Chapter 28: The Realization

Draco woke up once again to the sound of the raucous Death Eaters once again stomping around the kitchen. They all seemed to hate the fact that Narcissa Malfoy refused to cook for them. Why they expected her to, Draco had no idea.

A few weeks had gone by since Voldemort's last visit to the Manor; they were now well into July. Meanwhile, the Death Eaters were taking full advantage of his decision to allow them full access to the Manor, against the Malfoys' wishes.

Draco rolled over with a groan, his face now pressed up against his pillow. He breathed in the smell of the clean linen and was slowly drifting back to sleep when a blinding light flashed before his eyes. He reached blindly for his wand and lifted it from the nightstand. After extinguishing its lit tip, Draco stuffed it under his pillow and rolled over again. He reached under his mattress for the small notebook nestled between the bedframe and the mattress.

Opening the notebook, Draco flipped through the cream-colored pages. He had exchanged quite a few letters with Hermione over the past few weeks because, as Hermione put it, she was getting extremely bored at the Weasleys'.

Draco smiled as he looked over the old letters, reading about the antics of the Weasley clan and the new book she was reading on Ancient Runes.

Their relationship, Draco noted, seemed to be improving. He now found it much easier to tell her about his life. This was either because he was starting to like her again, or because he simply needed someone to talk to.

Draco turned a few more pages and came to Hermione's newest addition.

Dear Draco,

Thank you for your letter about the Death Eaters' attempt to kill the geese in your pond. It was quite amusing. I'm not sure that the geese knew what hit them. Neither do I, frankly. Do the Death Eaters really not know how to perform Stunning Spells? Then again, that would explain why they couldn't revive the Death Eater you Stunned.

I could be extremely cliche and tell you that your life is more interesting than mine right now, but it's probably not. Right now, Fred and George are trying to blow up their bedroom. At least that's what it sounds like. Ron and Ginny keep pestering me. I am sad to say that my only solace can be found in Crookshanks. And writing to you.

It's nice not to have to talk about Harry and the war. Not that we're actually talking. Is writing a form of talking? I'm assuming so. They're both forms of communication and...

Alright, I won't bore you with my endless train of thought. I just don't want to talk about the war.

Anyway, I hope you are doing well. I'm sorry to say that I ate the entire box of chocolates I bought for your birthday. I was just really hungry because, apparently, I don't grab food quickly enough off the platters. Ron's plate is as high as a mountain, and I'm left with a spoonful of salad and stew.

Oh, now Ginny's calling me. That girl does not shut up. Oh, now she's yelling. I suppose I should respond.

I miss you,

Hermione Granger

Draco chuckled as he closed the notebook. He could picture Hermione sitting on a couch at the Weasleys', trying to write a letter while all of them converged on her.

He tucked the notebook under his mattress and lay down on his bed, his hands laced behind his head. His eyes were fluttering shut when a shark knock resounded around his room. Draco leaped up from the bed and rushed to the door, where his mother informed him that he had to head downstairs again. The Dark Lord was calling. Draco trudged downstairs.

An hour later, Draco burst back into his bedroom, his face tear-streaked, and rage burning within him. He slammed the door shut and swiped his hand across his desk, knocking everything to the floor. His inkpot rolled onto the carpet, staining the emerald green carpet a solid black color. Draco placed a hand on either side of the desk and breathed in and out, trying to calm himself. But images of what he had just seen swirled through his mind and he started crying again. Sobs shook through him. He watched through blurred vision as his teardrops splattered onto the wood of the desk, settling there in miniscule puddles.

Fury rippled through Draco again, and he flipped the desk over in a single movement. He dropped to his knees at the side of his bed and pressed his face against the black comforter. He breathed in deeply, taking long breaths. When he had calmed himself down enough so that he could stand, he took two shaky steps and collapsed onto the bed.

Charity Burbage had just died right in front of him and he hadn't done anything to help. Plans to murder Harry Potter were made right in front of him and he didn't help. He had not lifted a finger. He had sat there, frozen, trying to become invisible.

Draco hated himself for it. Why was he who he was? Why couldn't he be a good, kind, caring person?

Another sob shook itself out of him. Draco covered his face with his hands and rolled over onto his stomach. He could feel his ribs poking through his shirt. He lay on his bed, his arms above his head, miserable.

The next morning, Draco awoke with a searing pain in his head. He rose groggily and tried shielding his face from the bright sunshine streaming through the window. Rubbing his eyes, he cleaned up the mess he had made the previous night, setting everything back onto the desk.

After stumbling downstairs for breakfast, Draco sat down at his desk, a quill in hand, and the notebook from Hermione in front of him. He knew what to do. His mind was completely clear.

Dear Hermione,

Thank you for your last letter. Unfortunately, I cannot amuse you with stories of the stupidity of the Death Eaters today. In fact, I am warning you that they are not stupid when it comes to murder. They are coming to try and kidnap, and possibly kill, Potter. I hope you will not tell others that I have conveyed this information to you. I trust you not to.

I miss you as well. But I feel like I shouldn't be talking to you. I don't deserve someone to talk to. Not after what I've done. You don't know what I've done. What I haven't done.

Sincerely,

Draco Lucius Malfoy

Draco underlined the word "Malfoy" three times. Hermione needed to see what he was. An arrogant pureblood brat. He was Draco Malfoy, for Merlin's sake! He didn't have the right to be Hermione Granger's regular correspondent.

Draco closed the notebook and threw it into the back of his wardrobe. After locking the wardrobe, he walked out into the garden and climbed back into his tree by the lake, his knees pulled in toward his chest. He cried a little more.

A week later, Draco stood at the edge of the dining room, his throat dry and his hands clasped behind his back. He watched silently as his father and countless other Death Eaters were punished and tortured. They had not kidnapped Potter.

Their only reward was awarded for the murder of Alastor Moody. Draco breathed a small sigh of relief as soon as he heard Moody's name and not Hermione's. Hermione was safe.

After the "meeting", Draco returned to his room. His mother had left a plate of food on his desk. He reached for it, setting his wand on his bed. The lights were off. Draco stared out the window at the setting sun, slowly devouring his dinner. He sat at the desk long after the last ray of sunlight had disappeared behind the hill on the horizon. Draco watched as thousands of stars appeared in the inky black sky, surrounding the moon, which glowed brightly. Draco stared, his eyes drying, as the moon disappeared behind a dark gray cloud. His room was now doused in darkness.

Draco's vision was just adjusting to the complete lack of light when a blinding flash of light flickered from behind him. Draco turned around to see his wand lying on his bed, glowing a soft yellow.

Getting up from the desk, Draco walked over to his wardrobe curiously. Why would have Hermione have written to him now? He thought he had made it quite clear to her that he no longer wanted her to write to him. He unlocked his wardrobe and reached for the notebook Hermione had given him. It was lying on top of the dress robes he had worn to the Yule Ball. He picked up the tiny notebook and dropped it into his lap as he sat down on the floor. Draco opened it and flipped to Hermione's latest entry.

Dear Draco,

I will NOT stop writing to you. You may want to write yourself off as a no-good Death Eater, but I will NOT. You are NOT a horrible person. I'm the one who doesn't deserve to be able to talk to you after what I did. But I miss you too much to stop myself.

I will tell you again: you are not a bad person. I did not fall in love with Draco Malfoy the low-life Death Eater. Because he does NOT exist. So, please stop beating yourself up. You helped us get Harry to safety. Well, not directly, but your tip forewarned us a little bit. Would a horrible Death Eater have helped us?

Draco, please stop doing this to yourself. And to me. I can't stand sitting here wondering what you might be doing to yourself. Please, Draco, believe me. You're a great person. You've just been forced to do something bad.

Draco, if you're still there, I love you.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger

Draco didn't know whether or not to laugh or cry. She still loved him. But did he love her?

Draco thought back to the letters from the past month and their time together during the sixth year, He thought about her smile, her laugh, her eyes, her sense of humor, her intelligence, her beauty. He had loved her. And now, he was falling in love with her again, without having seen her for two months.

Draco decided he missed her. He loved her, too.

A smile crept onto his face. He fell backward, his back pressed against the ancient rug lying on his floor. He stared up at the chandelier dangling from the ceiling. The small shards of crystal swayed back and forth, the moonlight reflecting off their smooth faces. His smile widened.

He grabbed a quill from his desk and penned a short letter to Hermione.

I love you too.