of red Hermione was currently seeing as she stood from her desk. Anger pulsed through her body, sending sparks crackling about the tips of her fingers, her hair to frizz and grow in volume. The audacity.

Drawing her wand from within her sleeve, she set the letter ablaze, huffing at the singe mark it left in the oak of the desk. Oliver Wood had some gall. Hermione couldn't remember speaking to him since he had left Hogwarts a few years ahead of them, except for the odd "hello" when they bumped into one another around Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade.

And Viktor. That complete and total prat. The words from Oliver's letter rattled around in her skull, taunting her and jumbling enough to create a migraine. "Viktor tells me that Malfoy acted suspicious during their little run-in at the Weasley house. That his protectiveness was a lesson in dramatics. Hermione, if you believe this prick's lies then you have truly failed to be the Brightest Witch of Your Age."

What the fuck did Oliver even want with her? She made a mental note to ask Harry if they'd formed some kind of a friendship. Or had they been more before she'd returned to Hogwarts? The last lines of his letter sent shivers of unease down her back as she failed to recall the role Oliver Wood played in her life. "I wish you could see that there are reputable and stable men in this world, men who watched you grow into the witch you are now—without making your life hell in the process. If you come to your senses, I'd love to prove that there is still some good in this world."

The words he'd penned left a bitter, metallic taste at the back of her throat as she tried to swallow down the rage she felt at his belittling missive. On multiple occasions since their attack, Malfoy had proven that his prejudices had died with the war. Hermione knew only what she could glean from books and her friends' few non-descript stories of the intricacies of the war, but it was evident that it had changed everyone irreparably. And in the case of the wizard in question, she knew his experiences had worked to morph him into a reputable and kind-hearted wizard.

While the entire outside world seemed to believe that her relationship with Malfoy was a farce, her own friends believed him to be true. With this knowledge, a determination began to burn afresh in her chest as she strode to the memory cabinet and began plucking all ebony liquids from within. She sat cross-legged on her bed and began reading the small tags on each. "The Snatchers-Harry." "I fucked up and left-Ron." Hermione rolled her eyes at that one—Ron had certainly always had a knack for messing things up. She'd save that particular memory for later, seeing as she recalled six whole years at Hogwarts of him making mistakes and fighting to correct them later.

"Fred's Funeral-Ginny." "Tonks' and Lupin's Funeral-Harry." "Crabbe's Fiendfyre-D." "Potter Watch-George." "Christmas in Godric's Hollow-Harry." "The Most Awkward Kiss in the History of All Kisses-Ron." Hermione laughed bitterly at that one. Coming out of her memory-wiped coma, she'd still believed herself in love with Ron. In the time since, it was evident that there was nothing more than friendship between the two of them.

Amidst all of the vials, laden with heavy memories that plagued wizarding-kind each night as heads were laid to rest, was a tag that stuck out more than the others. "Taking the Dark Mark-D." Hermione lifted the vial between two fingers delicately, as though the mere liquid contents could burn the Mark into her skin. Eyeing the silvery mix, sparkling with the coal colored fragments Malfoy had used to color the memory, she waved her wand toward the pensieve and it emerged from the cabinet.

This memory was sure to be one of the darkest Malfoy had to offer, something that likely plagued his every waking moment since. And yet, he had included it with all of the others, a measure of his trust in her and his knowledge of her love for him. With a shaking hand, Hermione poured the wispy thread of liquid into the basin and took a deep breath.

A scene was beginning to swirl, Theo Nott's face distorting as he gesticulated violently toward Malfoy. Hermione's curiosity outweighed the nauseated discomfort in her belly and she bent low, taking a calming breath before plunging her face into the memory.

Malfoy sat stiffly on his bed, Theo sitting alongside him in a chair, his feet propped up in a false ease. Harry and Ron had stalked Malfoy the entirety of their last year before the war, determined to prove he had joined Voldemort's ranks. All along, determined to prove her friends wrong, Hermione had studied Malfoy from afar, taking in the subtle changes to his face each day. The frown that had been permanently affixed to his features that year was already tight in place, but the violet rings were only just beginning to appear under his eyes, his cheeks not quite as gaunt as they'd soon become. So this scene was before sixth year. Her friends had, agitatingly, been correct in their timeline.

With worry furrowing his brow and coloring his tone, Malfoy managed to croak out, "What am I going to do, Theo?"

Theo was leaning back in his chair. At first glance, he almost appeared relaxed. But Hermione noticed the tense set of his shoulders, heard the quiet clicks in his jaw as he mulled over his response. "I don't have a good answer for you, mate."

Malfoy dropped his head back against the headboard, repeatedly lifting and dropping it with a heavy thud. "With father in prison, the Dark Lord expects me to take his place."

"The Dark Lord," Theo spat the title as he finally sat up quickly, glaring at his friend, "wants to kill you in retribution for your father's shortcomings." He gestured toward the window, at what, Hermione couldn't see. She suspected it was an empty gesture toward Azkaban.

Malfoy picked his head up from the mahogany and returned the glowering stare Theo gave him. "Well, he's going to kill me and my mother if I refuse."

Hermione raised her brows, her lips parting. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised by such a declaration—Harry had mentioned Malfoy's plight when he relayed the tale of Dumbledore's death. But to hear the desperation in Malfoy's voice was unnerving, especially as she tried to assimilate this scared boy with the war-wearied wizard he'd become. Theo was displeased as he scrubbed a hand over his face and pursed his lips. Malfoy rose to pace the floors alongside his bed. He paused for a moment at the window, looking down at a vase of baby's breath on his desk. Hermione watched as he brushed his fingers over it lovingly before taking a sprig and running it along the curves of his jaw. With his back to Hermione, she heard rather than saw the agony he felt. "My mother shouldn't have to die because her only son is a coward, Theo."

"It's not cowardly to be against homicide, Draco."

Malfoy stared out of the window, out across the expansive gardens and grounds surrounding the Manor, twirling the flowers in his hand absently. "I'm just going to have to do it. I'm just going to have to take the Mark and kill the old man. My mother's life depends on it."

Theo rose and ambled heavily toward where his friend stood, coming to rest by his side to look vacantly over the countryside. Clasping his hands behind his back, he asked, "And what about your life? If you should fail?"

"Then at least I'll have died serving my family and my Master."

Theo scoffed and turned to look at Malfoy. "He's no more your Master than I. You've never bought into any of those pure-blood ideologies. It's one thing to put on a show at school to save face, but it is something altogether different to kill a man for a cause you don't believe in, Draco."

Malfoy turned away from the window and his stare bore into his friend's eyes, a panicked anguish coloring his cheeks. "What other choice do I have, Nott? Hmm? Give me a way out. I would rather die trying to save Mother than have to watch her suffer or worse, be forced to kill her."

Hermione put a hand to her chest, flashes of Malfoy standing over his mother riddling her brain. Narcissa had been so kind to her since the attack, so motherly in a time when Hermione's own mother was making her life hell. The pain such an action would have caused Malfoy was nearly too much for her to even try to fathom. His heart was so pure, so tender in this post-war life.

Theo studied him for a long moment, defeat evident as he was unable to meet Malfoy's request. "What of Granger?"

Hermione raised a brow, trying to remember any interaction she may have had with the Slytherin in her years at school that would warrant such a question. He'd been cruel to her, played his role so well that he couldn't possibly have felt anything for her in those years. Malfoy recoiled lightly and turned toward the window once more. "What of her?" he finally asked after a pregnant pause.

"She will never accept you with a Mark on your arm and Dumbledore's blood on your hands."

Oh the irony of that statement as she fell in love with the facilitator of the Headmaster's death for, not the first, but the second time.

…

"Bring in the boy," Voldemort commanded, his voice the harsh hiss of Parseltongue even now.

A hulking man with patches of grey hair—no, fur—and menacing yellow eyes stalked toward a large set of heavy wooden doors. All around Hermione stood dozens of Death Eaters, their tattered robes dragging along the ground, faces of evil hidden behind pewter and silver. They were silent, every set of eyes staring adoringly at their Master, waiting with bated breath for his commands to be met.

It wasn't long before the werewolf returned, nearly dragging Malfoy in his grasp. Surely, Malfoy was indignant about receiving such treatment in his own home, but fright painted his features so wholly, she doubted anything besides his fate even crossed his mind. Hermione walked around to where he was released in front of the dais and Malfoy dropped into a low bow before falling to his knees, his head angled toward the floor. The quivering in his voice echoed through the room, causing a few chuckles from the others as he addressed, "My Lord."

Voldemort sat on a high-backed leather chair, teeth and bone fragments hanging from various places. Hermione watched as he tented his hands in front of his face and eyed the teenager. Her own heart beat rapidly, fear and animosity coursing through her and causing her legs to quake. "Young Malfoy."

With a harsh, "Rise!" Malfoy's body rose into a standing position, his back and posture contorted with pain from the forced magic. Bones popped and tears formed at the corners of Malfoy's eyes as he strained the muscles in his jaw against the agony. Voldemort circled the boy, eyeing him as a vulture circles carrion. "So, you want to join my ranks, eh?"

A manic cackle rang clear as a bell in the room, the high-pitched insanity of Bellatrix Lestrange. "He thinks he can play with the big boys."

Fighting Voldemort's stiff magical grip, Malfoy lifted his head in proud defiance and Hermione felt a surge of pity as a few others taunted him and their Master smirked at their antics. "Crucio!" the monster roared.

Malfoy's body dropped with a sickening thud to the marble and he writhed in sheer agony, refusing to scream. His groans echoed through the vast space and no one moved to rescue him. Surely his parents were standing behind two of the masks in the crowd—this was their home after all.

As though touched by a healing hand, his writhing eased his eyes opened to look around himself. Tears of unbridled pain streamed from the corners of both, despite the set of determination in his jaw. With a laborious effort, he pulled himself into a sitting position. Voldemort released his wand and a bemused glee crossed his face. "Turn toward the others, boy, so they can look into your eyes."

One by one, masked terrors came forward and raised their wands to the battered and worn body before them. For his part, Malfoy refused to fall to his face fully, instead hunched on his hands and knees like a wounded animal. His body bled out, shining stains against the black fabric of his suit. Bruises bloomed across his alabaster skin, the muscle underneath swelling and distorting his features. Hermione stared in horror, feeling helpless at her inability to assist him in any way. When the constant torrent of Dark curses ceased, Malfoy took a few shaky breaths and fought to rise, hugging one arm around his ribs and wincing at the tenderness.

"You've done well, young Malfoy, withstanding your initiation. Come forth," Voldemort beckoned impatiently.

Malfoy took another deep breath and the defeat hidden in the depths of his pewter eyes was enough to make Hermione want to hold him, to hold his crumpled and broken pieces together. He turned toward the seated megalomaniac once more and dropped to his knees, clasping his hands on his thighs and bowing his head deeply. "My Lord."

"Hold out your arm, child," he hissed and Malfoy removed his suit coat and set it at his knees as he yanked his sleeve up.

As he trained his eyes to his own forearm, barely clinging to consciousness, his body seized and clenched in agonizing pain once more, the Mark carving its way into his arm, and blank ink running into the engraving like rivers cascading against the banks. Hermione felt physically sick to her stomach at the reluctance and regret that shined in his eyes just before he fell back against the stone with an echo.

Hermione ripped her head back, leaving the memory abruptly. Her chest heaved as she fought against hyperventilation to take a breath. It was difficult for her to even fathom that the man so desperately vying for her heart now had once suffered such an ordeal. Her hands trembled as she grasped the edge of the desk, knocking the other vials over and spilling out the memory of Fred's Funeral that Ginny had provided, the graphite colored liquid running in a thin stream to the floor.

Grabbing her wand she apparated on the spot, security detail be damned. She landed inside of Malfoy's living room to find a completely still home. "Malfoy?" she called, taking the stairs two at a time to check the bedroom.

She didn't know why she was so irrationally driven to see him, to make sure he was alright—she had viewed a memory, not a premonition. Still, she rasped out, "Draco?" one more time before hearing the crack of apparition downstairs.

"Hermione?" His voice sounded high-pitched, panicked even.

"Draco!"

She met him on the stairs, and he instantly put his hands to her arms, concern and fright distorting his face. "What's the matter? What happened?" he questioned, smoothing a hand over where her hair had begun to spring from her plait.

Her heart, so full of sympathy and mourning for the boy of Malfoy's memory just a moment before, began to thrum violently in her chest. Her cheeks burned hot and she opened her mouth to answer, silenced by the incapability to put into words exactly what she was feeling in the moment. "I-I watched a memory."

Malfoy searched her eyes, trying to make sense of everything. Realization seemed to dawn on his face and he glanced down toward her arm. "I'm sorry you had to see that again. You were so upset last time, but it was an important event. I debated even including it—"

"Not my arm," she replied, placing her hand over where she knew the Dark Mark once marred his flesh in stark black lines.

He furrowed his brow and looked to where she was touching him, confused as to her reaction. "That was a long time ago."

"What they did to you was barbaric!"

"Granger," he spoke slowly, as though she were on the verge of losing her mind, "I did what I had to do to survive. Joining the Dark Lord's ranks was never going to be a walk in the park."

"You didn't want it— I could see the apprehension in your eyes."

Malfoy worked his jaw, mulling over a response to her. "Granger," he began, brushing a stray curl back into the plait, "that was a long time ago. The world was different then, choices and sacrifices had to be made. You only remembered the end of sixth year, but perhaps this insight to a time before that will help you to feel some empathy toward the sorry sod you remember."

Hermione met his troubled gaze, her worry and dismay at the memory subsiding with every strong, steady breath he took. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here. I don't know why I reacted the way I did."

Malfoy still had his hands gently running over her upper arms, trying to soothe her. "I had just arrived at the orphanage when I was alerted to a presence in our home. Would you like to join me?"

Hermione didn't care to go back to the Burrow, to see the tiny vials of char-colored liquid all taunting her with others' terrible realities. She nodded slowly, her own body calming in his presence.

Malfoy grinned wide and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "The children all miss their Miss Minnie. It's just not the same without you these days."

"Minnie? Oh that's terrible." She wrinkled her nose at the nickname.

"They're babies. The names of obscure heroines are a little difficult for them to pronounce."

Hermione laughed her concession, more at ease now. Once they were safely on a flat surface, he apparated them away. They were in a large room, set up to be an area for recreational activities for the children. Children, most no older than eight or nine, were dispersed throughout the room. One young boy, about five-years-old, looked up, a smile stretching across his face as he scrambled to his feet to greet them. "Miss Minnie! We thought you forgot about us!"

Malfoy shot her a guilty look and she shrugged slightly. "No need to burden them with adult troubles."

He relaxed at that and scooped the boy up. "Miss Minnie has been very busy, Maxwell. But she's here now."

"She'll be here for song time!" a girl across the room screeched, running toward them as three sloppily made paper planes followed her.

Malfoy tapped the girl's head and shuffled past her. "Get into position, everyone!" he commanded, watching as the kids all moved into a circle on the colorful mats in the middle of the room. "Accio, guitar!"

A guitar drifted over their heads and Malfoy grabbed it as he set Maxwell down and took a seat in the middle of the floor. "Miss Minnie? You joining us?" The smirk on his face was far too pronounced for Hermione's liking.

This was clearly something she'd done in the past, but in this context she was slightly terrified at having to sing in front of anyone. Moseying as slowly as she could get by with, she moved to take her seat in the circle opposite him. With a subtle wink in her direction, he addressed the children once more. "How about 'All Around the Nargles' Nest?'"

The suggestion was met with claps from his audience. Hermione raised a brow and leaned back on her hands, stretching her legs out in front of her as Malfoy made to begin. His fingers worked in a lithe, swift manner and she found herself impressed. That is, until he began to sing. Never had she heard someone so off key in her life.

Malfoy was terrible at this and she found the notion so absurd that she burst into a fit of laughter. He glanced up at her, smiling wide at the mirthful noise just as she tossed her head back with a fresh wave. Gleeful, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes as her laugh become contagious and the children began giggling at her antics. Between bouts of laughter, she murmured broken lines of the song.

"Miss Minnie must have taken some of Weasley's Wheezes laughing potion!" the boy next to her said, looking both intrigued and scandalized by such a concept.

"Let's all raise our voices and show Miss Minnie how good we sound!"

Hermione's laughs quieted to chuckles as she listened to the sweet sound of a dozen little voices all around her. Fascinated at the way Malfoy captivated the tiny hearts of each, it was difficult to tear her eyes away. He looked so at ease interacting with them and she had no doubt that he regularly visited and entertained. It was once again impossible to assimilate this version of Malfoy—one who sings off key and spends time showing children that they aren't forgotten and worthless even though their parents were gone and buried.

After a few songs, the last of which was a soft instrumental melody that evidently signalled quiet time, he laid his guitar on a nearby table top. "Do you want to take a walk with me?"

He looked at her as though he had never seen someone so beautiful, love aflame in the sparkling of his eyes. Hermione felt her heart flutter, her belly tying itself into slippery, tickling knots. "I'd love that."

The children's caretakers began passing around snacks and Malfoy started for the door. As they walked, his hand brushed against the back of hers and she gathered her courage to place her hand within his. Chancing a glance up at him, she saw he had a wide, gorgeous smile on his face and the corners of her own mouth tugged up.

They passed through glass doors and into the gardens where Hermione had spoken to Narcissa and Alya only a few weeks before. Instead of small buds fighting to bloom, the entire space was filled with fragrant and colossal flowers. Butterflies of every shape, size, and color fluttered all around. They swirled in a wide breadth, playing as leaves on a fall breeze. Hermione could hear their gentle flapping, feel their soft wings brushing against her, tickling at her skin.

"This is incredible!" she exclaimed, dropping his hand to spin gleefully, watching as the butterflies flew in graceful circles ever upward, a kaleidoscope of colors.

She decided right then that Narcissa was an absolutely brilliant witch and a gifted gardener. Never in her life had she seen such a sight. The purity of it left her exhilarated, her twirling leaving her breathless. With a gleeful giggle, Hermione stopped to find Malfoy looking at her.

His eyes were full of mirth and he looked at her as though she were the most enchanting thing he had ever seen. His fingertips brushed along his lips, a playful smirk as he sauntered over to her. "Dance with me," he commanded lightly, extending his hand for her to take.

In what was certainly the most romantic moment of her life—at least, as far as she could recollect—when she stepped into him and he pulled her closer by her hip. Even Krum hadn't taken such delicate care, hadn't looked so wholly enamoured, in their brief stint. Malfoy began swaying, his toes knocking against hers. He was a terrible dancer, another surprise to Hermione. He was imperfect, in the most endearing of ways. He dipped his head close to hers, the stubble on his cheek scratching against her pleasantly. "We've Seen this moment before."

"Is that right?" she asked, tucking her hand along the other side of his jaw in an attempt to close the gap between them further. "So what happens now?"

Malfoy pulled back and she already missed his heat against her skin. "You tell me what a terrible dancer I am—"

"You are a terrible dancer, Malfoy."

"-and then you kiss me," he mentioned wickedly, placing his hands on either side of her face and running a thumb over her lips.

The butterflies Hermione felt now had nothing to do with the swarms of the insects around them and everything to do with the nervous excitement flaring up in her belly. Her hand moved around to the nape of his neck to run along the baby-soft hair there and she stood on her tiptoes as she pulled his face to hers.

The moment their lips touched, their magical cores brushed and vibrated palpably around the pair, surrounding them with warmth. The butterflies' flight became nearly frantic as the air quivered with the force of it. Malfoy was the one to deepen the kiss, dropping one hand to her lower back and yanking her to himself, his hand fisting in the fabric of her shirt. Her back arched into him and she dropped from her tiptoes, pulling him down to her level clumsily.

Malfoy chuckled, catching her tightly as she stumbled back a step. He broke the kiss, a puff of breath ghosting over her face. Beaming, he nudged her nose with his and gave a passive shrug. "Not bad...for a first kiss."

Hermione swatted him as she laughed. "We've kissed loads of times before."

"Yes, but this is the one that means the most, isn't it?" he countered. He lowered his lips to capture hers once more, leaving Hermione lightheaded and with the feeling of heavy intoxication.

Merlin, this is what she had been missing?

o-o-o

A/N: Do you hear that? That pterodactyl screech in the distance? That was the sound of me screaming with excitement at being able to write some romance between them again.

Thank you, as always, for the love you've shown this story. Please review!