A/N: In the first part, Draco makes a promise. In the second one, he considers a betrayal.


CHAPTER 10

April 1998

The same evening, Hermione came downstairs and sat down quietly next to Draco. She seemed angry about something – a frown on her brow and her jaw clenched – but Draco didn't dare to ask.

"Fleur's making Cordon Bleu," Hermione finally announced. Draco knew instantly what she implied, but didn't reply. Home-made French food sounded like a wonderful dinner, but it wasn't worth facing the Weasleys.

Just as he'd predicted, Hermione asked a moment later, "Will you come upstairs?" She just never gave up, did she? "Ron won't mind!" she added quickly as if that was the crux of the problem. Draco didn't bloody care about Weasel King's opinion, and he wasn't scared of him – okay, that was maybe a lie, but… no. That wasn't the only reason he decided to stay.

"I'm good here, thanks," he said flatly, casting a sidelong glance in her direction. Hermione didn't look at him, her gaze fixed at some spot on the floor. Compelled by some urge he didn't understand, he whispered, "You shouldn't have done that… in the kitchen, I mean. I'm not worth protecting."

Her head whipped around, and she fixed her gaze on him. It was so intense that Draco almost flinched back. "You think I'd let you get hurt and stand by? I'm not a coward."

Because that was exactly what Draco had done in Malfoy Manor.

Hermione's words cut deep and she knew it. Maybe she wasn't prone to physical violence, but words as weapons weren't alien to her. Draco drew up his legs and tightened his arms around his knees to stop falling apart. "I'm sorry that I am."

She didn't say anything, just glared at him.

"Next time, I won't be," he murmured, avoiding her gaze. It was the truth. Should he ever be in a situation again where he had to choose between doing the right thing and getting hurt, he'd choose the right thing. At least, if the right thing was her.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice softer than before.

Draco hesitated, but the words broke out of him, as if compelled by Veritaserum. "Next time, if there's a next time, I won't stand by and let you get hurt," he clarified to his own surprise. He didn't know why he cared about her so much, but he did.

"Why?" Hermione's voice was so quiet that he almost missed the question.

"Because it's wrong," Draco said and looked up, strong enough to finally meet her gaze. He needed her to know that he was telling the truth. "I've told you before… I can't live that way anymore. One day, you have to make a decision. Do you want to live, miserable and hating yourself for it? Or do you want to be able to live with yourself, even if it means getting hurt or killed?"

"Most people would choose the former, I guess," Hermione replied without batting an eye.

"But not you Gryffindors." Draco tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice but wasn't sure if he succeeded. "You don't care if you die. I do."

At once, Hermione said up straighter. "We care," she contradicted, opening her mouth as if to say more, but then, she stayed silent.

"Mhpf." Draco snorted, and looked down on his knees. There was a bit of dust on his right thigh, maybe from the cellar floor. "It never looked like Longbottom did."

From the corner of his eyes, he saw how she shifted her weight and hoped she'd let it drop. But of course, she didn't. "Tell me about Hogwarts."

Draco closed his eyes, tried to fend off the memories but couldn't.

"Draco?"

Carefully, he lifted his gaze, finding only worry in Hermione's eyes. She didn't look for something to condemn him. She just wanted to know about her old school.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Draco started to tell her everything. It was the first time he was able to speak freely about the horrors he'd lived through, the horrors he'd committed; and it felt like a weight was taken off his shoulders. He omitted nothing, not that he'd told Amycus Carrow about the Room of Requirement, not that he'd practised the Cruciatus on First Years, and not that he'd received the same punishment when he'd once tried to protect some of said First Years.

The words tumbled out of his mouth, as if of their own volition. Draco didn't know why he told her about it, why he didn't mind to lay bare his past, his secrets, his crimes. It felt freeing, but there was more. Telling her erased all the wrongness that had lingered inside him, and there was no logical explanation for it.

Hermione listened silently, never interrupted, and waited patiently when he had to search for words. Draco didn't dare to meet her eyes, though, afraid of what he might find.

When he'd ended, he expected her to run out, lock the door, and tell him to rot in hell. But Hermione just sat there and watched him, her face giving nothing away. Then, without warning, she reached for his hand, ignoring the way he flinched back violently.

"Let's get some dinner," she suggested and pulled him up. The whole way to the kitchen, she didn't let go of his hand.


Dinner was awful. Draco felt like an intruder – he was an intruder. He barely managed to say a few words when asked, and Hermione soon gave up making conversation. Everything would've been fine, but then Bill decided out of the blue to pry information out of him.

"So, Draco," the older Weasley began while cutting a piece of Cordon Bleu, "what can you tell us about You-Know-Who's plans and Death Eater movements?"

Draco's mouth fell open. The casualness of the question, the silent expectation that he would answer, surprised him.

Bill's brother snorted. "As if he'd betray his Death Eater friends."

"Shut up, Ron," Hermione hissed at once, and the situation escalated before Draco could do anything about it. Hermione and Ron were screaming at each other. Suddenly, something inside Draco snapped; he jumped up, sneering, arrogant, cruel words cutting through the screaming.

"Everte Statum," Weasley hissed, an almost malicious look on his face.

Draco was thrown back against the old-fashioned, wooden sideboard, too close to dodge the hex, and then tumbled to the floor. Pain erupted in his back and chest, and he gasped for air. At the same time, the vase with flowers and the jars and little cups came crashing down on him, almost hitting his head and showering him and Hermione with sharp porcelain splinters. Automatically, Draco brought his arms up to protect his face and curled into the classical protect-your-vital-organs position. Pain flared through his chest, and breathing hurt like a bitch.

Maybe a bruised rib, Draco concluded. Nothing serious.

He'd had worse, he deserved worse. And he inwardly tried to prepare himself for the kicks and curses that were sure to follow, now that he was defenceless and on the floor.

But nothing happened. A hushed sort of silence had fallen over the room.

Draco waited for another second, then lifted his gaze.

The scene that greeted him was somehow different from what he'd imagined. Across the table, Bill was grabbing his younger brother and trying to drag him out of the kitchen. Harry stood slightly in his line of sight, his back turned to Draco, his wand in hand. Draco's heartbeat spiked.

Quickly, he pushed himself upright, ignoring the blood that rushed to his head. Suddenly, a piercing pain shot through his palm – he'd put his hand right into one of the sharp splinters.

The Slytherin couldn't help the moan of pain that escaped his lips, and he pressed the hurt hand against his body, protectively. Alerted by his voice, Hermione, Fleur, and Potter turned toward him, their eyes hard, and fury etched into their features.

Draco panicked, reacting the only way he could. His mind warned him that they would hurt him, curse him, and his fight-or-flight instinct kicked in. A Gryffindor would probably have stood up and tried to fight, but not Draco.

He scrambled to his feet and reached for the backdoor. The others blocked his escape to the cellar and this was the only other option. Luck was on his side. The door was unlocked. Before the others could react, Draco was already outside.

A fresh, salty breeze tousled his hair, and he took a deep breath, ignoring the pain in his chest. For a second, the raw beauty of this place overwhelmed him, the dark cliffs, the sea growling like a monster below, and the sheer endless beach. Slate coloured clouds bled into grey ocean.

Draco hesitated. He didn't actually want to escape because there was nowhere to go. He'd just needed to get out.

Just as Draco realised his mistake, the stunning spell hit him in the back, and everything went black.


Present

After the conversation with his mother, Draco sneaked back to the dungeons. This time, he didn't care that Bellatrix would know he'd entered the cell. Without thinking, he ripped the door open, so it banged against the wall, stormed into Hermione's cell, ignoring the way she jumped, and fell to his knees in front of her.

"Draco, what's wrong?" she asked instantly, carefully removing his hands from his face.

A strangled sob escaped Draco's lips. "I… I need to give him something… someone important or…" His voice broke.

"I don't understand," Hermione said, alarmed.

Draco could feel her searching gaze, but he didn't dare to meet those warm, forgiving eyes. The guilt and the shame of what he would let happen, of what he intended to do, hit him like a freight train.

"The Death Eaters will come tomorrow," he began. "And if I don't give him something, he might decide we both extended our usefulness. He'd just kill me, but you… he'd give you to them…" The pure horror of that thought constricted his throat, and he gasped for air. "Hermione, I can't… I can't …"

"Shh," she said softly, putting a finger under his chin and forcing him to look up. With a touch as soft as butterfly wings, she wiped his tears away. "Don't worry."

"No, I can't!" he repeated, almost hysteric, new tears threatening to spill. How could she be so fucking calm?

"Breathe, Draco."

He didn't care about breathing. Still, he tried to pull himself together, took a deep breath as she'd asked, and said, "I'm going to give him Shell Cottage." His voice was deathly calm, and Draco silently congratulated himself. It didn't sound like the half-mad proposition of a man standing on the plank, sharks beneath and pirates behind, pleading for his life (because that was exactly what it was).

Hermione's eyes widened a fraction, but she didn't seem as scandalised as he'd expected her to be. "No." That was all she said, but it was just as calm, just as clear.

Draco ignored her. "I can lie and pretend I don't know the exact location. They might not find it, but if I don't… Hermione don't you see? Bellatrix was nothing compared to that," he tried to explain, his tongue stumbling over the words in hurry and desperation.

"I don't care," she replied blankly, her shoulders squared like for a fight. Of course, she'd sacrifice herself. But Draco wouldn't, couldn't.

"I promised you I'll do the right thing," he began, softening his voice to a whisper, "the right thing to protect you. This is all I can think of."

Abruptly, Hermione pulled back from him, leaving him cold and exposed without her touch. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. "This is not the right thing. Bill and Fleur haven't deserved that."

"I know," he replied quietly, trying to keep the pain out of his voice.

"Then don't do it!" Hermione demanded, suddenly looking more liked her old self, with blazing eyes and flying hair.

"I must," Draco answered, even though he knew that she wouldn't change her mind. But neither would he. They'd reached a stalemate, leaving only one option for Draco: do what he thought best, even if it meant angering her. Hermione's anger, he could live with; her rape and death, he couldn't. "Please, forgive me."

Hermione pressed her lips together in a thin line. "Is there nothing else… nothing else you could give him?"

"You tell me," he said.

Hermione hesitated, pushing a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. "Grimmauld Place Number Twelve?" she suggested after a moment, her voice shaking slightly. Draco knew that she hated disclosing even a nugget of information to the Death Eaters, and she wouldn't do it if it weren't for him. A warm feeling spread in his chest, uncoiling the knots of anxiety and fear.

He'd heard the trio mentioning that place before; it used to be the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. However, Voldemort must already know that now. "I can try," he said. "But if not…"

Hermione looked away sharply.

"It's not for me, Hermione," Draco said quickly. "I wouldn't give them up for myself, you must know that. But…" He hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. "If I have to choose between you and… and anyone really, I'd choose you. Always."

Hermione's head snapped back towards him, and her gaze was piercing, looking right into his soul. Draco had admitted a truth he almost didn't acknowledge himself, a truth that came so close to revealing how he felt about her that it hurt. But now it was done.

"Yes, I'd sacrifice anything, anyone for you, and I know that it's wrong, but … but I can't lose you. That's the only way I know how to protect you."

Hermione opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her eyes were wide with surprise and something that Draco couldn't discern. Disgust? Anger?

Draco's heart beat loudly in his ears, his breath echoing back from the walls. One breath, two, three…

And still, Hermione said nothing. He'd practically confessed his love, and she said nothing. The rejection hit him like a slap in the face, together with a bucket of ice-cold water poured over his head and a kick to the gut. He guessed he'd also deserved that.

"I see." In an abrupt movement, Draco stood up. "Don't believe anything I say tomorrow."

With that, he left her cell, but the strange look on Hermione's face remained in his thoughts long after.


What do you think people?