/

Hermione entered the common room under the Invisibility Cloak, feeling as though living out the remainder of her days whilst under the protection of said cloak would be preferable. By the growing light filtering through the stained glass windows, she could tell it was nearly dawn.

She wiped at the corners of her eyes, at the tears she was too dazed— too devastated— to shed. Preoccupied, she'd nearly missed Harry, sitting alone on the sofa before the fire.

With another pang in her chest, she considered walking right past him , but he spoke before she had the chance to disappear into the girls' dormitory.

"You're back."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she wondered if he'd been looking at her and Malfoy's dots together on the map in the hospital wing, as if he somehow knew they'd—

She shook her head, the memory already too painful.

"Harry?" Hermione questioned cautiously. Her heart aching, she pulled off the Invisibility Cloak as Harry turned to face her.

"I got it," he said quietly, a sad smile gracing his lips.

"Got what?" She asked, perplexed.

"The rest of Slughorn's memory."

Her eyes widened in shock and her heart raced— but she was quite sure it hadn't stopped racing from the moment her lips met Draco's.

She sat beside Harry on the sofa, but was careful not to sit too close, as though he might be able to read her thoughts— to see Malfoy's light gray eyes hiding behind her own— if she sat too near him.

"That's— that's wonderful, Harry," she said, observing him closely, surprised to find that he did not look pleased— he looked defeated.

"How—?"

"Felix Felicis," he answered simply, not meeting her eyes. "I passed Slughorn on my way back here earlier…"

Hermione did not miss Harry skirting around the fact that he'd nearly killed Malfoy earlier that day.

"I figured it was the only way."

She had to admit, it was not an entirely unacceptable use of the potion— Dumbledore had impressed upon her the importance of the rest of Slughorn's memory.

"Oh, Harry—"

"On the bright side, I think some luck transferred to Ron somehow. He finally broke up with Lavender."

"That's something to celebrate."

Harry chuckled softly. "Luna certainly seems to think so."

Hermione nodded, but she was unable to smile.

"I already brought the memory to Dumbledore… and—"

"And?" she urged with bated breath.

"It's worse than I ever could've imagined, Hermione," Harry said, meeting her gaze at last, his expression pained.

"So Voldemort did it then? He made a horcrux?"

Harry took a shaky, audible breath.

"Seven, Hermione."

"Seven? Wh—"

"There are seven horcruxes."

They stared at one another, drowning together under the weight of this new information.

"But that means… he—" Hermione stumbled over her words in horror.

Harry simply nodded.

She cautiously reached out and placed her hand gently over his even though the memory of Sectumsempra and Harry's spying still fresh in her mind. He did not pull away.

"Tom Riddle's diary was one. And Dumbledore thinks his snake might be one."

"And Hufflepuff's cup?" Hermione deducted from Harry's recounting of Dumbledore's memory of Hepzibah Smith.

Harry nodded. "Something from Hufflepuff, something of Ravenclaw's, and Dumbledore thinks he may have found another. He asked me to go with him."

Hermione thought of the Felix Felicis tucked in her pocket. She never imagined she'd have to part with the liquid luck so soon.

"You and Dumbledore will find it and destroy it. The others too. And Ron and I will help of course."

There was no question in her mind about it; she would help Harry, stand by his side— she would help him defat Voldemort, even if it was the last thing she'd ever do.

He smiled at her gratefully, but quickly looked away. She frowned, knowing what had transpired between them in the boys bathroom less than twenty-four hours ago was surely on his mind, as it was hers.

"Speaking of Ron, did you tell him already?"

"Yeah. I told him when I got back from Hagrid's."

"Hagrid's?" She asked curiously.

"I'll tell you later."

"But how did you get down there and back after curfew without the Cloak?"

Harry shrugged, "Luck, I guess."

Hermione nodded, the weight of her Felix Felicis suddenly heavy in her pocket. There was a moment of poignant silence before she spoke again.

"Why did you stay up?" She asked cautiously.

Harry pulled his hand away, and she winced; there was no doubt in her mind he was still angry with her.

"Why do you think I stayed up, Hermione?" He asked, his voice suddenly cold.

Hermione's anger sparked and flared.

"Busy watching me on the map again?"

"I didn't need the map to know where you were—" he spat.

"He's alive, by the way, in case you were wondering," she replied icily.

Harry rose to his feet. "You're actually defending him now? I told you, I didn't know what that spell did! And I reacted instinctively— you were there— you saw the git tried to use Crucio on me!"

Hermione glared at Harry, but all she could see was Malfoy bloodied and unmoving on the bathroom floor. She felt as though she could still feel his warm, scarlet blood covering her hands, settling into the lines of her palms.

She sighed heavily, knowing she and Harry would never see eye-to-eye on the matter. But she also realized she couldn't really fault him for their disagreement, at least not entirely— how could Harry really understand when she'd lied to him all this time?

"Look—" she said, moving her collar aside. "Mal—" she stumbled, realizing how difficult it was to say his name aloud. "He removed the necklace."

Her fingertips traveled to her throat and she felt a sharp pang of emptiness at the absence of the platinum necklace.

Harry's features softened and his mouth opened in surprise.

"He—"

"For saving his life," Hermione explained quickly.

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and looked away, as if remembering who they were talking about. "About time."

Hermione found she couldn't speak, and Harry sat beside her again, more closely this time.

"Did you ever find out what he's been up to?"

She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about Malfoy," her voice wavered.

Harry sighed.

"I know Felix Felicis helped me tonight, but do you want to know how I really got Slughorn to give me that memory?"

Hermione bit her lip and did not reply, knowing nothing Harry said could change what she'd done… nor how she felt about Draco.

Harry looked away, into the fire, his eyes glassy. The light outside the stained glass windows warmed as the sun came up over the horizon, red and gold and shining.

"I compared you to my mum— brilliant, best in our year. I told him you never hesitate to stand up for what you believe in, like she did."

Hermione listened, her breath caught in her throat.

"So I figure you must have a very good reason for keeping things from me, Hermione… even though I can't see what possible reason that could be."

"Harry, I—"

Harry shook his head, silencing her.

"I reminded Slughorn you're Muggle-born, like my mum was… I reminded him what Voldemort thinks about blood purity."

He reached out to clasp her hand, and she did not pull away.

"I told him I'm the Chosen One, Hermione, and that Dumbledore and I need that memory to defeat Voldemort…"

Harry turned to face her at last, and she swallowed hard. "…so I can try to protect you from sharing the same fate as my mum."

"Harry—" Hermione tried to interrupt, but he continued.

"I'm not sure what's been going on between us, Hermione, and everything with the Prince… and I know I've done a shoddy job of protecting you in the past… but— but I won't let Voldemort win," Harry rambled quietly, his voice slowly becoming more sure. "And I don't know why, but I know there's something you're not telling my about Malfoy and Nott. And I won't let them put you in danger… not if I can help it."

The corners of her eyes burned with unshed tears at Harry's uncharacteristic display of emotion. She brought her free hand to her throat— the small diamond of the gold necklace he'd given her between her fingertips— and she allowed herself to at last consider how she truly felt about Harry, about the nature of their relationship, to wonder if maybe there was something more.

But her hand under Harry's did not tremble with anticipation as it had in Draco's— it was only warm— her chest did not constrict with the desire to be wrapped in Harry's arms— it only rose and fell with her even breaths— her heart did not scream in her ears, her skin was not alight with electric fire, her lips did not tingle with curiosity to press against his, and, perhaps most telling of all, the space between them did not come alive with the power of their combined magic, as it seemed to do whenever she and Draco were near.

But what was most powerful of all was that Hermione realized she needn't have bothered to compare Harry and Draco; she knew what her heart longed for.

She smiled sadly and hoped Harry was not looking for something more, something she was unable to give him. Her world seemed as though it had flipped upside down, as if she were now existing on the other side of some strange reality.

"You're my best friend, Harry. And I never want that to change."

Harry's body visibly relaxed, as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he nodded silently in understanding. Hermione was grateful for it— for him, for their friendship.

"It won't," Harry replied resolutely, his green eyes now bright and clear, despite his obvious exhaustion. "I'm going to make sure of it."

/

"So you're sure it was me?" Theo asked, leaning back in a chair beside Draco's bed in the hospital wing.

He'd just finished casting Muffliato, although it hadn't really been necessary; the roar of the pouring rain outside the castle's windows already muffled their conversation.

It was Friday, and Draco had been sequestered in the hospital wing all week, quite against his own will, completely unable to work on the vanishing cabinet— the book Hermione had given him (currently hidden beneath his pillow) and Theo's visits the only things keeping him sane… relatively.

Draco hadn't told Theo a thing about the book, nor Hermione's visit, and certainly nothing about their kiss, but he hadn't wasted any time in telling him about the memory he'd seen in his aunt's mind just before his altercation with Harry.

"Positive. I wouldn't forget an image so traumatizing," replied Draco, referring to the small painting of the green-bonneted baby in Andromeda's patient's locket, the larger portrait of which hung at the Nott residence.

"And you told me I was an ugly baby…"

"I'm just not sure green's my color," Theo replied.

"Your powers of self-delusion are remarkable," Draco added dryly.

"You simply lack imagination."

Draco wished this were true, having spent the majority of his week in the hospital wing letting his imagination get the better of him. His mind had replayed his kiss with Hermione over and over until he'd become so fed up with himself he'd unceremoniously thrown his breakfast tray across the room. Luckily, he'd managed to vanish the wreckage before Pomfrey had come bustling, red-faced, out of her office.

Laid up in his hospital bed, when Draco hadn't allowed himself to fall victim to thoughts of Hermione— which truthfully hadn't been often— he'd painstakingly recounted his failures; the opal necklace and the poisoned mead preempting all others, reminding him he was out of time, and options.

Draco found the rose petal shortly after Hermione had left the hospital wing that night; it had fluttered right into his lap. He'd recognized the sight and smell of it instantly. The roses in the Manor's garden were unique, and he'd spent enough time among the manicured hedges and the forest beyond that he was sure he'd recognize any leaf, petal, peacock feather, or blade of grass. He of course wondered exactly how the petal and book had come to be in Hermione's possession, how the rose petal come to be inside the book in the first place… who the book belonged to. Among all these questions he'd managed to find some answers; he was pretty sure sure he now knew how to fix the vanishing cabinets, why Hermione's demeanor had suddenly changed all those weeks ago.

Draco knew he'd have to use the cabinet, and the subsequent infiltration of Hogwarts— his school, his second home— to complete the ultimate task Voldemort demanded of him. He knew he had one chance, and he had to be sure to time it right.

"And this woman you saw… 'Dromeda's patient— tell me again what she looked like."

Draco barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the nickname Theo had coined for his aunt.

"Stringy black hair, thinner than a bowtruckle…" Draco described in exasperation, for what he was sure was at least the hundredth time.

"And you're sure you didn't recognize her?" Theo asked, his eyes glazing over as his mind ran through a catalogue of his female ancestors depicted in the many portraits of Greystoke Castle.

The news that Draco had somehow managed to successfully use Legilimency, albeit accidentally, on one of the most experienced known Legilimens had come as nothing short of a surprise, but what Draco had seen had stunned Theo so profoundly that his mind barely left space to worry about why Hermione had avoided him all week.

"For the last time— no, I don't have a clue who she is. I'd never seen her before then. My aunt didn't ask you about it?"

"No. It's refreshing to hear you refer to her as your aunt though," Theo added.

Draco rolled his eyes, but internally admitted he was in fact starting to see Andromeda Tonks as his aunt. She'd certainly showed him more genuine patience, interest for his well-being, and compassion than Bellatrix ever had.

"What could be taking her so long?"

"Who knows? Mungo's has all kinds of ridiculous confidentiality rules," replied Draco disinterestedly. He might've had more interest in the mystery of the locket if he wasn't so preoccupied with trying to avoid certain death… and, more realistically, the memory of Hermione's soft lips pressed against his, the feeling of her in his arms.

"Speaking of confidentiality… care to tell me why you're keeping Granger's bedside visit a secret?"

Draco did not reply.

"I know you removed her necklace. You haven't looked at your ring one time all week."

"I don't know what you're going on about."

"Spare me, Draco. There's no way she didn't come up here that night to check on you."

Again, Draco said nothing; he didn't want to talk about Hermione. He couldn't talk about Hermione.

Theo sighed heavily. "I saw her, you know, right after I left you up here that day."

Draco looked away, unable to meet his friend's knowing gaze, afraid the cracks in his expression would reveal the truth.

"I probably shouldn't be encouraging this… seeing as Sissy would certainly disapprove of her son's fraternization with a Muggle-born and all… and I have a bad feeling someone's likely to end up dead— but then again, I—"

"Just get on with it, Nott," Draco spat.

Theo glared.

"Fine. You want to know something, you ungrateful git? That day, after Potter nearly cut you in half, Granger— she was… well, let's just say she was distraught. And that's a bit of an understatement… and not over her precious Potter, by the way. She didn't give a shit about him."

"So? Maybe she's finally come to her senses," Draco replied, but even he could admit his tone was weak.

Theo ignored this comment, knowing Draco was trying to cover for himself— to hide how he really felt.

"The only other time I've ever seen anyone react like that was you, when Voldemort put on a little show in your mind and tortured your mum… with Granger it was like— like she'd've done anything, thrown Potter to a pack of werewolves, given up her own safety, or even her own life… for you… and Merlin knows why."

Draco's anger and fear subsided, giving way to the ache in his chest as he imagined Hermione experiencing the pain he'd felt when he'd witnessed his mother's torture, or when he'd seen Theo all those years ago, not yet eight years old, bloodied and battered…

"She came to check on our potion— still covered in your blood, by the way— and she couldn't even register that we'd finished it. She was in shock…"

Draco swallowed hard, finding no joy in this information— only guilt in knowing he'd put Hermione in the way of unspeakable dangers— only pain in realizing he'd never be able to embrace her again.

Hermione's words echoed through his mind.

'"I can't help you anymore."'

Draco felt rather as though the last flicker of light in an already darkened room had gone out.

"It doesn't matter," he said, his voice measured as he worked to keep his expression impassive. He met Theo's gaze at last.

"What do you—?"

"Think about it, Theo. You're not an idiot, despite what my better judgement tells me. Think about who we are, where we come from… who she is… and this—" Draco explained, lifting his sleeve to reveal his left forearm.

At last, his Dark Mark seemed to be healing, taking hold. The usual pain in his arm was fading away. Draco had taken Hermione's advice— he'd tried accepting the Mark physically, ignoring what it represented; it turned out she had been right.

She usually is, Draco reminded himself.

He's right, Theo admitted, knowing he couldn't argue with the odds stacked against them, nor the undeniable perilousness of it all.

"Plus, we don't need her any longer," Draco said, even though the words tore through him like Harry's Sectumsempra had done.

Theo shot Draco a skeptical look.

"I know how to fix the cabinet."

Theo's hazel eyes widened in surprise.

"How…?"

"Never mind how. Pomfrey said she's releasing me tomorrow," Draco explained, eyes darkening, his voice unnaturally even. Thunder rattled the rain-soaked window panes.

"I'm going to fix the cabinet… and then I have to figure out a way to kill Dumbledore."

/

/

A/N: Thank you for reading!