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AN- Aaand I am back with another update for you lovelies. Firstly: you are all wonderful. Secondly: hope this chapter makes everyone smile.

To Shellmar, moment4lifeee, VeraDeDiamant: Thank you guys so much for your kind words! Seriously, if I could give you all actual hugs I would. Actually, take a mental hug anyway—those are still pretty great, haha. I'm also really glad that you guys feel the connection that I'm trying to establish between them. Anyway, hope this chapter is up to par with your expectations!

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/Where do we belong, where did we go wrong?

If there's nothing here, why are we still here?

It's another time, it's another day—numbers they are new, but it's all the same

Running from yourself, it will never change—if you try you could die

Give us a little love, give us a little love

We never had enough/

-Give Us A Little Love, Fallulah

Chapter 4 – The Minutes in Days

"You need to focus," Draco reprimanded Hermione. She glared, but she was too tired to respond with actual words. They'd been at this for three days so far. "If there's somewhere else you'd rather be, please feel free to tell me because if you aren't going to take this seriously, then I don't know why I bother."

His words riled her up, and made the hairs on her neck stand in anger; she decided she did have enough energy to respond after all.

"Actually, I distinctly remember telling you that I didn't want to learn Occlumency, so yes, there is somewhere else I'd rather be."

"Yes, well," Draco waved her words away dismissively. "You also agreed willingly. This seems to be a habit of yours, isn't it? Agreeing to things, then becoming upset and frustrated when you regret agreeing."

They both knew that he was talking about so much more than Occlumency lessons. Hermione couldn't stand the subtext though, and looked away.

"Can't stand to look the truth in the eye?" Draco pushed. It ate at him that she might regret him, and he couldn't shake the feeling, but he wouldn't hide from it either. After looking into his own soul, there was no way he'd ever hide from the truth again.

But Hermione hadn't seen her own soul. She hadn't mastered or even begun to truly grasp the basics of Occlumency, and so she wasn't keen on facing truth head on. Not this truth. Maybe not ever.

But if this man-boy who she'd always thought was a sniveling rotten ferret could face the truth then so could she…

So she looked him in the eyes, and saw her reflection. She saw herself sitting on the floor, hair in a messy bun, eyes tired, and skin pallid from mental exhaustion. Her nails were digging into her palms, breaking skin, breaking a piece of her as she tried and tried, but all she saw was a woman-child who used to be like the sun to Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley.

She had been the sun, with its brightness and its answers to the universe—there hadn't been a question that Hermione couldn't answer, or a book that didn't have a solution to one of their problems. But books can't talk politics—not really. Books can't teach her how to think or how to react in situations that can't be planned for, and require absolutely zero percent of magic.

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Focus.

But her focus was lost within herself and Draco's eyes; his eyes told her all the truth she could handle, and yet nothing at all and she hated him dearly. She hated him with such a passion that sometimes, when he would kiss her with such pain and concentration, she'd forget to hate him at all—these moments had only happened a few times, but they humbled her because she knew he hated her, too. His hate consumed her, and reminded her that there were people that cared.

There were people who lifted her into the sky, and they were nowhere to be found when she needed it most—when Draco would peer into her mind and know her like she should know herself and see her as she was. On the floor. On her knees. Humbled.

"I miss being put on a pedestal," she admitted quietly to Draco.

Draco nodded his head, and said "Let's try again."

They didn't say it, but they both understood: one truth at a time.

It was one week into Hermione's Occlumency lesson, and one week away from her wedding day. Madam Summerlé, one of the most exclusive seamstresses in Wizarding Britain had outfitted her for her wedding dress yesterday. She couldn't sleep because every time she closed her eyes she saw Ron's betrayed eyes, felt Draco's tempting and haunting touch, the icey tint of her wedding gown, Harry's sad gaze—too much.

She tossed and turned, and tossed some more until finally she stood and walked out of her cold bedroom.

"Can't sleep?" Draco sipped his brandy calmly by the window sill. Hermione shook her head in the affirmative, and went to go to the kitchenette when Draco offered some of his brandy to her silently.

The silence was just as hard as words sometimes, and she wished he would scream like Harry or rant and rave like Ron…but he didn't. Draco wielded silence like shadows do the night, and she cursed his name as she took the brandy offered.

But this was the Draco she saw now, not the one he had been all of last year. Last year's Draco would have given Hermione exactly what she wanted, and needed. But Dumbledore's death had changed so much. The Dark Mark had changed so much. His failure had changed so much. His wounded pride had changed everything.

This Draco wouldn't bend—not even for her.

Hermione needed to get the rage that was slowly building inside of her out, and so she faced him. Him—the husband-to-be who looked like her old enemy in the darkness. Perhaps he still was her enemy despite their upcoming union.

"Did you even think about Pansy when you placed your—when you asked me to—" Hermione tried to lash out, but the words kept getting stuck in her throat. She always pictured her marriage to be a romantic affair, with a proper proposal and happiness.

There had been a lot of emotions swirling the day they agreed to be united, but happiness had not been among them.

"Did you think about your precious Krum when you accepted?" Draco raised an aristocratic eyebrow. He wasn't fazed at all, too used to these word games with Death Eaters—the purpose was all the same: to make someone hurt.

But he wouldn't let her bring him to his knees. Not today. Not ever, he vowed silently, and so he focused on Krum instead of Ron. He already knew that Ronald had been on her mind that day.

"Don't you dare talk about him! You're half the man he is!" Hermione raged, but she recognized her words as lies. She wasn't as sure about who Draco Malfoy was anymore. She hadn't been sure since the day he had kneeled in front of her and kissed her ardently—years of something that had been burning between them, beneath the surface, brought to life in this same room.

"Careful, Granger," Draco's steel gaze pierced her in her spot. "Someone might think you have a soft spot for the guy."

"Oh, wouldn't that just kill you," Hermione smirked darkly. It transformed her features, but more importantly, she felt herself transform. She felt how ugly of a human being she was being, and it tore at her that she couldn't stop—not when she knew she could hurt him. "It would wouldn't it? The mighty Malfoy, second best."

"Ha," Draco gripped his glass harder but his nonchalant façade never cracked. "Is that what keeps you up at night, Granger? How to kill me? Because, frankly, most wives have the decency to at least wait until after the nuptials to start planning how they're going to become widows."

"Most wives haven't been betrothed to you!"

Draco smiled slightly in agreement, and his smile warmed something inside of her. But his smile twisted cruelly and the history came crashing down around her. She couldn't bear the weight of shame that filled her at night, in the dark, for every time she felt something other than resentment and hatred toward him.

Suddenly images appeared in her mind – images that didn't belong to her; Draco pointing a shaking wand at Dumbledore, Draco sitting in the middle of a forest with screaming people running in all directions—a Death Eater raid, Draco burying himself in Pansy's warm and nurturing body, Draco telling Pansy that he could never love her the way she wanted and deserved, Draco running from the Astronomy Tower—the feel of Snape's hand heavy on his arm.

The images came fast and hard, and left her panting and exhausted—a stark contrast to her wakefulness a few moments prior.

"Hate me, Granger," he pleaded darkly. "Hate me."

Hermione didn't understand. But she didn't understand herself either because she heard herself say, "no."

Her denial sat in between them like a double edged knife. What were they even arguing about? It didn't matter.

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Focus.

Draco took another sip of his brandy, and Hermione leaned against the window pane—this was the closest to a truce as they could get. Draco understood the motion for what it was.

"What's keeping you awake?" he asked. No pretenses. Except everything was a pretense with Draco. Since that night on the Astronomy Tower he hadn't been able to breathe without proper calculation.

"I sent Ron and Harry and the Weasley's an invitation to our wedding."

He didn't need to ask. He already knew that they hadn't responded, yet. It was in the way Hermione jumped every single time an owl appeared in the window, or the way she would look longingly into the sky as if the RSVP's would magically appear because she willed it.

"I broke a good woman's heart," Draco sighed, and his sigh held the weight of the world. Hermione didn't need to ask. She knew, and the realization made her pause. Maybe she knew Draco a bit like he knew her.

"Would you really call Pansy a good woman?" Hermione raised her eyebrow. Action, reaction.

"Did you really expect a response from them?" They were back at square one; Draco didn't shy away from this battle. He understood that it was inherently who they were to one another. They were fierce, and this territory was unknown between them.

So they responded the only way they knew how: by taking one step forward and two steps back.

But darkness did things to people that reason could never explain, and instead of burning the white flag, Hermione let herself forget about their history for a second—just a moment. She let their history disappear with every breath and said compassionately, "you can't help not loving someone."

She remembered Ron's admittance that he could love her one day, but all that mattered was that he hadn't loved her that moment. That moment which had decided so much for her. For them.

Draco felt their history seep out of the room through the cracks, and let his body move closer. He was always the one to breech the gaps between them, but it didn't bother him. Invading her space made him feel powerful.

Hermione didn't move away, and her eyes fluttered closed. Why couldn't she let herself want him without reservation? Because she didn't know him. Not really.

But she knew how she felt as his free hand trailed up her arm. She knew that her heart raced whenever he entered her mind, worried about what he might see. She wanted to grasp him and hold him and make him bleed until he could only bleed like she bled.

He brought out the worst in her, and sometimes, sometimes, he brought out the best in her—the girl who could forgive anything and show compassion to her eternal enemy.

But what was worse, the part about them that she couldn't stand was that a lot of the times they were in between their worst and best. It was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness.

This moment was an in-between moment. All he wanted was to kiss her and break her and mold her into a woman who could stand by his side with pride. All he wanted was redemption in her arms, and he wanted to crush the piece of himself that thought she could offer him anything.

Hermione leaned in. The first time she had ever closed the gap between them. Make me love you. But she knew love didn't work that way.

All they had was desire as their lips met and crashed and burned together. Burn. Breathe. More. But they had nothing more to give except instances of desire because they didn't know each other, truly. And as their lips parted, the white flag which hung loosely between them fell to the ground and buried itself beneath miles of concrete.

They had nothing more to give except animosity and tension riddled with bitterness and lust; one truth at a time and this truth hurt though neither would ever admit it.

Two more days. Two more days. But two more days until the wedding might as well be two more seconds for all the anxiety that tore at Hermione's chest.

Breathe. Relax. But she couldn't breathe when she knew what was to come. Marriage. Duty. War. Everything felt like it was piling on top of a hill inside of her and it was going to topple over any moment. Every second that passed was one leading her closer to Draco.

And so she cleaned everything the muggle way. Draco was appalled, but distracted himself with various letters that needed his attention. Hermione wasn't sure what the letters entailed, but she was too anxious to ask.

"For Merlin's sake! You need to settle down, Granger," Draco snapped. He'd had enough of her pacing and incessant cleaning. "You look as if you're about to jump out of your skin!"

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Hermione glared. This was as good of a distraction as she was going to get. "Perhaps you'd like an award for your marvelous skills of observation?"

"Yes, please. I'd take you sitting the bloody hell down as a wonderful award."

"Aren't you the tiniest bit nervous?"

"About what?" Draco asked, but he already knew. He felt like his insides were rearranging themselves, but Hermione couldn't know that. Hermione could only see the cracks as disregard.

"About what?" Hermione practically screeched. Her heart wouldn't stop running a million miles per hour, and she couldn't fathom that he wouldn't feel the same. "About our marriage, that's what!"

He smirked in that arrogant manner of his that infuriated her and lit her afire in the most wonderfully uncomfortable way.

"I have every faith that I can handle our marital affairs," he licked his lips lasciviously.

"You're disgusting," Hermione turned her back to him so he wouldn't see the burn on her cheek or the fire in her eyes. It was a two-fold fire that spoke volumes about their hate, and about how deeply she desired.

But Draco could read her anyway. He read the tension in her shoulders, and the rigidity in her posture, and saw. He saw the way her hair shimmered in the light, and the way her skin looked like the smoothest silk. He saw her innocence, and panic, and understood now in a way that he hadn't fully grasped when he stole Pansy's virtue on a cold winter night.

He knew he needed to go back to his correspondence, but there was a fire in his veins that sprung suddenly; he remembered the day he had first called her a mudblood, and the tears that had glistened in her eyes—she had looked so beautiful, in contrast to how she normally looked to him, that he vowed to make her cry as often as he could.

It had been juvenile and obsessive, but he honestly thought that there was no prettier woman alive than Hermione Granger when she was crying. He had also been disgusted at himself for such thoughts.

Her tears were like water in the desert to him, but all the time she had simply thought he was cruel. She had thought the worst, and he had let her because he'd rather her think him mean than know the truth. But he wasn't ashamed of the truth, not anymore. Not ever again.

Draco stood from his position and walked right behind Hermione. His body heat cloaked her, and awakened her as well. His hands lifted and settled on her shoulders, and her breath sped up in panic—she wasn't ready. Too much, too soon.

Draco knew her fear and said uncharacteristically softly, "We'll take it as slow as you need, Granger."

Her disgust had vanished, and in its place was surprise at his ability to be overtly kind.

"I've never—" Hermione whispered.

"I know," Draco responded just as quietly.

He wanted to explain that he would be kind to her, and that she had nothing to worry about but he wouldn't lie—the first time would bring her pain. Her pain would bring tears and her tears would feed something inside of him that growled and thirsted for her. He would enjoy her pain in a sick way that he really shouldn't, but can't help.

An owl plucked at the window, breaking the moment which had overcome Hermione and Draco. The owl was non-descript, but Draco knew the instant he saw it that everything would change. It was in the way Hermione smiled when she opened the letter, then hid her smile, and changed it to a frown.

"Harry and Ron won't be coming to the wedding," she pursed her lips. "No surprise there really."

Draco hmm'd noncommittally, but with a swiftness that came with being a seeker for so many years, he snatched the letter from her hands. Hermione tried to retrieve it back, but Draco simply side-stepped her. By the time her fingers enclosed around the letter, it was too late. Draco had already read its contents. Keep an eye out for feathers and ashes.

"I guess it's their loss. I'm sure the cake and cheese will be wonderful," Draco shrugged, but his gaze was full of meaning.

He'd read the letter. She watched helplessly as he read it; it was pretty clear in the letter, though it was in code, that Ron and Harry would go to the wedding, masquerading as someone other than themselves. But they'd be there.

So why the pretense? Why verbally go along with what was clearly a lie and a betrayal on her part? She needed to know.

"Why?" She couldn't finish the question, fill in the blanks. Their relationship was already loaded with so many why's that, frankly, an answer to any of them was better than no answer at all.

"Because to suspect is never the same thing as to know." It was his way of demonstrating loyalty. It was his way of teaching her what the word means to him. "To know in your heart is never the same as to hear it with your own ears…and in two days' time you'll be my wife…and I'll expect that same fealty in return."

His words struck something inside of Hermione, and she couldn't shake it no matter how many seconds passed by.

"I can't betray the Order," she said slowly. She wanted to sound steadfast, but the truth of the matter was that Hermione wasn't so sure that Draco with his devilish charm and soul-seeing gaze couldn't tempt her somehow, someway to betray her friends in the end. No. Never that, she vowed to herself.

"I'm not asking you to, just like you haven't asked me to betray the Dark Lord," Draco responded silkily. And he was right. Because to know in your heart is never the same as to hear it with you own ears. But he will betray Voldemort. By knowing that Harry and Ron will be at his wedding and not telling him, Draco will be betraying Voldemort.

Small acts of defiance, but what's more Malfoy-ish than to protect what's his? Hermione understood that. She was his. And he cared. All he asked for was her acceptance that once married, he'd be hers, too.

Loyalty to each other above all else; the one truth that they both could actually stomach.

So, what do you guys think? I secretly love this chapter. I was trying to give you important snippets of time spent together between their agreement and their wedding day. Anywho, liked it? Hated it? Let me know and Review! :)