Notes: Once again, thanks for sticking with this.

WARNINGS: references to sexual assault, canon violence

8. The Injuries that to Myself I Do

Draco's grip squishes the candle, his sweating hands softening the wax. He takes a deep breath and forces his hand to relax. An imprint of his palm is etched on its surface.

Panic flares deep in his gut, fueled by the sudden fear he'll be found out from a sodding candle. He forces a breath into his lungs and shakes his head. It's an absurd worry. The minute Granger lights the damn thing, all traces of his touch will be erased.

He pauses at the top of the stairs, but he knows the hall is clear. Everyone who matters is on another raid. A raid doomed to failure thanks to the coin pressed against his heel, hidden beneath thick leather boots and woolen socks.

Whenever he sends a message to Potter, he feels lighter, as if he isn't the failure he seems. Of course, he's a traitor now, so he's more of a failure than ever. He actively avoids thinking about what either of his parents would say if they knew their son was siphoning information to the Chosen One himself.

It's bad enough they know he'll never give them a proper heir.

After some consideration, he and Astoria came clean to their parents, which included informing all parties of Draco's sexual preference. He hated it, but he did it for Astoria. She deserved better than her mother berating her for being a whore when nothing untoward was happening.

The norms of the Wizarding World don't particularly give a damn about who Draco wants to sleep with, but he's an only child and the Malfoy line rests firmly on his shoulders. If he doesn't father a child, that line will be erased, a fact that neither of his parents can ignore. So his mother spends what free time she has concocting plans for him to sire children regardless of his chosen partner. She seems to think he'll be able to, just once, perform the required deed with a girl of her choosing.

It's worse than marriage. At least then she was considering the girl's happiness as Draco's partner. Now she only concerns herself with proper pureblood breeding and health, as if she is choosing him a prized racehorse instead of the mother of her grandchild.

Draco thinks he will never have children simply to spite her. Not that he's planning on it anyway.

His footfalls are heavier than usual as he descends to the dungeon. Today, he doesn't worry about discovery. No one who remained behind remembers Granger is still down here.

He crosses the space to the cell before raising his wand and muttering, "lumos."

He barely contains the yelp that gathers in his throat as he's met with a wand to his sternum. He stares in shock at the boy who stands behind the bars. His hair is ebony, a shade darker than even Potter's, but less wild. His eyes are an arresting shade of blue that reminds Draco of the azure skies of the Mediterranean at the height of summer. They flash with danger, a warning that Draco must not waste his next breath.

Draco drops his wand to the ground, the light skittering wildly for a moment before it settles at his feet. He holds his hands up, never taking his eyes off the other boy's face. Beneath the shock comes the realization that this boy is the most beautiful creature Draco has ever seen—Veelas included. The symmetry of his high cheekbones is flawless. His jawline begs Draco to sketch him, to bring the agonizing perfection of him to the page.

Draco's mouth has gone dry and he has no idea if it's because of fear or something darker and covetous. His fingers twitch at his side, but he holds back, refusing to let his baser instincts show.

"He's a friend," Granger's worn voice cuts the tension, both of them pivoting to look at her. She's propped against the wall as usual, but she looks cleaner than he remembers. Her eyes are still sunken and jammed with ghosts he'd rather not acknowledge, but she is healthier than he's seen her in a long while. He realizes her hair gleams in the light of his wand instead of falling in matted chunks about her too-thin face.

There's a figure in the far corner of the cell sprawled across the stone. Draco takes a step closer and the boy's wand digs into him.

"Don't move." The boy's voice is deeper than Draco's, laced with honey and darkness.

Draco shivers.

The boy cants his head toward Hermione. "I don't care. I've seen how he treats you. He's too bloody terrified to help."

Draco focuses on the words, not the speaker. This boy knows who he is. This boy has watched him interact with Hermione.

The pit drops out of Draco's stomach and his blood surges in terror. This is Hermione's Tom.

It took hours in the library, but he'd found what he wanted. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Hogwarts graduate of 1945. Sometime employee of Borgin and Burke's. Full time Dark Wizard. Lord Voldemort himself.

But Draco knows the Dark Lord is in a London suburb right now, hunting Potter with his single-minded mania. So what does that mean about the handsome boy standing in front of him, the promise of violence in his azure eyes?

"He let this happen to you. He could have gotten you out, but he was too much of a bloody coward."

The words are reductos to his gut. Tom—Voldemort? Draco has no idea what to call him—sneers down at Draco, emphasizing his height advantage. "Did you know she'd been raped?"

"Tom," Granger snaps, her whole body going preternaturally still.

Tom doesn't look at her. He keeps his focus on Draco, searing holes in his flesh with the heat of his stare.

Draco blinks, shrinks in on himself. His voice is a hoarse whisper when he replies, "yes."

The crucio hits him, sends him to his knees before he can make a noise. Tom didn't speak, but his lips are curled in disgust and his expression leaves no doubt as to the curse's origin. Draco pitches sideways and a raw gurgle escapes his clamping jaw.

He has been here before. He knows what it means to feel the wrath of Lord Voldemort.

"Stop it." He barely hears Granger over the sizzling pain coursing through his nervous system, the intensity growing as it echoes through his flailing limbs. "Tom! I don't want this."

The agony cuts off as suddenly as it began.

Draco slumps to his side, twisting to kneel. He uses the bars of her cell to haul himself upright. The wicked gleam in Tom's eyes is all too familiar, but Draco doesn't look away.

"What do you need?"

The dregs of the torture coat his tongue, but he doesn't care. He knows he deserved every second of the pain. He knows he abandoned her down here while others destroyed her. He would rather suffer the wrath of this boy for a good reason than the madness of the Dark Lord for none.

"Get him out of here, keep him safe from…" Granger trails off, but Draco knows what she wants. If the Dark Lord knew another version of himself walked these halls—Draco cannot even finish the thought. "And get rid of the body."

"I'm not leaving here without you," Tom hisses, turning to face Granger.

Draco tentatively reaches down and picks up his wand. Neither of them notices. Tom is too busy staring daggers at Granger while she scowls back at him.

"As we decided before, it's too dangerous to try to escape without a plan. We could be found and that would only mean me back here and who knows what he'll do to you. We want to end him, not end up back where we started or worse." Granger's voice cracks on the last word. Draco takes a step back, feeling like an intruder as she continues, "I don't want to do this without you. I can't."

To Draco's surprise, Tom falls to his knees in front of her and drops a soft kiss to her temple. "I won't leave you. I keep my promises."

Their foreheads press together, Tom's hand stroking her hair, as Granger pleads, "Then let him help."

"Fine."

It's clear Tom isn't happy with the choice, but it's equally clear he will do whatever Granger asks. It's disconcerting considering what Draco knows about Tom. But Draco is rapidly coming to understand he knows nothing about this boy beyond that he is danger personified.

The dark boy swings back to him, expression fierce. "Open the cell."

"It's spelled to need the key."

"I bloody well know that. You think I haven't already tried to escape this hell hole?" Tom's fury is a living thing, his words whispering promises of pain across Draco's pale skin. "Go get the key."

Draco trips over his feet as he hurries toward the steps. He catches himself with an outstretched palm and runs the rest of the way up the stairs. He has perhaps an hour at most before the Death Eaters start returning. It was plenty of time when he was delivering a candle; it is no time at all for staging a jailbreak.

He's thankful he watched the last time his mad aunt buried the key at the bottom of her dresser. He digs through the drawer with little regard for her possessions, relieved that the contents are scattered haphazardly already. The key is exactly where he saw her place it, a small mercy.

Draco is back in front of the cell, chest heaving, in a matter of minutes. Tom looks him up and down. Draco feels his skin flush as those appraising eyes sweep slowly across every inch of him.

"So you are useful after all."

Draco doesn't say anything as he fits the key in the lock and recites the elaborate incantation required to release the door. The lock clicks. Draco dives to the side as Tom kicks the door open. The other boy tosses him a twin of the key in the lock as he passes.

Draco gapes at him. "Then why'd you make me bloody get that one?"

Tom's smile has fangs. "I wanted to see if you would do it. Plus, I needed you to identify the specific unlocking incantation. I'd exhausted all the possibilities I could think of, but my education was cut a bit short."

Draco sighs and eyes the body in the corner of the cell. "Do I want to know what happened?"

Tom has him up against the bars of the cell before Draco knows he's moved. The edge of his wand digs into Draco's windpipe. "Have you ever felt someone hold you down, tear off your only layers of protection and violate you in the worst way you can imagine?"

Draco squirms, pulse frantic against the press of the wood. The devastating churn of nausea overpowers his gut. He understands what happened with all too much clarity. He leans into Tom, letting the wand dig deeper.

His voice has drowned in his guilt as he whispers, eyes wide and pleading, "just bloody do it. I deserve it. I deserve everything you want to do to me."

Azure eyes dark, Tom's gaze flickers lower for a long moment. He licks his full lips and takes a step back. "Not everything."

Draco's knees buckle and he grips the bars of the cell to keep from collapsing at Tom's feet. More has passed between them than he understands. He looks anywhere else.

To his astonishment, Granger is standing. She takes a careful step and then another. Tom rushes to her side, a lithe arm coming to wrap around her waist. She lets out a sigh of relief as she steps outside the bounds of the cell. She stands for a moment longer before collapsing into Tom. He lifts her easily, one arm coming beneath her knees while the other supports her back. Granger loops her arms around his neck with ease, as if she's done it a thousand times before.

Draco can't begin to understand them. The future Lord Voldemort and Hermione Granger don't belong in the same thought let alone the same space.

"Get him out of here and make him bloody disappear," Tom snaps, as if he doesn't cradle Granger gently against his chest.

Draco is silent as he levitates the corpse out of the cell. He has no idea what he would say even if his tongue were willing to move. Probably a question. He has too many of those to count.

He knows he should warn them of the return of the Death Eaters, but he wants to be as far away from Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger as possible right now. Neither of them is doing anything good to his head. And the window of opportunity to get rid of—he pulls the mask away to reveal a partially bloated and entirely bloodied face—McNair is closing. He'll deal with the headache that is this odd couple later, when he's not about to get caught red handed with a dead Death Eater.

He deliberately doesn't listen to their murmured conversation as he guides McNair's stinking corpse up the stairs.

"I have to stay," Hermione whispers as she watches the sunshine boy—Draco—disappear into the darkness. He takes the light of his wand with him, but Tom shifts, pulling his stolen wand from his robe pocket.

"Lumos."

She stares intently at his face. "Did you hear what I said?"

Sapphire eyes flick to toward her and then shy away. "Yes."

"And do you have anything to say about it?"

She feels like she is pulling teeth. She also doesn't want to have this argument, but she knows it's unavoidable. If it were up to her, she wouldn't leave the warm circle of his arms, which provides the only certainty of safety she has found in this haunted world of pain and darkness. Her grip on him tightens along with her resolve. She will not risk him, not until they know what they're dealing with.

"You already know what I think about the matter," Tom grinds out, but he makes no move to set her down or retreat from their current embrace. She thinks he must be tired of holding her, but then she remembers she's a waif now, a pale shadow of the girl she almost recalls.

Hermione's nostrils flare and she forces a calming breath past her clenched jaw. If it comes down to a battle of wills, she has no choice but to be more stubborn. "I don't know who I am, Tom. I'm only sure of my name because it comes to me in fragments of lucidity and because you told me. I don't remember anything about magic; I only know it has the power to harm and to heal. I know there were people who were very important to me. People I was willing to die for." His arms tense around her at the admission, but he doesn't interrupt. "I had an entire life that is simply gone now. I don't even know if it's still in my head or if whatever has been done to me permanently destroyed who I was. I don't know."

She stares resolutely into his molten eyes. "The only thing I do know is that you make me feel safe. That I know you will do as I ask, respect my limits and do everything in your power to keep me safe. I don't entirely know why, because I also know you're Voldemort—not the monster who put me here, but still the same origin as him. I know you are deadly and cruel and powerful. But right now, I don't care. None of this is worth it if I don't have you when I leave this hell.

"Which means, Tom, we both have to survive this. So I have to stay and you have to go. Find a way to make Draco help us. He's only afraid, not unwilling. And when we have a way to get me out of here, to get all of us out of here without undue risk, then we go. But not one second before."

Tom stares at her for a long moment, searching her face with a desperate intensity that makes her skin tingle. "I hate this plan."

"I never said I liked it either."

He shifts his focus to the cell behind them. "I can't put you back in there. What if…"

"I'll have you watching out for me from out here, where you aren't confined, where you can truly fight back." She releases a hand from around his neck and runs it across his high cheekbone, his chiseled jaw. "You cannot be caught. At all costs. I am willing to endure this awhile longer as long as I know you'll be beyond his notice."

"This is wrong," he insists, but she can see the clever mind calculating behind his tortured eyes. He knows she is right. He is woefully unprepared to face his grown counterpart.

"This entire situation is fucked," she replies.

A surprised chuckle escapes his pursed lips. "In every way possible." He sighs and slowly stands her up. She sways. Her legs still can't quite remember how to walk properly. Only after Tom meticulously healed her, has she been able to stand again, her muscles finally mended enough to endure her weight for short periods. She walks as often as she can, knowing the muscles have atrophied from the weeks—months?—she has spent in this horrifying cage.

And now she is walking back into it.

And they will torture her again. But they will not break her. She has already disintegrated into nothing but breath and air, but even as nothing she exists. Exists because she is not alone. Because he knows everything she has endured and they are one in their suffering of it. This is why—despite his identity—she knows he will not stray far from her even when the bars separate them. He knows and he will not leave her to face it alone.

Tom keeps an arm around her waist as they enter the cell. He kneels down with her as Hermione slumps onto the familiar stone, stained with tears and blood and memory. His cheeks are streaked with impotent despair as he pulls away. She wipes the moisture away.

"We'll make them pay," she murmurs, his salt on her lips as she kisses the sharp lines of his cheekbones. "We will make them wish they never existed. We just have to wait for our moment."

"Our moment," Tom repeats, his lips a cool caress upon her sweaty brow.

She does not watch as he retreats from her, cannot bear to see the key he stole slide into the lock. The incantation that seals her away from the world is an agonized whisper.

She repeats the words under her breath, "our moment."

It becomes a mantra, her lungs rising and falling in time with the syllables. She holds on to the sounds, to the proof that she is not alone. Darkness falls and only the steady drip of water breaks the oppressive silence.

Plink.

Plink.

Perhaps she is nothing after all.

No matter how many times Draco washes his hands, the foul odor of McNair's decay clings to him. He's already stripped out of his robes and is tempted to burn the pile of them as he stands barefoot in the washroom. But even that won't erase the smell that's wound its way into his flesh. He could likely scour every millimeter of his skin for days and still feel the prickle of decay at the back of his throat.

He lets out a heavy groan and turns to look in the mirror hanging over his elaborate sink. He doesn't recognize the boy who stares back, grey eyes wild, cheeks hollow. His hair is streaked with mud, the platinum dulled to a dirty blond. He finds he doesn't mind the change. It softens him, pushing back against the harsh edges of his sharp cheekbones and pointed chin. But he still looks more feral animal than boy, as if he's a caged wolverine just waiting to strike.

Draco swallows and watches his throat bob. He brings his hand to the spot where Tom's wand dug into his flesh. There's a bruise forming there, the blood pooling in swirling shades of deep purple and angry red. He could heal it, but he doesn't.

He lets his eyes roam over his face, cataloging all the points where he is too sharp, or too feminine. He has been told he's handsome. He doesn't see it. All he can see is a boy with mismatched features and desperation clogging his pores. It isn't a good look.

He turns abruptly away and crosses out of the washroom to his dresser. It's piled high with junk he hasn't bothered to put away. He rifles through a pile of clothing until he finds a black woven jumper, the material so soft it slips between his fingers like silk. He pulls it over his head before retrieving a pair of charcoal slacks from one of the dresser drawers. Dressed, he uses his wand to vanish the caked mud from his hair before letting it drop back to the unkempt pile below.

He doesn't feel any better than before, but at least he no longer wears clothing stippled with decaying flesh.

He's in the act of collapsing upon his bed when the door to his room swings open. An undignified squawk of outrage tears from his lips. He twists toward the door, reaching for his wand. Panic crashes into him as he realizes it's on the pile of clothes he discarded earlier.

The door clicks shut and Draco looks around wildly, seeing no one. He crawls backward on his bed, putting the space of his oversized mattress between him and the door.

"Relax," a deep voice murmurs and suddenly Tom Riddle is standing on the other side of his bed.

"Bloody hell," Draco hisses, his heart still pounding erratically against his ribs. "You could have knocked."

Tom rolls his eyes, azure pupils soaring skyward. "The entire point was for me to move about without anyone knowing I was here. I rather think someone might notice a knocking at a door with no one standing in front of it, don't you?"

Draco can hear the distant bustle of the Manor. It seems most of the residents have returned, making it unlikely the upstairs hall is completely deserted. Annoyingly, Tom is right. He rises from the bed, taking a step toward his desk. "What are you even doing here? I didn't think you'd let Granger out of your sight."

How Tom crosses his entire bedroom in the space of a breath is beyond Draco. The other boy peers down at him. He's only a palm's width taller, but he towers over Draco. "Let me make one thing perfectly clear. You will not speak of Hermione until prompted to or it is absolutely necessary to convey important information. You bear responsibility for what has happened to her and I do not trust myself not to kill you if you remind me of that fact."

Draco has endured rather too many death threats for someone not even two decades into life, but this is the first he finds he deserves. He keeps his voice flat as he replies, "fine. But what are you doing here?"

Tom's expression slips from fury to amusement. Draco's spine tingles with a warmth he decidedly does not acknowledge. "You and I are roommates now."

Draco chokes. "What?"

"Well you see, it's rather simple Mr. Malfoy—or should I call you Draco? Anyway, you are the only one who knows I'm… well…alive except, of course, Hermione. Therefore you are the only who can help me get Hermione out of this damned house and far beyond the reach of those who would do her harm. I need to stay out of sight and formulate a plan to do just that. And you're going to help me."

Tom's voice is a soft caress, as if he's running his hand across Draco's skin as he speaks. It's a horribly disconcerting sensation. Draco swallows twice before he can speak. "Any why in the bloody world would I help you?"

Tom steps closer to him and Draco is suddenly aware of the faint scent of cloves. They are far too close now. He can feel the heat of Tom's skin radiating against his own, can see the milky skin at the base of the other boy's throat flutter. Draco's mouth goes instantly dry. The ends of Tom's ebony curls drag across Draco's flushed skin as Tom whispers, "because I'll tear you to pieces if you don't."

Normally Draco doesn't find death threats enticing. He really must be losing his marbles. He clears his throat, the sound far too loud in the silent room. "I see. What do you want from me?"

The darker boy hasn't backed away. His lips still hover just above Draco's ear. An amused chuckle escapes those lips and Draco can't help the shudder that travels down his spine or the sudden tightness in his groin. Tom presses closer, their bodies in complete alignment.

"I have too many answers to that question." He steps abruptly away, the distance between them respectable once more. "But for now, I need you to conceal me from my… counterpart. From what I can tell you're well versed in Occlumency, so I imagine you can keep this secret as you are already hiding so much from him."

Draco's blood runs cold until he realizes Tom is likely referring to his half-hearted attempts to help Hermione and not Draco's decidedly more traitorous arrangement with Potter. Not that he thinks Tom will turn him over to the Dark Lord if he discovers that secret. But Tom is still the Dark Lord—in some incarnation, so Potter is likely still his enemy. Although Draco has no idea how to interpret the prophesy now that there are two Dark Lords. Just thinking about it gives him a headache.

Draco doesn't exactly relish the idea of losing what little privacy he has to Tom, but he also understands this is a demand, not a request. "What else?"

"Give me access to Hermione when I require it."

That is more complicated, but Tom seems adept enough at disillusionment charms that Draco is sure they can manage. "I can do that."

Tom nods, dark curls bouncing at his pale brow. "And help me find a way to leave with her."

Exceedingly complicated, bordering on impossible, but Draco nods anyway. In doing this, he will be fulfilling his vow to Potter. His heart skips a beat at the thought. Emerald eyes flash across his vision and he bites his lip to keep the soft sigh from escaping.

"Something you want to tell me?"

Tom's arch question slams Draco back to the present, his pulse skittering to and fro as he tries to orient himself. He is not telling Tom about bloody Potter. He already knows that. He flushes and stares up at the other boy from beneath his lashes. "Sorry, I got distracted."

He can tell Tom doesn't buy the deflection for one second, but he doesn't push either. He sits down at Draco's desk and begins to sort through his books. "Is this where my diary was? Just sitting on a self in your room?"

Draco blinks and tilts his head. "Your diary?"

Tom's eyes widen and he freezes in place, his hand on Draco's quill. "You didn't know?"

Draco's brow furrows and he shakes his head. Tom is talking nonsense as far as he can tell. "Know what?"

"Oh." The other boy stiffens and Draco's quill snaps in half. They both stare at it. Tom snatches his hand away from the ruined feather. "You gave Hermione my diary. The diary she used to restore me to life. Well, the diary and that vile man's blood and magic."

Draco rakes his eyes over Tom. Besides the unnatural perfection of his features, he finds nothing abnormal. He already knows how the other boy feels—warm. How he sounds—hypnotic. He knows he is real. He has felt Tom's heartbeat thundering against his own.

Draco is incredulous as he asks, "you came out of a book?"

Tom lets out a rueful laugh. "I suppose it is a bit hard to believe if you didn't experience it for yourself."

"How?"

"Have you ever heard of Horcruxes?" Tom arches a dark brow, his azure irises darkening to the deep blue of the night sky.

Draco has. One summer he was bored and read the entire dark magical artifacts section of the Malfoy library. He nods numbly.

"That's refreshing," Tom comments. He picks up a portion of Draco's ruined quill and turns it over, dexterous fingers spinning the feather. "I am a… side effect of my first Horcrux. Or perhaps more accurately, I am my first Horcrux."

Draco blinks, examines the new information and slowly pieces it together with what he already knows. "You're the part of Tom Riddle's soul that was placed into the diary. But why are you corporeal?"

"I did rather more than simply put my soul in the diary. I made it a weapon, capable of taking the lifeforce and the magical energy from another and reforming my body—as it was at the time the diary was created—with my soul and conscious mind stored into the diary until they could unite with my remade body."

It is insane, but Tom sits before him, flesh and blood and breath. "I heard Granger talking to you before McNair died."

Tom's eyes flash, but he merely replies, "I had no interest in killing Hermione to merely be stuck in a cell in her place. I only allowed the transition to go as far as my ability to appear before her, but did not drain her life or her magic. Thus, I remained incorporeal and invisible."

It is utterly fascinating. Dark magic beyond what Draco knows to be possible. He is stuck between awe and horror. "Can you remain this way?"

Dark brows lower and azure eyes narrow. "If you are looking for a way—"

"No," Draco cuts him off. "I'm merely curious."

Tom holds his stare as he snaps the quill in half again. The threat is unambiguous, but Draco isn't lying. He truly wants to know.

"Yes," the other boy finally replies. "I can stay like this for a very long time. I'm not entirely sure how, or even if, I'll age. But I am alive. I am not, however, sure what would happen if I were to be killed. Would I share the power of my other Horcruxes with my counterpart? It is not clear to me."

No one else has ever been in the position to conduct the experiment. Draco shudders. Nor should anyone be. Despite what he says, Draco knows Tom is a product of the darkest of magic and that no matter how real he truly becomes, it will always cling to him like a shroud. The fact should make Draco afraid, but instead excitement tingles beneath his skin, the pull he feels toward the darker boy stronger than ever.

A knock on Draco's door cracks the growing tension. Tom's eyes flare wide and Draco hisses in a sharp breath. He looks around frantically. He doesn't have a wardrobe and the washroom is clearly visible from the entrance to his bedroom. His gaze flickers to the bed and the high platform that holds his mattress. With an apologetic look he points to the opening beneath. Tom gives him a decidedly frosty glare, but silently lowers to the cherrywood floorboards and rolls under the bedframe.

Draco takes a fortifying breath and swings the door open. Astoria stands in the hall beyond. Draco very much wants to shoo her out, but he won't turn her away with lecherous—and likely furious—Death Eaters roaming about.

She slides past him into the room and plops on the bed. Draco is acutely aware she's directly on top of Tom. He walks slowly to stand beside her.

"What can I do for you?"

She sighs, closing her eyes. "My mother wants to marry me off to Adrian Pucey."

Draco closes his eyes, pictures Adrian and grins down at her. "He's hot."

Astoria groans. "Ugh. Not you too."

"Honestly, Astoria, Adrian is pretty much the best you're going to do in Slytherin. He's not even a bloody Death Eater. That really says something."

Astoria glowers up at him. "But I want to marry someone I choose, not my bloody mother."

She wants to marry Draco. He knows her feelings haven't changed. Despite her unfailing support and humor, he feels her watching him, sees the disappointment she can't quite hide when he catches her staring. She loves him, or something very close. It will take time for her to move on. He often worries their friendship is holding her back, but then he remembers how much he forgets when she makes him laugh and he is too selfish to let her go.

He sits down the bed next to her. He swears he can hear Tom's breathing echoing between his breath and hers, but Astoria doesn't seem to notice anything amiss. Draco laces their fingers together. "Marry Adrian, Astoria. Or, at least, give him a chance. He's a good man. Far better than me."

She sighs and he can hear the wings of a thousand worries fluttering on her breath. "What's happened to us, Draco? Why can't it be like before?"

Draco lets her curl into him, both of them staring at the canopy of his bed as they lay flat on the mattress. "It all went so bloody wrong," he admits. He knows Tom is listening, directly below him, so he doesn't elaborate.

"Can I stay the night?"

He wants so badly to say yes, to give her the comfort she deserves, but circumstances have changed. Perhaps it is right to force her away from him now. Adrian is not only handsome, but kind—sly and clever, but also kind. In all their years in Quidditch together, he never once participated in any of the nefarious schemes. And when the Dark Lord came calling, Adrian went to France, just like Blaise. Draco thinks both of them are far braver than he could ever be.

Draco gently disengages from Astoria. His smile doesn't reach his eyes as he looks down at her. "Astoria, you know nothing will come from this. Of course, I wish I could be the right man for you, but I can't. I can't help who I want. It would certainly be simpler if I could love you the way you deserve. But I won't. It simply isn't possible. So you need to leave. You need to go to Adrian with an open mind and an open heart. There's nothing for you here."

He feels like a world class jerk as her eyes gloss over with tears, but he doesn't regret his words. He can't hold her back. Not if she has a chance to be with a boy who might actually be just what she needs.

"Let us go, Astoria. Let me go."

"Draco," her bottom lip trembles and his heart cracks.

"Please, Astoria."

She swipes at the tears leaking from her honey eyes. He hates that he is their source. Her hands clench, tangling in his coverlet. His chest tightens and the sharp, familiar burn of guilt coats his tongue. But he will not be weak. He will break her heart, if only to save her from himself.

He reaches out and pulls her from the bed. She stumbles to the door, his hand at her waist. When they stand before the oak door, Draco places his hands on her shoulders, his touch gentle. She trembles. He presses a soft kiss to her temple. He can hear her rasping sobs grow louder at his touch.

"Go home, Astoria. Go home and be safe. I don't do this to hurt you," he murmurs against her skin, "I do this to free you. Go, find love and later, when you have found the man you deserve, we can try to be friends again. But you have to leave me behind first."

Astoria looks at him like she hates him, but also like she loves him. He is not sure which hurts more. She swallows down her pain and manages to say, "I will not forget this, Draco Malfoy."

"I don't expect you to," he replies and steps back from her, his fingers sliding away from her fuzzy jumper.

The door slams in his face.

"That was rather more drama than I expected."

Draco jumps. He forgot about Tom. He scrubs a hand over his face, sure his features reflect the chaos churning through him.

"Can we not?"

Tom comes to stand beside him and lounges casually against the door Astoria slammed only moments before. "Can we not what?"

Draco waves a hand between them. "Whatever the fuck this is. Can we not? I'm exhausted."

The dark boy raises his hands in mock surrender and pushes off the door. He pauses beside Draco and the scent of cloves surrounds him. "Just know that if you ever need to work through any of that tension, I'm available."

He's gone before Draco can process the words. Draco blinks, his eyes go wide. Did Tom Riddle just proposition him? Doesn't Tom want to kill Draco, not shag him? And aren't Tom and Hermione involved? But then so are Harry and Hermione. Draco brings a hand to his aching temple. He has no idea what is happening. That is the only thing he is absolutely sure of.

He glances over his shoulder. Tom is sitting at his desk, feet upon the wood, reading a book. Draco stalks to the bed and throws himself down on the mussed emerald quilt. He can't deal with the other boy right now. He can't bloody deal with any of it. He closes his eyes and prays to every entity he can think of for oblivion. He doesn't find it.