Slowly focusing, gathering himself, and with the methodical nature of a weaver begins to unravel his wards once more.
Until he is done. Finally. Mind, magic, open, exposed.
Allowing himself a moment. A thought. His fevered head against the cold chill of her hand.
Stilling.
Feeling her magic, the swirling of the shadows, about his, meeting, touching, backing away, meeting, touching once more.
Draco knows what is wrong, knew it as soon as his last thread fell away and her magic threatened in a wave, a dark sea of magic lapping against his own, none of her base magic apparent, the feeling of it, hot, demanding, utterly her's, nowhere in the bleak landscape.
Though he can just make out the chill of the blood magic. Just there. Barely. More of an echo than anything else.
And the compulsion, like a white heat in his chest. At the base of his spine.
And the sea of gray, the sea of shadows, rising up in response to his presence, in response to his own magic, until it is as if a tide moves back and forth between him and the witch lying in front of him.
Their magic.
The thought coming unbidden to his tired mind as he watches the colours behind closed eyelids.
The gray magic is their magic, something they have created, somehow, in some way, but their creation never the less.
The knowledge an acceptance, the long focus a realization.
The irony. Always the irony between them. Always the missed words. The lost thoughts. What is not said, what is implied. Always not quite the truth but not quite a lie either.
Always.
And Potter's words, echoing, circling, in his mind as he looks back at the last month with her, as he looks back at the last ten years, at the years before that, as he looks back. He has never been good for her.
The antithesis.
But to who? To Potter? To Weasley?
To Hermione herself?
And does it really matter?
He raises his head finally, the pain in his neck pronounced from the several hours he spent in that position, scanning her face even as he rubs the point between his eyes with a finger.
She looks no different. Not that he expected her too.
Not when he can tell there is no change just simply by sitting there with her magic swirling about him.
The quiet broken by the sound of the door opening.
"There will be a counsel gathered," the dark voice of Severus wafting towards him.
Draco looks up from Hermione and meets the eyes of his mentor. "Because of what happened with Potter's child?"
Severus nods once. "Yes. Though before you jump to any conclusion, it was not Mr. Potter or Mrs. Potter that said anything. Somehow the information was leaked to the press and there have been several letters of protest to the Ministry. It appears as if this is not the first time something like this has happened, though the first time it escalated to warrant a hospital stay."
A pause and then Severus steps forward, pulling another chair from the wall and sliding into it, leaning slightly forward to pierce his Godson with a gaze. "It appears as if it has grown even more important for the two of you to complete your research on this so an adequate solution can be found."
Draco tearing his eyes away, gut clenched, bitterness a taste on his tongue.
"Of course," he says and the two words are knife sharp in the stillness of the room, looking down at his hands, then at the limp hand of the witch in the hospital bed.
"Of course," he repeats.
A moment. Space of time while both men look down on Hermione.
Then.
"What do you see Draco?" The question tinged with real curiosity.
Draco does not look up from Hermione. Answering after a moment.
"Its not so much what I see as what I feel."
A snort of irritation and Draco can't help but smirk, glancing up at Severus before looking back down.
Continuing because he has no reason not to, because he trusts his Godfather, because feels as if he needs to explain.
Something.
So he explains. "The blood magic feels like a winter's night. Its cold, distinct, silent, a whisper of ice under my finger tips except when it blazes at the point on my chest. The magic is always the same, always feels the same, whether I am around her or not, though when I wear the bloodstone the feeling of it increases, brilliant almost, but always clean. But like a thread, between her and I, always the knowledge of her existence."
A pause. Silence.
"And the other magic? The one in question?" Severus finally asks.
Draco thinks on it. Tries to explain though explanation, words, are not adequate.
"The gray magic, shadow magic, whatever you want to label it, is different, much like a sea, water lapping against the shore or raging against cliffs. It reacts directly to her presence, always."
Draco pauses, realizes at some point he has taken her hand in his own and he holds it gently, a delicate bird in his long fingers.
"Very little calmness, and many more storms," he says, quietly, to himself more to Severus who sits across the bed from him, watching him. The older man's eyes speculative and almost gentle.
"And there is my magic, which I don't have to explain how it feels because it is the same for every wizard and witch, just a knowledge of one's power, but, I can feel her magic too, especially without my wards, in close contact."
A smile, just so very brief, gracing the pale features. "Her magic feels like the breeze off the northern sea."
And then the smile disappearing. "But I can't feel that now. All I can feel is the shadows moving about her and they are calm and steady, but drowning everything else."
And there is sadness in his voice, sadness and something else too.
Acceptance.
Though of what neither man knows.
"And her blood magic?" Severus finally asks.
Draco is looking down at his hands holding her one. "Its there, barely, underneath it."
Another pause.
Then. Severus.
"You realize you are the only one that will be able to help her."
Draco looking up and the older man is stunned by the look on his Godson's face. Realization, pain, but a strange sort of hopelessness too. He does not understand and thinks that perhaps his Godson does not understand either.
But then Draco nods. "I know. I know how to do it too." A smirk. "And I didn't even realize I had the knowledge."
"Absorbing it? Like she did with the Potter child?" Severus asks, and again his voice is curious.
"Yes."
The smirk is gone.
Severus watches the man sitting on the side of the woman. He sees the paleness of his features, the tight skin over cheekbones, eyes the colour of quicksilver. He sees the shoulders clad in black, always clad in black, bowing slightly, not quite as upright, as aristocratic as they normally appear, the white hair mussed.
He sees it.
And understands it.
"You love her?"
The question thrown out. Nonchalantly. Deceptively lazy.
Draco looks up and meets black eyes, meets them and lets his emotions play across his face, in his eyes, lets his mentor see everything.
The only person alive he would dare to do such a thing.
And what Severus sees twists at his gut because all of those fleeting looks, all of those fleeting emotions are there, apparent, no longer fleeting but present. And he sees the acknowledgement of his words, but he also sees the fear, he also sees the pain, the uncertainty, bitterness, a bit of fury, and underneath it, the insecurity, the hopelessness, the sadness, all wrapped with a strange sort of acceptance.
"You do." Severus answers.
And then when Draco does not immediately respond, continues.
"What happened between the two of you?"
The fury, quick, instant, replaced almost immediately by the strange look of tired acceptance.
"I am Draco Malfoy and she is Hermione Granger."
Words. Repeated. Meaning so very, very many things.
"That is not an answer." The voice quiet. Dark.
Draco does not look to him. Instead he is looking absent, staring down but not seeing. Focused. Inwards.
"It is. Always has been." He murmurs. To himself. To the man across from him.
The witch in the bed.
And then he does look to Severus, meeting his gaze. "A Slytherin and a Gryffindor Severus. Two opposites."
Black head shaking slowly. "An excuse."
"No." Draco said. Slight bitterness tingeing. "Reality." A flicker of a smile. "Reality, always reality. The dark and the light, Golden Trio that I effectively destroyed." A pause. Then. "Voldemort would have been so proud."
Severus standing up immediately, anger wrapping about his tall dark form as he stares down at his Godson. "That is utter nonsense. Stupidity Draco. Complete stupidity."
Draco tilts his head slightly. "Perhaps. But it is the truth of the matter and has always been the truth of the matter."
Severus shaking his head, once, twice, dark hair swirling about his features.
"And if you truly believe such a thing and are willing to accept such stupidity then you are not the Malfoy I believed you to be."
Words. Pain. As if the older man had slapped his across the face.
Draco narrowing his eyes, the softness there growing cold. Steel.
"What are you speaking of Severus?"
A snort. In disgust.
"You know very well of what I speak of Malfoy." The last name sneered. "What is this reaction? This feeling sorry for yourself? It is a pathetic excuse for fear."
Draco rising to his feet, letting go of Hermione's hand to face his mentor.
"You know nothing." He says and his voice is chilled, calm, predatory.
One dark eyebrow rising slightly. "No? I know nothing. I have eyes, I have ears, and I have, unlike you, intelligence. I saw what happened ten years ago. I realized the depth of your caring for her even then but I said nothing at all when you left because I believed you had a reason to leave without pursuing your feelings for her and her's for you. I believed it was only a matter of time before you worked out your feelings and pursued her in the nature of your ancestors. However, now I find that you are no more than a coward and a simpering fool."
Another snort of disgust.
"Perhaps you are more like your father than you, or I, would like to admit, and if that is the case, then yes, you truly do not deserve Miss Granger."
And before Draco can say anything, before his wand even has a chance to rise in retaliation, in reaction to the words echoing in the room, Severus is gone, a swirling of black robes and nothing.
Draco staring at the door the older man had disappeared through.
Struggling with breath, with anger, with the rise of his magic, the swirling of about his person. Needing to break, harm, something, anything, needing to tear apart and demolish, deconstruct, ruin.
Smash into a million tiny pieces.
Because he not like his father. He will never be like his father.
And then looking down at the witch in the hospital bed. Looking down and seeing the freckles along her nose, dark eyelashes against pale cheeks, the curls along side her face, the pulse at that point on her neck.
And the anger leaves. Replaced by something else, darker, deeper, a rise of crimson blood and black night.
Understanding.
A fool?
A coward?
Severus' words echoing cutting, yes, bleeding, yes.
Questions.
And somewhere.
The answer.
Yes.
Solutions. Explanations.
A coward.
Because of his desire to hold on to the witch in front of him, the woman in front of him, the desire to keep her close, her magic close, to wrap up inside of her and sleep.
To not turn away.
That is why he is coward. Because for ten years he has kept her close, kept the compulsion open because he couldn't, wouldn't let go of it, keeping him, and her as a result, on a tightrope of this magic, this binding between them.
Because he loves her and he can't let her go.
Because he can't let her go.
But knowing he should.
Potter's words revolving around and around in his mind.
You have always hurt her.
Revolving around and around in his mind.
Remembering the night after the funeral, when he walked away from her and the feeling, the stab of righteousness, the thought that he would keep this, whatever this was, alive, going straight to a jeweler and creating the ring with the blood stone.
An extension of her magic, and his magic.
Their magic.
And wearing it, a daily reminder, a daily feel of her, when he woke up, when he went to bed, when he sat in meetings after meetings, when he was alone in his library.
A memory of her.
A touch of her magic.
Always with him.
Coward.
Severus' word. One word. So very true.
Because he was too much of a coward to go forward in his life without her.
Because he could not let her go.
Though he was who he was, a Slytherin, a Malfoy, a pureblooded wizard with generations of hatred for people like her running through his blood. Because he had spent his school days taunting her, hating her with his friends, because his father had killed her parents and his aunt had tortured them. Because he had tried to poison her best friend and boyfriend, because he had tried to kill her mentor. Because he had killed people. Innocent people.
Because he had always hurt her.
And he always will.
Because she had dismissed him once, dismissed him again, and because he had not understood.
Understanding now.
Understanding and acceptance. For what was, is, what will be.
Letting go.
And because the boy Slytherin has grown up, because he knows about himself for more than he ever has.
Because he loves Hermione Granger.
And she is who she is, and he is who he is.
And because some things change, but some thing never do.
Decides.
And closes his eyes.
And opens his magic.
And pulls. And pulls.
And the sea of shadows ripples, ripples and stirs, stirs and crescendos, crescendos and creates waves, waves so large, so huge, and he pulls it towards him, pulls.
And pulls.
An orchestra of magic, allowing the blood magic to swirl upwards. Allowing the crimson to interlace with the shadows, intertwining, weaving.
And pulling.
Until he can feel her magic, the awesome brilliance of the wind on his face, salt, sea, wildness, beauty.
Until he can feel it rising upwards from the shadows.
And only when it steadies, only when it is completely exposed does he stop pulling, stops the tide of waves, lets the shadows draw back, rippling and then silence, blood magic falling to a thrum in his head, chest, at the base of his spine.
Then he opens his eyes. Looking down on her, seeing the normalcy of her.
And he smiles.
A true smile.
Of beauty. Life. Acceptance.
And leans down to touch her lips with his own, a feather kiss, tasting of salt, of the sea.
"I will free you, my love."
A gift. True.
Words barely said, a breath against the skin of her cheek.
Before he straightens and leaves the room.