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A.N. – Thank you so much to everyone who has favorited, followed, or reviewed! Seriously, you all rock. On that note, hope everyone enjoys this chapter! :)

To EndlessLoveEternally, mzutie8, LanaLee1, Stellaluna, LadyRana, and Guest: Thank you sooo much for reviewing! Honestly, reviews put a serious smile on my face, and I look forward to each one no matter how short or long. You guys are awesome!

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/And even though I know this fire brings me pain

Even so, and just the same

Make it rain/

-Make It Rain, Koryn Hawthorne

Chapter 2 – The Circle of Pain

If love had wings, it would fly from person to person until the entire universe could fall in love. But love ran into a tornado and was swept up, forever lost, while Hermione and Draco sat in silence in the same hotel suite, drinking silently from their tea cups, as they filled out all the forms necessary to make their agreement official before either of them could change their minds.

She knew agreeing to this without officially allowing McLaggen to plead his case, or Ron to dissuade her of her choice was rude, but…

Silence was better than the vitriol that might spew from their lips if they spoke unchecked. Sometimes silence was better.

Finally, Hermione signed the last document and rested her hand. She'd been here for hours—room service had come and gone twice. Draco had barely uttered a word the entire time, besides asking her if she liked the accommodations. She'd thought the question was strange, but didn't make mention of it.

"Well, I should get going," Hermione stood awkwardly. "I need to spread the news to Harry and Ron."

"Are you staying at the Weasley's?" his voice was sharp, but nothing too out of the ordinary.

"Of course, that's where I always stay when I'm in wizarding Britain."

"I see," Draco turned around and walked to the window. She noticed that he did that often. "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable staying at this hotel?"

"No, I'm fine at the Weasley's," Hermione said flippantly as she grabbed her purse. "I've probably spent more time there then I have in my own house over the last few years."

"Let me rephrase," Draco's voice was hard as steel, making Hermione pause and her temper flare just on principle. "It would be more appropriate if you were to stay at this hotel."

"What's wrong with the Weasley's?!" Hermione exploded, her hands on her hips.

"What's wrong with my fiancé staying over the house of the suitor she rejected?" Draco raised his eyebrow infuriatingly. Hermione wanted to slap the eyebrow right off of his face. "Absolutely nothing," he finished sarcastically.

Hermione could see why Draco would have a problem with it, and she could even see why it was slightly inappropriate, but what she couldn't abide by was the way he said it. As if she didn't have a choice. Her choice was the only thing she wasn't willing to give up—no matter what.

"Exactly," she rebutted. "I rejected his application, so since there's no conflict there, it isn't really inappropriate. And on that note, when I want your opinion on my lodgings, I'll ask for it!"

She had tried to state her argument lightly, but the more she spoke, the angrier she became. She wanted to waltz out with a magnificent exit, but something in the way Draco stood—eerily still—made her stay where she was.

"Is that so?" he said softly. Too softly. The hairs on Hermione's neck stood up, and her shoulder's tensed. Murderer.

But he had admitted that he had never killed anyone before, and the thought comforted her slightly. The air was tense, and room service walked into this cold war—a pretty girl with old eyes, noting the tension and wisely remained quiet as she removed the food, and then herself.

The door closed with a quiet click, and suddenly, without warning, Draco's hand was gripping her arm painfully, and their bodies were pressed against each other. His wand was nowhere in sight, and so the thought never crossed Hermione's mind to try and pull out hers.

"Listen to me carefully, Granger," Draco's breath fanned her face, and she could hardly breathe. She hated him so fiercely that she was consumed, and all she could do is grip his forearm right back. "I can deal with a lot of things: the Order about to have a backdoor entrance to my home, your loyalty to Potter, but what I won't deal with is you disgracing our union. Not ever."

"And how is staying at the Weasley's for the next few weeks going to disgrace us?"

"People talk, Granger! People always talk, and they'll say that you're marrying me, but you really want him, and that's why you're staying with the Weasley's."

His words were sharp, and angry, but there was a sentiment behind them that Hermione wasn't sure how to grasp.

"They'll make me out to be a gold-digger," she said evenly. Draco nodded to the accuracy of her words, but frankly, she didn't care. After spending the better part of her life in the magical community, she'd learned that things like that mattered to Pureblood families—even the Weasley's, but Hermione was Muggle-born and always would be. A marriage couldn't change that, and in the Muggle world…the prevailing ideology was do what you want, when you want, and damn what anyone else has to say about it.

But none of that answered the question that mattered the most, so Hermione, fearlessly, asked, "why do you care?"

Unfortunately, Draco cared very much because he couldn't abide the world thinking the he was second best to a Weasley. Over his dead body—the very thought almost made him sick, but he would never admit it.

The moment of silence stretched between them, until she wanted to squirm, and take it back; but just when she'd had enough, Draco said, "I care about what's mine."

And just like that she could breathe again. And she felt disgusted that such words could garner a response from her. She missed the hate consuming his eyes, too occupied with her own; he hated that he craved for her to be his. He hated her…he hated himself…They.

Her self-disgust was too great, and she pushed at him, and ripped her arm away, scratching his in the process. Blood. Pure. His. It was under her fingernails, soaking into her skin—she couldn't take it. Too much.

Draco, on the other hand, could only stare at how bright his blood looked on her skin. He could only focus on the sensation of the shallow cut—replaying the feel of her causing him pain. He wanted her.

She wanted him, too.

They. They remembered the feel of the other's lips, the electricity that fights the current of the waves in their veins…under their skin…But she turned, and sped away from him, letting the gap between them grow and grow until the ocean could fill the space between Draco and the door Hermione grasped with one hand; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness.

He wanted to ask her not to stay at the Weasley's, but his pride was a force of nature to which he was always taught to submit to. Hermione knew, and yet to know and to understand were never the same thing; but the papers were signed. The magic was sealed. All that's left was the ceremony. She'd have to make this work…but there wasn't a wand to her head. She could still back out, they both knew it.

What do you want, he'd asked, and she still didn't know. But she remembered the kiss so clearly, and she wished to be drowned again and again until she discovered her own truth. So, she turned halfway, hand gripping the doorknob, eyes steady on wall, and said, "I won't be your dutiful wife, Malfoy. I won't kiss your feet and bow to your every will just because it's your will."

He heard her, and heard what she was saying without words—by sheer fact that she hadn't left yet. "I'm not asking that you bow."

"Just obey," Hermione threw back, and they both knew it was true.

"Serving the Dark Lord is…hard," he said seemingly completely left field.

"Want an award, Malfoy?" Hermione gritted her teeth. "Everything is hard nowadays. You made that choice."

"I am who I am, Granger," Draco walked over to her slowly, counting the steps, giving himself time to come up with some game plan….but his instincts ruled supreme, and when he reached her he leaned down, swept her mass of bushy curls aside with one hand, and placed his lips softly on her skin.

More, Hermione thought as her eyes fluttered. Please.

But he didn't press harder, and she didn't plead.

They, even in a moment fraught with tension and need.

"I am who I am," he repeated as he pressed another kiss softly, but it was one too many, and he couldn't help pressing his body against her. Hermione, like the rock that she is, didn't move an inch and closed her eyes, letting herself be moved somewhere deep within her.

Murderer.

Her eyes flew open, and she turned to slap him away, but his body crowded her, and pressed her against the door as he inhaled her scent, and whispered in hidden agony, "I am who I am."

His eyes were closed, and he felt like the world was caving in on his chest—he felt so heavy. I am who I am, and this truth was as much of an apology as she'd ever get, but Hermione didn't need an apology. She heard what he hadn't said; Draco couldn't ask her not to stay at the Weasley's because his pride couldn't take the hit.

It all came together in that wonderful aha! moment she'd get in class. Serving Voldemort had already ripped his pride to shreds—Voldemort who wanted him to obey and bow.

She understood, but the hate she felt ran too deep, despite her desire. He let Death Eaters into Hogwarts; he may not have said the Killing curse, but he may as well have killed Dumbledore himself.

But his pain, though buried, was like an infected cut. Like the Dark Mark…and so she did the only thing she could do: Hermione lifted her lips to his cheek, so close, but didn't brush her lips over the skin, and said "I'll bring my things back here once I'm done."

Her words anchored him back into reality, and he inhaled her one more time, letting her smell fill him. Letting her smell him, too. They, and it would always be complicated. He wanted to sink into a quicksand made of her essence—so pure and righteous. He hated how she sat on a moral high horse, but he couldn't deny that she played her part well. Too well. His disdain for her, so mixed with the need to possess and condemn her, allowed him to move away from her.

The space was enough, and without another word she left.

Mrs. Weasley was overbearing as usual when Hermione walked through the door. Nonetheless, her motherliness warmed Hermione's heart considering she wouldn't see her parents until after the war was over considering she had painfully erased their memories and sent them to Australia.

Obliviation, contrary to popular belief, wasn't a painless act—especially not when done by an amateur. Memories were a part of a person, rooted in their essence. To extract a memory is like taking a piece of someone's soul—what makes them them, because every moment shapes the person they will be the next moment, day, year.

Hermione would never forget the way her parents screamed…she had felt like a monster, stripping them of any memory of having a daughter. Their screams would haunt her randomly since it had happened; they were like ghosts haunting her, forcing the guilt up. She would live to be one hundred and never forget…if she survived the upcoming war, that is.

I would protect you over anything in the world, Draco had said, but she couldn't focus on that. Not now, when she may sever one of the most important ties in her life.

They were in the kitchen at Grimmauld's place, and an Order meeting would be starting soon with the same core. Snape stood off the side, watching silently. Despite Dumbledore's letter to the Weasley's, Mad-eye Moody, and Remus explaining the circumstances surrounding his death right before it happened, many were still skittish around him—even more so than ever—so he kept to the corner as if it were a church offering salvation.

Mrs. Weasley bustled about, Remus sat calmly like only he can amidst so many people, and Moody sat, nursing what appeared to be coffee but everyone knew was spiked with some type of liquor. Mr. Weasley had yet to return from the Ministry, but that wasn't a new occurrence—the meeting would start with or without him at 8pm sharp. Ten more minutes.

Ron and Harry were looking at The Prophet, while Ginny—who'd be sent away as soon as the meeting started—was hovering over their shoulders. Harry, she knew, was just trying to look busy so he wouldn't have to face Snape. Too much history between them, too.

"So, how did everything go?" Remus Lupin asked.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her—some a cursory glance to make sure she was unharmed, while others in expectation.

"It went…unexpectedly," Hermione said slowly. She didn't want to do this. She didn't. But it was the opening she'd been waiting for, for the last minute.

"Did Malfoy cry when you turned him down? Please tell me he cried," Harry joked, but there was genuine contempt underneath the words that peaked through.

"He didn't cry…" Be strong. Be strong. "Because I didn't turn him down."

The smiles in the room disappeared. No one moved. It was as if time had been suspended, and they were all frozen with looks of shock emerging on their faces.

"Oh," Ron forced a dry laugh. "I get it. That's not funny 'Mione."

"No…it's not," Hermione had to swallow the lump in her throat to get the words out. Tears sprung to her eyes unbidden. "But it's also not a joke."

"What?" Harry sprung from his seat in fury. His eyes, though, were pleading with her to fix this, whatever this was.

"Oh dear," Molly gripped the kitchen counter with her hand and will made of iron. One look towards her heartbroken son made an angry fire burn within her towards Hermione.

Suddenly, as though the floodgates had opened, questions started barreling her way with no time for Hermione to actually answer any of them. But all Hermione saw was him. Ron. His crystal clear blue eyes so confused, his heart on his sleeve, a whirlwind picking up speed until there was determination etched into every inch of his face. He wouldn't lose, not to Malfoy. Not ever.

But he had already lost, and he didn't know it.

"Stop," Remus shouted, and the shock of this mild-mannered man raising his voice silenced the room. He nodded in approval, and continued. "Now, why don't we give Hermione a chance to explain."

The only one who hadn't said a word or asked a question was Snape, so Hermione looked at him and found an emotion she couldn't describe, but it wasn't condemnation so she held onto it firmly, drew strength from it, and looked toward her best friends.

Explain. How could she explain what she barely understood herself? But she had to try.

"Why?" Ron asked simply.

"He made me an offer that I couldn't refuse," Hermione replied just as simply. That was her ugly truth.

"Hermione," Harry tried to reason with her. "Whatever he offered you, you can't trust it. You can't. He's a Death Eater."

"So is Snape," Hermione pointed out thoughtlessly. The second the words were out of her mouth she felt like a cad.

This is how she repaid his lack of comment or condemnation? She felt as though she truly was a monster. But the internal self-flagellation wasn't needed because no one commented, though some did squirm a bit. Harry was the only one who obviously wanted to say something rude, but he held himself back; it was a testament to how much they'd all changed in such a short time.

The difference at how they act, with restraint, now that there was no Dumbledore to shield them.

"Hermione…" Remus paused to try to word his thoughts carefully. This was already a precarious situation, and he didn't want to escalate it. "You realize that this isn't the best of ideas, right?"

"I know," Hermione answered truthfully. She remembered silver eyes that knew it too, but shook her head to clear the image from her mind. "I'm taking a leap of faith, I guess."

"A leap of faith?" Ron finally exploded. It truly was a miracle that he hadn't sooner. "You're going to marry scum, and you want to call it a leap of faith, woman?"

"I'm not asking any of you to understand, Ron."

"Good, because I don't understand." Ron pierced her with a look she'd never seen on his face before. "I—I know that we hadn't ever really spoken about it, and you know I'm not the greatest with feelings, and all that, but, well, we had—there was an understanding, wasn't there? I didn't just make that up did I?"

"No, you didn't," Hermione croaked out. His emotion startled her own to the surface with a vengeance.

"I don't have a mansion or a bank full of gold, but—don't do this," Ron pleaded and Hermione's heart broke in a way she didn't know was possible.

"It's already done, Ron" Hermione croaked out, too full of emotion.

"No it's not," he shot back fiercely. His eyes bore into hers like she had the solution to the mystery of the universe. "You can still back out—we'll go to the ministry right now, wake the whole bloody place up if we have to. There's still time." Hermione went to speak but he shot her down with a look and continued. "You deserve to be loved. More than money or jewels you deserve to be loved."

No one said a word, too enraptured with the scene—of the promise of young love unfulfilled and unreasoned that was laying bear for them all on display in the kitchen that never saw any good news. No one could speak even if they wanted to. Too much.

"Do you love me, Ron?" Hermione had to ask—if he said he did, she'd take it all back. She'd walk away from Malfoy's kisses that hurt so good, if Ron loved her.

But Ron looked away guiltily…because, no matter how much he was so sure he could make her happy…no matter how positive he was that he could fall in love with her given some time…he didn't love her today, and that's all that mattered.

"So, what?" Harry interjected. "You're just going to marry him? Ignore the fact that he's a Death Eater?"

"Harry has a point," Remus pointed out. "What will you do once you're forced in front of You-Know-Who?"

The question was a valid one, but Hermione couldn't think that far ahead. She couldn't, or else she'd never go through with the wedding. Murderer. No, she reasoned, not murderer. Not yet.

"She'll spy," Moody exclaimed with a look filled with triumph. Only an auror could see the angle in such a situation.

"She's just a child," Molly practically screeched. But her protest fell on deaf ears because everyone knew that once she was married to Malfoy, she'd be in the thick of it all whether she spied or not.

"You think Malfoy wouldn't be expecting that? Maybe he only petitioned for Hermione so he can spy on us through her," Harry said reasonably.

The fire and anger were gone, and in its place was a friend—through his anger he had realized that Hermione had always backed him up, despite his bad decisions at times…and it was his turn to back her up…to be an actual friend. But he wouldn't deny that it hurt. Somewhere inside of him he felt betrayed, though he knew he didn't have a right to feel that way.

"Yes, let's speculate instead of asking the source," Snape finally put his two cents in with an insulting drawl that had Harry grinding his teeth together. "What reason did Mr. Malfoy give you, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione wanted to crawl and beg forgiveness, because though her head swore that everything Harry had said was correct, and true…she remembered the way his lips tasted on hers, the way his body melded against hers, how it had all felt like too much and not enough because or despite of their mutual hatred for the other.

Hermione remembered the way his eyes had looked the night of the Yule Ball when he had realized that she was on Krum's arm. The disgust and jealousy that had fought within a sea of silver had torn through any barrier and all she could remember of the first half of the night was how hard she had tried to not look at him. She kept reminding herself whenever her eyes strayed to him that she was just a mudblood in his eyes, and he was just scum in her eyes. And yet…

"Hermione?" Harry inquired, and brought her back to Earth…and subsequently away from the memory of Malfoy.

Hermione's eyes shot back to Snape, and realized that, though he had asked the question someone eventually would have asked…something in his eyes told her he already knew the answer. The knowledge that Hermione and Draco's twisted emotions concerning each other wasn't private made her blush.

Everyone saw the blush and misinterpreted it as embarrassment at sharing such an intimate conversation such as marriage.

"Well, go on, girl," Moody encouraged gruffly. "No need to be shy. What did the boy say?"

"He told me that…"Hermione paused, and collected her thoughts. She'd give them the only truth they asked for and not an inch more, she decided. "He said that if he had to marry a muggle-born then he wanted the best one."

Surprise etched itself into every face except Snape's. His face was as impassive as always, and Hermione felt exposed—as though he could see her every secret.

"Typical Malfoy," Harry grumbled. "Entitled wanker, even after everything that's happened."

The door was heard opening and closing, and not a moment sooner Tonks and Bill walked into the kitchen, but no one paid them any heed. Someone would explain the situation to them later.

"Regardless, this is still an opportunity," Moody determined aloud.

"What you're asking of her is dangerous, Alaster," Remus cut in.

"Is Ms. Granger planning on changing her mind?" Snape once again cut through the situation.

Everyone looked at her with variations of the same sentiment: hope. But hope shined like it can die—in an instant.

"No, I'm not," she said with a finality that she felt deep in her bones. Please understand, please. But she saw that they didn't.

She saw firsthand, for the first time in her life, hope withering away in the eyes of Harry and Ron. She'd done that. Monster.

"See, the girl's already going to be in danger," Moody argued his point. "Might as well let her situation serve the cause. I'm not saying that she should poke her nose in everywhere, but to keep her ears open for anything that might be useful to know."

No one could fault his logic. She truly was doing this to herself—what harm could there be in helping the Order? Betraying Malfoy.

But it wasn't betrayal, not really. The words Draco had spoken earlier rush back to Hermione: I can deal with a lot of things: the Order about to have a backdoor entrance to my home, your loyalty to Potter.

He knew. Before she'd even thought of it, Draco had known that her love for Harry, her passion for eradicating Voldemort would take precedence over her duty to him. He knew and he accepted it.

This knowledge was as close to a blessing as she would get from Draco, so she took it with a deep breath. She inhaled his scent that still lingered on her skin and let the words of assent leave her lips.

When Hermione returned to the hotel suite, Draco was nowhere near sight. She felt his absence acutely, and let the strange emotion crawl inside a corner of her heart and die slowly.

Murderer. He didn't deserve to be noticed or missed, she determined…but her traitorous mind brought his kiss to the forefront—it felt so real for a moment that she could have sworn he'd arrived and laid one on her. What was she doing? What's wrong with her? Them?

She flicked her wand and her luggage went sailing into the nearest bedroom. She looked at her wand—ten inches and three quarters long, vine wood with a dragon heartstring core. She felt the magic go through it, and remembered how it had felt the first time she'd held it in her hand…a lot like it had felt to kiss Malfoy.

The knowledge gave her the strength to curl up on the sofa, as though she were a little girl again, and cry until the Earth could be flooded. She cried until her soul felt purged of those feelings, all the while holding fast to her wand and the deliverance it offered.

She cried until she fell asleep, the moon high in the sky by then working its magic of rebirth; she never noticed that Draco had arrived, or that he had watched her from the doorway, completely still, as she wept…letting her tears chip at the dirt on his soul…tempting him with salvation with every tear, if only he'd walk over and comfort her.

He never did, but, perhaps someday. Someday, just not today.

Sooo? What do you guys think?! It took so much out of me to write this because of all the conflicting internal emotions. Anywho, hate it? Like it? Let me know and Review! **Reviews are Love**