A/N - Here you go! Thank you all for your lovely reviews. I honestly don't know what I'm going to do when this is over. :( I've gotten so used to hearing from you all that I'm going to miss you! Anyway, enough of my babble today! :D
A week passed. Then two. Draco was released from St. Mungo's. The Prophet had a field day with the news of his and Hermione's broken engagement, but he didn't care. He locked himself in his apartment and didn't see anyone. He had his landlord put up special wards around his flat so that no one could even come near it without his prior notice.
Hermione hadn't attempted any contact with him since the incident. He knew she was working hard at her new job, and was enjoying it immensely. He knew she was back to spending all her free time with Potter and the Red-haired Wonder. He knew she had moved across town to a better set of apartments, further away from him. He knew because he was having her watched.
He wanted to know everything she was doing, who she was with, what her smiles looked like in the rain. He became obsessed with the pictures his spies brought him, tacking them up on the walls of his room, then tearing them down again, burning them in the fireplace, then immediately regretting it. He was going insane.
He couldn't explain his behavior; it puzzled him more than anything else, but he had all the time in the world to reason it out. Eternity, in fact. That's all that was left for him. Waste away in this stupid flat and die, cold, dirty, and alone.
He was standing in front of the refrigerator, wondering how long he could survive on the small block of cheese that was the only thing left in it, when it hit him. All at once. He was an idiot, a bleeding moron for not knowing it from the start.
He should have known it from the first time he made her laugh and the mere sound of it had set his insides on fire. He should have known when her smiles were all it took to set him dizzy and light-headed, when the sight of her owl bearing a note for him made him jump up and run to the window to let it in, when the sound of her name caused his stomach to tighten and curl, when the wind blowing her hair slightly gave him gooseflesh for no apparent reason.
He was in love with her.
Somehow, even though he had admitted it now inside his head, he couldn't understand it. He didn't understand why. They had so much bad blood between them, so much history behind them that screamed at him to leave her alone, that she was his enemy and he shouldn't.
But he did. He was. He loved her.
Now what? He couldn't do anything about it. It wasn't like he could just go running after her, professing his love from the rooftops. That was hardly his style. Besides, she had walked out on him. Hadn't she said they would never have to see each other again? Wasn't that what she wanted?
Hermione was miserable.
She had tried to put as much distance as possible between herself and Draco, hoping that time would work its magic and she would stop loving him. Just a little. But for all her careful planning and even her strategic move across town, she couldn't stop thinking of him. She threw herself into her work, but everything she did and every person and creature she met seemed to remind her of him in one way or another.
She spent as much of her free time as she could with Ron and Harry, hoping they would help her forget, but all they seemed to be talking about lately was Draco; about how he had used her and then threw her away, and how they would dearly love to pummel him into the ground. Whenever they got on such a kick, she would just roll her eyes and pretend not to hear, hoping they wouldn't notice the tears that threatened to fall every time his name was mentioned.
He hadn't tried to contact her, and that was good, she tried to tell herself. He got what he wanted and didn't need her anymore.
But even though everything in her was telling her she shouldn't love him anymore after all he'd said and done (or didn't say and do), her heart just wouldn't listen. She missed him. Terribly. She missed talking to him and fighting with him, she missed the way the sun would catch his hair. She missed his voice. She missed the way he would throw back his head and laugh, a genuine laugh that she knew was so rare. She missed the way he said her name.
She couldn't stop loving him. It was driving her slowly insane. She stopped eating, she wasn't getting much sleep, she had to lie to Harry and Ron and her parents and everyone else that nothing was wrong. But everything was wrong, horribly wrong.
Harry walked along the sidewalk, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face and the gentle breeze that was stirring. He was thinking about Hermione, and how unhappy she seemed lately. He noticed just this morning that she seemed thinner, and she had begun to remind him of a flower that was wilting. He didn't like it at all, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was that had made her this way.
It had all started when she had been released from that cursed ring. It should have made her happy. She seemed happy at first, excited about her new job and about moving to a better apartment building. She threw herself into her work, spending most of her time there, and the time she wasn't spending there, she spent with him and Ron. She seemed okay, just a little…sad sometimes.
He walked along, wondering, and didn't even notice where his feet were taking him. Before long he had wandered into a section of wizarding London he'd never really been in before. The buildings here were taller, newer; mostly apartment buildings, he thought. He turned to look behind him to see how he'd gotten here in the first place, and wasn't really looking where he was going as he kept walking. Right into something solid.
"Oi! Watch where you're going, why don't you?" Apparently he'd walked right into someone, and not just any someone.
"Malfoy?" He couldn't believe his eyes. "You look like shite," he commented, and Malfoy just sneered at him and brushed at his robes, which Harry noticed were rather wrinkled and unkempt. It was true, Malfoy did look rough. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was disheveled and had lost some of its sheen. He had a bit of a drawn look about him, as if he hadn't had enough to eat, and in truth, everything about him looked a bit deflated; even his sneer was half-hearted.
"What's it to you, Potter?"
"Are…are you all right?" Harry asked, his tone a bit more temperate now. He was honestly worried for Malfoy, he didn't look well. Malfoy looked as if he'd like to punch him for a moment, then his cocky manner collapsed and he looked rather tired.
"I'll be fine," he answered, but something in his tone made Harry think he was lying.
"Are you in trouble?"
Malfoy cast him a sharp look. "Of course not, you idiot. I'm just…tired."
He looked so dejected that Harry felt sorry for him. He didn't know what to do, but he felt like he wanted to help him somehow. Madness. He wanted to help Malfoy.
"Is there anything I can—" he began, but Malfoy cut across him, his demeanor suddenly brusque and almost angry.
"I don't need your help, Potter, so you can keep your charity. I don't need anyone's help…not that anyone could help me, anyway," he finished on a sigh. Then he made as if to go, but paused and looked back at Harry appraisingly. Harry raised his eyebrows. "Maybe…no, it's crazy…never work…forget it," Malfoy added, shaking his head and turning to walk away.
"What's crazy? What are you talking about?"
"I must be barking mad," Malfoy muttered to himself, but he turned around anyway to look at Harry. "Maybe there is something you could do to help me."
"Really," Harry said skeptically, crossing his arms across his chest and suddenly feeling apprehensive. "How?" He never would have expected the next words that came out of Malfoy's mouth.
"It's about Hermione."
Insanity. Pure insanity. Draco couldn't believe it, but he had actually asked Potter to help him, and even more unbelievable, Potter had agreed.
It had been a moment of weakness that had caused him to break down and ask for help. He could almost kick himself for it. Almost. He had been at the end of his rope that day; it was the first time he'd left the house in weeks, but he had been forced to it. His mother had threatened to cut off his access to the family account at Gringott's if he spent one more day in his flat without leaving, so he had ventured out. He had only planned on going to get some food, just long enough so that the manager could tell his mother he had been gone. He hadn't counted on running into Hermione's best friend.
At first he hadn't even made the connection; he hated Potter so much he just wanted to escape his idiotic presence, but suddenly he had remembered, and all the stress and headaches of the previous weeks worked on him all at once and he did it. He asked Potter for help.
The fact that he had done it was disturbing enough on its own, but the craziest thing was that even though he knew Potter hated him just as much, he was going to help him.
It hadn't taken much to get Potter to tell him about how Hermione had been acting, about how she seemed unhappy and didn't seem to be getting much rest or enough to eat. Draco's heart leapt within his chest at that news. It meant there might still be hope. After all, wasn't that the way he'd been? Not eating, not sleeping? Certainly unhappy. So would it be too much of a stretch to hope she still loved him?
He had been careful not to give too much of himself away to Potter. It wouldn't do to go all mushy-gushy and declare his undying love for Hermione all at once in front of him. He didn't want to look like a pouf, for God's sake. He merely told Potter how he and Hermione and had become friends and how suddenly she had stopped speaking to him (the truth, of course, omitting certain aspects of it).
Potter was admittedly wary of him, Draco understood that, but he seemed to believe his story, although Draco was pretty sure he didn't think it was the whole truth. Imagine, Potter actually growing a brain and accidentally happening to be astute at the most inopportune time. For Draco was certain that if Potter got a whiff of what he was really thinking about his precious little know-it-all Hermione, he would put his foot down, or rather, right up Draco's elegant arse. And Draco couldn't have The Boy who Wanked throwing a wrench in his plans. Not now.
Now he had to think. He had Potter on his side, an ally across enemy lines (oh, the irony), and now he just had to think of…something. All at once the excitement of finding out there might still be hope died down and his brain stopped rushing; and he was at a loss. What could he do to win her back? Not that he ever really had her in the first place, but that was neither here nor there.
If she loved him still, and he hoped against hope she did, all he would have to do was to find some way to tell her that he felt the same, and then sweep her up in his arms and kiss her thoroughly before she had time to rationalize anything else.
Because he knew if she thought about it too much or too long, then she would come up with some reason or other why they couldn't be together.
Draco didn't need to hear he reasons. He already knew them all by heart, and he didn't care one knut's worth.
He loved her.
And he was going to get her back.
A/N 2 - Okay, no preivew this time, but only because the next chapter is the last one and I don't want to ruin anything. Besides, you only have to wait until the day after tomorrow, so no complaining! See you all Wednesday! :D