AN: Hi! I have this story cross-posted to AO3 (you can find me there under the same username, hellvwng). I am able to respond and engage much more easily and freely there and I LOVE chatting with readers and discussing with them, so please read and comment over there if you'd like! Thank you to everyone that has commented already: I read each and every review and I'm eternally humbled that people are enjoying my story. mwahhh

Draco had managed a few steps into the cottage before collapsing, it seemed. His body was prone on the floor, head turned to the side. His High Reeve mask had skittered a few feet away; he had been holding it in his hand when he fell.

Hermione walked up him slowly, as if in a trance. She stared down at him.

The gentle rise and fall of his torso told her that he was still alive.

Her hand trembled as she watched.

She had thought she had drawn her lines in stone, that she would never cross them.

They had been drawn in sand, washed away by the tides of war. Somehow, somewhere along the way, Draco Malfoy had become a line that she couldn't cross.

The death of the High Reeve would be a stunning victory for the Insurgency, and a crippling loss for Voldemort. He was the right hand man: the public face of the regime. He led and controlled it, kept the army in line. His execution by the Insurgency would destabilize the internal hierarchy and structure of the Death Eaters. A power vacuum would form and create internal rifts.

The implications of his death would be catastrophic, that not even Voldemort could ignore or sweep under the rug: that there was an active and powerful resistance in the country. That they were well-organized and equipped with weapons. That they were just as ruthless as him, willing to fight fire with fire.

That they took out his highest ranking, most powerful general and were coming for him next.

Killing Draco Malfoy would be the beginning of the end for Voldemort's iron rule.

She stared down at him, unmoving. Her hand shook so hard that her wand nearly spun out of her grip.

It would be a kindness, a wicked part of Hermione whispered to her. It would be so easy. A mercy killing. He wouldn't suffer, he wouldn't even know it had been done. His life would be extinguished, like blowing out a candle.

Wouldn't that be easy, the voice crooned. It would be merciful and quick, you can make it easy for him. He would go gently. It would be far kinder than what Tonks experienced. What Lupin experienced.

There would be no terror. No fear, no pain. No more suffering.

He would be gone. As quickly and easily as falling asleep after a long day.

Hermione's legs couldn't support her anymore. She crumpled to her knees, inches from Draco.

She Levitated him slightly, to turn him onto his back instead.

Draco's white-blond hair had fallen across his face. Hermione brushed it back with a gentle hand and then stared down. His face was bruised and battered. There were deep purple smudges under his eyes; it seemed sleep evaded him like it evaded her too. He looked so young when he slept, but the war had worn him down. His lips were parted slightly, and Hermione could see every breath that he took.

He looked equal parts beauty, equal parts tragedy. Lucifer was just an angel that had fallen from grace.

There was something wicked in her that kept insisting, that grew stronger as she gazed at Draco. A quick Severing Charm to his cervical spine. Slice clean through his vertebrae and spinal cord, smooth as butter. You have the precision. He wouldn't appear outwardly injured. He wouldn't even feel the pain, it would take just an instant. You can leave his corpse here in this cottage and never return. Apparate home to base and celebrate the good news. Think how happy the Insurgency would be.

Hermione raised her wand. Her hand shook so badly that her wand clattered to the floor.

She tried again, tried to grasp and fumble for her wand. But she couldn't hold it tight enough, couldn't force the incantation out from her lips.

The wand clattered to the floor again and she stared at it, frozen for a single moment.

Then she threw herself onto Draco with a gasping sob.

Hermione clutched at his face with both hands, vision blurry with tears. She pressed a trembling kiss to his forehead and then buried her face into his neck. Her tears had soaked his skin and left it salty.

"I'm sorry," she rasped. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

Her body was wracked with sobs; her shoulders shook with the force of them.

Somewhere along the way, Draco had become important to her.

Hermione stayed like that for a long time. Kneeling next to him, at a loss.

She couldn't bear to kill him. Not after everything that had happened between them. The moments in the dark. The stolen kisses, tentative touches. The whispers of something greater, a promise.

The way he looked at her sometimes, with a tenderness. The foolish agony on his face when he thought she was dying, that he had been too late.

He had rained down an otherworldly wrath and fury, and slaughtered an army for her. To protect her, to keep her safe. He wasn't willing to just die for her; he would kill for her.

And therein lay the crux of the issue.

She couldn't ignore who he was, what he was. He was a threat to the Insurgency. He was powerful and bold. He could usurp Voldemort.

He could reign supreme in his own right for decades, as the next Dark Lord.

Hermione stared down at Draco. She had pulled herself up after a while, once the tears had stopped rolling down her face. Once her breathing had calmed and quieted again.

She didn't know what to do so she knelt there for hours in the dark, waiting for something. A sign, a miracle.

Draco stirred eventually. His dark lashes fluttered before his eyes opened.

He gazed up at her. Despite the late hour and torture he had undergone, his eyes were clear and intelligent.

Hermione stared at him silently, watching his face. She tried to memorize every bit of him. The way the light lit up his hair. The way his eyes glittered at her like pools of liquid mercury. The stubble that dotted his jaw.

He stared back at her, silver eyes skirting her face. He seemed to be taking her in, trying to memorize her in turn.

His face held an expression of such yearning and quiet acceptance that suddenly, she knew.

"How long have you known?" she asked quietly, desperately.

Draco gave a faint smile and looked away. His eyes were evasive.

A beat of silence and then he responded without looking at her.

"A while," Draco said. His voice was hoarse, and he licked his lips before continuing. "I knew the Insurgency would deem me too much of a risk. I figured they would expose me eventually. I knew from the start."

He turned his head to look at her. There was faint amusement on his expression, as if he had been hiding this joke from her for a long time. Just waiting for Hermione to catch on.

"You always looked at me with this expression. It was so … guilty and anguished. I didn't need Legilimency to see that you would sell me out or kill me eventually."

Hermione's heart squeezed painfully.

He knew she would betray him. He allowed himself to get attached anyway, knowing it would be his downfall.

"Why?" Hermione whispered. It felt like a nightmare. It felt like being thrust into the spotlight, suddenly on stage. Performing a show that she didn't know the lines to and never had, but everyone was waiting on her to deliver.

"Why … why approach the Insurgency to offer your services? Why do all this knowing that we'd sell you out and kill you? Why have me heal your mother at all, just for her to wake up and die anyway? You were trying to get the Dark Mark off and make horcruxes, and seize power. You would've crushed us after. So why do any of this? "

Her voice cracked but she continued on in a desperate whisper. She needed to know before he died.

"Why kiss me? And then tell me you'd kill me but pull me out of Sussex and take the fall for it all. Why do any of this and- … and- …"

Her voice had gone hoarse and she had run out of air. Her lungs squeezed painfully in her chest, to match her aching heart. She could hardly breathe; it felt like the walls were closing in. She was running out of time.

Hermione stared down at Draco in anguish. Her hand was on his cheek.

He watched her with an expression of such acceptance that she wanted to scream. To cry, and throw things, and smash everything around them.

She wanted him to rage. She wanted him to hate her, to despise her and curse her, like she did him when they first met.

So that she could hurt him without feeling guilty. So that she could pretend he was awful and terrible and deserved to die.

So that she could kill him, because she couldn't let him live.

Draco glanced away. He looked distinctly uncomfortable with the line of questioning, as if he hadn't expected it. He seemed to have thought Hermione would've simply killed him and let it be, and his secrets and feelings would die with him; no one would be any the wiser.

"Answer me!" Hermione hissed. She grabbed the front of his robes and shook him desperately. There was a thump as his head was jolted from the hardwood floor, pulled up by the sheer force of her desperate shaking, before it dropped back down like a rock. "You murdered Dumbledore and sent the wizarding world careening into another war. There's blood on your hands, thousands dead. Poor little rich boy suddenly decides he's tired of it all so he takes the coward's way out and lets himself die? And I'm supposed to feel sorry for you, to pity you and mourn you, for choosing to become a Death Eater?"

She was suddenly furious. He had cracked her heart open and slithered his way in, like the nasty little ferret that he was. He had done all this and let her fall for him, knowing the entire time that he would die. Nothing mattered to him at all. He didn't care about any of it.

She was just a game to him.

His silver eyes snapped to her. He looked irate and Hermione was glad to see it for once. Finally: something other than calm acceptance.

"Do you think any of this was a choice? Do you think I joined the Death Eaters for fun, Granger?" Draco hissed at her. His face had gone deathly white. "Did you ever stop to think why I took the Mark?"

Draco yanked up the sleeve of his left arm. The Dark Mark leered back at them both, a lewd black spurt across the milky skin of his forearm.

Hermione glared at it. She hated it.

"My father was punished severely for his failures at the Ministry. While you and your friends spent the summer happily at home doing fuck all, I was trapped in the manor with Voldemort. He came before I was even home from school. He built a cage of dark magic so tainted that it corrupted the ley lines of the estate. He kept my mother locked in there for weeks. He tortured her brutally and used Crucio for hours, and made me watch while he did it. He said it was to motivate me; I had to bear the sins of my father."

Hermione froze. She could feel herself growing pale.

Narcissa. She had never considered that Narcissa would be used to control Draco. To make him toe the line.

Narcissa was the crucible. Draco had been cruelly forged into a weapon, by his mother's torture and suffering. It was either become deadly, become monstrous, or Narcissa would face the consequences.

She stared down at him in horror as he continued. It was like a dam had collapsed within him; he couldn't stop himself from letting it all out.

He had been holding it in and keeping it to himself for years. He was desperate to share the burden with someone, anyone.

"My mother was always fragile, as long as I can remember. Something happened when she was giving birth, there was trauma and an accident with Dark Magic. It took her years to get better, and she never fully recovered from it. My father made me swear, made me promise that I'd always take care of her. I tried. The entire summer, I trained over and over. I had to get stronger and rise rank, to protect my mother. There was no other option. Voldemort- … he finally let her out of the cage, after I killed Dumbledore. But it was too late. The damage had been done."

Draco swallowed heavily. His jaw trembled and his voice had grown hoarse. His eyes were bright and full of anguish as he looked at Hermione.

She reached out, tentatively, to grasp his hand and squeeze it. He froze. His fingers spasmed.

He squeezed back.

"She- … she became reclusive. Her health failed. I didn't know what to do, I couldn't tell my father. He- … he's obsessive. He has this, this anger and rage in him. He's intensely possessive of my mother. If- … if I had breathed a word of what happened to her, he would've gotten all of us killed. She made me swear not to tell him. She sent him away so she could hide her poor health; he thought she blamed him for me taking the Dark Mark, because she had been begging him to let her disappear with me. He refused. He wouldn't let her go."

Draco gave a shuddering breath; his breathing stuttered in a staccato beat. He couldn't get enough air in. He was breathing too quickly, speaking too fast. He was so desperate to get it all out of him, to unload the burden. He seemed so anxious and overwhelmed by it all. Hermione held his hand with both of hers and stared imploringly.

"I- … I've been researching. I've been trying to get the fucking thing off so I could run with her. I thought if I could get the Mark off, and she recovered, we could disappear together. I was willing to do anything to save her. I offered myself to the Insurgency. I promised I would always take care of her. I swore it. Always."

Draco broke off abruptly at this and gave a hollow laugh. He looked at Hermione and gave her a sad, bitter smile.

"I thought I could save her. You convinced me it could be done. You made me- … you made me hopeful, for the first time in a long time. And then when she woke up … when she woke up and found out what I'd done, she was horrified. She refused to let me continue."

Hermione's heart shattered. Draco had sacrificed himself, kneeled at the altar. Let himself be cut up and gored. Destroyed.

It hadn't been enough.

"Nothing I did make a difference," Draco continued wearily.

He looked spent; tired of existing at all. No wonder he had welcomed Death with open arms; he was out of options.

"My mother told me she wouldn't let me continue, that she planned to just … perish in the manor, so I could be free," Draco's expression twisted into a sardonic smile. "That was her plan. To die. Nothing I did was enough. She planned to die anyway. I couldn't get the fucking Mark off, I can't defeat the Dark Lord. I thought if I gave you the plans to Sussex and pushed you away, the Insurgency could do its part. I thought if I made you hate me enough, you could kill me outright. It would ripple through the Dark Army; it would be a massive blow for Voldemort."

He looked at her tiredly. He looked as exhausted as she felt.

"And then … I saw you in Lupin's memory and realized I couldn't let you die in there. You were too good, too pure for that. You were kind to me, despite what I was. Who I was. I couldn't … I couldn't let you die in there, so I got you out."

Draco went quiet and closed his eyes. He was avoiding looking at her. He didn't want to see the impact of his words, to have to face the truth of it.

"Why … why make horcruxes then?" Hermione whispered. It didn't make sense. Why sacrifice himself if he was pursuing immortality?

Draco's eyes snapped open and he fixed her with an expression of utmost confusion.

Hermione froze.

There was no recognition in his gaze. None at all.

He looked utterly bewildered by what she had said.

"Horcruxes?" he finally asked, eyes narrowed.

Her stomach gave a lurch. The Insurgency had deemed Draco a threat because of the context clues. He had been experimenting and trying to get the Dark Mark off. The tome Secrets of the Darkest Art was missing from his library. He had been working on something Dark. He was rising rank, climbing astronomically.

But there was absolutely nothing in his eyes to suggest he had even the faintest clue what Hermione was asking.

"Horcruxes," she repeated slowly. She watched him carefully with a piercing gaze, staring into his eyes.

Hermione pushed with her mind, as hard as she dared.

"Ow - stop that, Granger. You're not subtle." Draco glared at her Legilimency intrusion. His walls were impenetrable, and he looked faintly annoyed at her daring. "I don't know what the fuck horcruxes are."

She stared.

"The book. Secrets of the Darkest Art. It's missing from your library, but I saw it in Narcissa's memory. She was searching for something too," Hermione pressed on. She kept watching Draco as carefully as she could.

An outraged expression crossed his face.

"You went digging into my mother's memories?" he hissed. But again, the same thing: there was no recognition in his face.

Draco truly had no idea what she was talking about.

Hermione pulled herself back, thinking hard.

"What the fuck were you doing using Legilimency on my m-"

Hermione slammed her hand over his mouth and glared down at him. "Shut up with your Oedipus complex and let me think," she ground out. Draco glowered at her; his eyes were full of glittering, cold rage but he did not speak further. He seemed to sense something critical had just been discovered.

She lifted her hand up finally and held both hands to her forehead, massaging her temples.

Narcissa … Narcissa had the tome about horcruxes. She had been searching desperately for something. She had wanted Draco to run away; to escape. She was willing to die for it.

She had sustained long-term Cruciatus torture and yet …

"Why didn't you get help for your mother earlier?" Hermione snapped out. Something wasn't adding up. The timeline was wrong.

"Narcissa was tortured heavily and, by your accounts and our records, you murdered Dumbledore and disappeared. The High Reeve appeared a short time after and vaulted into the stratosphere of the Dark Army. So you had already proven yourself. Narcissa wouldn't have been tortured continuously, the purpose of that had been served already. So why wait so long to seek help for her?"

Hermione stared at Draco, brows furrowed.

He looked back coldly. He seemed mildly offended.

"I had multiple healers look at her during the summer and into the fall of 1996. They said the damage was immense, and her condition was poor, but stable. She didn't begin to decline until … a few months ago. It was gradual at first, and then rapid. By the time I was able to set-up a meeting, she had lapsed into a coma."

Hermione stared unseeingly.

Narcissa had been stable for at least a year, maybe even two. And then she had begun to decline out of nowhere.

"And she stayed at the estate all the time? What did she do when she was at home?"

Draco stared at her incredulously. "Granger, how the hell should I know? What does this have to do with anything?" he hissed out impatiently.

She stared down at him and gnawed on her lip.

"I think … I could be wrong, but I think … Narcissa found a way to defeat Voldemort. I think she figured out what horcruxes are."