In their absence she'll become aware of the soft movements of his body at rest, calm breaths making the chest rise and fall, an itch brushing lint off a coat, sweeping hair out of eyes. His body, she will realize, dances in time with their conversations, shifts with the connotations. Thinking it's still a waltz, he's ready to carry the weight of every sentence.

"You could have said no."

Draco is motionless beside her. She can't hear him breathe. And she doesn't care, that's what she tells herself. And now, now she's aware of what's no longer there.

But there are so many things he might have rejected, fought, refused.

When faced with ideas that challenged his understanding, he could have investigated the integrity of his truths. He could have opposed the malice, the pettiness, the cruelty. What if he had asked what allowed tears to be a desirable goal? What if he had stood in front of the mirror and asked himself, "why do I hurt other people?"

When they wanted to make him a tool, could he have resisted?

Could he have enforced the malice and pettiness of others with a little less diligence?

Maybe he could have said, "I don't know him," "it's not them," "don't hurt her."

He could have turned down the Mark. He could have tried.

The space between them is pregnant with the choices he has made.

Hermione turns to him. His features are perfect, the most beautiful face she will ever see. The grey eyes, though, the grey eyes that two nights ago were crinkled with smiles - he is not occluding, she knows - those grey eyes must be full of the realization he hasn't been forgiven.

He is very pale - she steels herself and can't, after all, look into his eyes, into the pain, into his nightmares, into the consequences, the regrets, the devastation caused by her recriminations. She's can't face him, but she feels no remorse. The light is fading.

Draco finally lets go of the breath he's been holding, and inhales unevenly. He focuses on the moment, late at night, in a corridor in Hogwarts when she promised him all the chances he'd need.

When the memory is safely tucked away, he unbinds her promise of something unconditional and lets her hurt him, because how can he deny it? A pawn has no power, but had he done all he could? He could have died.

Compassion seduced her at first. That's what it was. His humour, intelligence and kindness allowed him to slip by her defenses, into her life, into her bed. Because of the perfect fit of their bodies, she had let herself lean on him.

The Pensieve had shown her the depth of her self deception. The memories were of unspeakable acts, barbarism she'd never conceived. She had seen the horror on his face, the revulsion. Yes, he had hated it, but when she reemerged, there was only the irrefutable complicity of non-action.

It's getting cold, the treasure which should be safe in the corner of his mind is slipping away - he's shivering - he's - Draco is falling ill. His cheekbones are staining a feverish red; his eyes are glazing. He gasps for air, sways. When the Aurors and the Dementors turn the corner, his legs give out. She clenches her fists, presses them against her thighs. She will not catch him. He is on his knees, hunched over, shaking. The war memories he denied her, which visit him every night, the tortures, the rapes, the murders he didn't try to stop, they crash down on him. But this time, he is not crying for the victims, fear or his helplessness, he is grieving the hope, the gift that hadn't been for him after all. He can't hold on, the Kiss will leave him an empty husk, and he welcomes it.

As the Dementors draw nearer, his gasps hang white in the air and Hermione shivers. Draco lets the hopelessness take him. He is a rag doll in their hands as they lead him away.

"I don't forgive you." He doesn't react, but he must have heard.

The Dementors assail Hermione with sorrow. The rest of her life will be a wasteland, she knows, and she resents the Kiss that will free him. She resents him for leaving her behind. She begrudges him the redemption he sought rather than flee. He had chosen to make recompense rather run with her and save her from the images she won't be able to wipe from her mind.

The frost in her hair is melting onto her cheeks. They have taken him away. She can't see him any longer.

She will not stay at the Ministry. She will give it all up.

She will buy a secluded cottage where she will hate him and refuse to cry. When a kind man falls in love with her, she will let him touch her. And late at night, she'll stand at the bedside despising the woman who, rather than saying no, pretends out of pity.

One rainy evening, sitting by the lake in the cold, Hermione will admit to herself she made a mistake. Draco had been a good man. He had made amends and been willing to continue to do so. The good he could have done far outweighed the empty closure of the parents of the children left unsaved.

She hadn't questioned the strict moral code that provided her with such absolute answers, but she should have tried.