The Silk Thread

by LoverGurrl411

Dumbledore's dead, the ministry's desperate and crumbling around them, and war is on the horizon-but the only war that truly matters has yet to begin: the war of hearts. In between silence and hatred lies a twisted desire that will either consume them, or help them survive Voldemort's rise to power together. Marriage Law Fic. AU Seventh Year. HBP Compliant.

11. The Crossing of Minds and Hearts

Disclaimer – I own nothing

A.N –Hey guys! So life has been super hectic, and writing this chapter has taken so much out of me, but hopefully it was all worth it and you all enjoy it! Eeek! Buckle up because here we go, folks. Sidenote: I am fully aware that Neville's birthday is in July in canon, but I sort of forgot while writing the outline of the story, and this chapter, and so for the sake of this story, his birthday is in November—don't shoot!

I'd like to give a massive THANK YOU and I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE IN MY LIFE to my beta and friend ellabelle12! Without your honesty this chapter wouldn't be what it is and without your moral support, last semester of school would've been on another level of hell. :*

To whitewallskill, LABM, Guest (1), Beth, CheshyreGrin, not yo gurl, BoredRavenvlaw620, .go, anon, YEY, Natural-BohoChick, viola1701e, LightninghtRose, Evanelle, accio-echo, xXMizz Alec VolturiXx, Kyonomiko, Nargles Inspector, ashenrenee, Guest (2), Jhuffy, Guest (3), Nichole O, Mistress DragonFlame, roni2010, Scaleybark, MrsMorgan813, pgoodrichboggs, oblivionbaby, olivieblake, Gnoloo, WarMad13, kitcatscratch, brigittar: You guys are the light in my dark tunnel when I'm writing. Your kind words inspire me to keep writing, and that is the greatest gift I could ever ask for. You are each one of you, with your lovely words and your criticism, my muse. I can't express enough how happy your reviews make me, except to say that I really do re-read them often. I've spent months working on this chapter, and I seriously hope it's up to par, and that you guys enjoy it! :)

/I found the Devil, I found him in a lover

And his lips like tangerines, and his color coded speak

Now we're lost somewhere in outer space, in a hotel room where demons play

They run around beneath our feet, we roll around beneath these sheets

I've got a lover, a love like religion—I'm such a fool for sacrifice

It's coming down, down, coming down/

-Coming Down, Halsey

Chapter 11 – The Crossing of Minds and Hearts

The sweat dripped off Draco's forehead as his body heat rose higher and higher, the longer he ran.

Screams.

Blood.

Never stop running, because if he stopped then he had to accept that he was a monster. If he stopped he'd have to understand; not just know, but truly comprehend on the deepest level that he was scum.

He spilt blood like he drowned himself in Hermione—effortlessly—as he ran, pointing his wand and shouting curses without thought; some he'd learned from Voldemort, others from his father who wanted him to be a true Black and a true Malfoy.

But it wasn't good enough. It was never good enough. Not for the Dark Lord who watched him carefully, vigilantly. It almost felt like Voldemort never took his eyes off him (even when he wasn't around), and fuck did it feel like he was trying to walk across buildings on the shakiest ladder created on Earth.

Screams.

Blood.

Please! Help!

But help didn't come because Draco terrorized the way he fucked—brutally, meticulously, with complete control and complete abandon, until his very essence was a jumble of Crucios, Avada Kedavras, and some of the most heinous curses to ever be created. Curses like insidia that made a person think leeches were eating through their skin so they attacked themselves; curses like intreanato that caused a person's innards to rebel and bust through their belly button and wrap around their neck and choke themselves until their eyes were bulging and bloodshot; curses like male coralinte, which caused a person to eat their own heart out.

Pieces of bodies exploded and rained down around him like horror and the worst sort of mischief.

He was a machine. He was a man who'd never learnt how to be better, and Hermione's eyes—so honest, so pure, so fucking forgiving—watched him as he committed cruelty after cruelty. She watched him as the cries of muggleborns, people like her, bathed him until he felt glorious and rectified—justified.

It didn't matter that she wasn't actually there—he saw her. She was always with him, always watching him, even when she was miles away. She'd imprinted herself that fully into his life, his very essence.

He stopped to breathe, to watch his work in action. He was abhorrent, and he couldn't change.

"That's it," Lucius patted Draco on the shoulder as a muggle pleaded for mercy, and Draco ignored the faceless, random man as though he couldn't hear him.

There was something about the screams of others—after so many, Draco couldn't tell the difference. There was no difference, not to Draco. Everyone felt their own pain acutely. Everyone felt like no one had ever felt pain like they've suffered. Everyone was the same in their self-centeredness, and he wasn't moved. Sadly, he hadn't ever been moved. But Hermione made him feel her pain. With a simple gaze, she could make his stomach lurch, and bile rise up to his throat. He'd ignore the feeling, always, but it was there.

It was there, and it reminded him of how helpless he'd been once upon a time. It reminded him of how less of a man he'd been.

The urge, that overwhelming twitch in his heart, to kneel at her feet and pray and corrupt himself with her innocence and light, reminded him that he was a slave to the Dark Lord, and he'd never willingly be a slave again.

So every time she looked at him, he wanted to rage, and break. He wanted to kill, and these nights of revels…these nights of torture and mayhem—they were his salvation from Hermione's touch.

These nights of Revel reminded him who he was.

Screams.

Blood.

You don't have to do this! Please!

But he did have to do this. He had to do this to rise above the burning pit of hate that burned him. He had to do this, or he'd never—

"I knew you'd be a natural," Lucius smiled proudly at his son. His only son, the joy in his life. They were standing in a pool of blood, but neither took notice.

"Takes after the old man, alright!" Rodolphus Lestrange grinned.

They were men. They were monsters. They were soldiers in a war against themselves, trying so hard to be men, whatever the hell that entailed.

Screams.

Blood.

Draco wanted to take off again, death his witness, as curses flew off his tongue, hitting random muggles and muggleborns alike as he went, leaving his father, his family behind.

It was a natural instinct to never stop running, because if he stopped for too long, if he let his father and uncle—other Death Eaters—catch up to him and really look, then they'd realize that he wasn't like them. Not really. Not like he should be.

"It's that Black blood," Bellatrix approached them with a hungry look in her eyes, blood spatter soaked into the skin above her chest. "Of course he'd be a natural."

They all laughed. They laughed because to have Black blood was to be dark, destroyed, and dipped in the most horrendous parts of human nature.

Draco picked up his feet, and ran again, the darkest curses upon his lips unleashed without thought or pause. Terror his form of poison. Hermione's phantom eyes chasing him as he went.

Screams.

Blood.

Never stop running, because their laughter and smiles haunted him; if he stopped for too long, then they'd notice he wasn't smiling too.

---

Their marriage was a maze. It was the kind that turned sharply, and ended abruptly, only to force the maze runner to find a new path.

Hermione was no expert, but she'd figured out over the slow months which nights it was okay to talk, and which nights she shouldn't say anything at all. But sometimes the silence was too much. Sometimes the silence was filled with secrets that threatened to destroy them.

Sometimes she was too weak, too self-absorbed, to be silent. Sometimes she felt too fragile, too full of self-indulgence—self-pity, to say anything at ll. Tonight was one of those nights, and as she watched Draco take off his soaked clothes, heavy she assumed from the chilly early November rain outside, it wasn't until she saw his arms and hands that she realized he was soaked in blood, and her stomach churned. Who had she married? What kind of person was he? But she already knew the answers to those questions. He was a Malfoy, and he'd do whatever he needed to.

Including maim, kill, and torture.

It was too much. Her eyes couldn't focus, and her nails dug into her palm.

The blood had been so much that some had soaked through his cloak and dress shirt, and covered his chest, and arms. His ivory skin, streaked with such a bright red made a sense of bitterness and horror sweep upon her. His shoes and pants hit the floor with a quiet thud. It sickened her how beautiful he was, despite the clear proofs of his monstrosity.

"What have you done?" she asked horrified. Her eyes filled with tears, and her nails broke the skin on the inside of her palms, she was clenching her fists so hard.

He didn't spare her a glance or a word as he stepped into their private bathroom and attempted to wash his sins away. The water spray began to beat against him, brutalizing him as it purified him.

What have you done?

Hermione listened to the soothing sound of the water, but didn't take her eyes off the blood soaked clothes on the ground in front of the door.

The black cloak hid the blood of Draco's victims, but she knew it was there. The clothes might as well have been white, for all it did to hide his sins from her.

What have you done?

The silver mask was on the ground, stark against his black clothes that were heavy with the screams of those he'd killed tonight. How many times had he ripped his soul? How many times had he damned himself?

Hermione stood abruptly; the world swayed for a moment but she ignored the vertigo, swept the clothes from the ground, and brashly walked across to the fireplace. She hated these clothes. They were testament, and burden. They were the truth of the man she was slowly feeling so much for.

She couldn't accept this. Not this. Anything but this. So she threw the clothes into the fireplace, and watched them burn. She watched until the dark cloak, dress shirt, and pants were nothing but pieces of ash dancing in the fire.

"Don't lie to yourself, Granger" Draco said quietly from the bathroom doorway, his hips and thighs covered only by a towel. She tilted her head a bit to the side in his direction, but she couldn't bear to look at him. Not while her hands were stained red with the blood from his clothes.

She looked as guilty as him.

"Go to sleep, Malfoy," she responded hoarsely. Her eyes were trained on her hands that shook. Who had she married?

"Don't lie to yourself," he repeated, and walked up to her. His front brushed against her back, and she wasn't sure whether it was okay to feel the pleasurable goosebumps that arose along her arms.

She hated him for making her feel that way.

What have you done?

"I'm not, Malfoy," she grit her teeth, angered at her inability to push him away—angered even further at her ability to push her emotions away, all the horror she felt.

"Yes, you are," Draco lifted his arms, and engulfed her from behind. His hands grabbed hers, and the blood was still slick, and imprinted itself on his long, elegant fingers. They were both dirty, tainted, so fucking guilty. He whispered into her ear, "You're trying to convince yourself that I'm better than I am. But don't kid yourself—I'm not. I'm not, and I'll never be. I've killed, and yeah, sometimes I hated it, but sometimes I fucking loved it—feeling powerful and untouchable, and that's who I am. So don't lie and tell yourself that I'm not like them. Because I am. I am, and you married me knowing that I was."

He was right. He was so damned right that Hermione wanted to weep, and shout that if only she'd known beforehand, but she had known. She had known exactly who he was, and that'd been the reason why she'd said yes.

What have you done?

It was too late to turn back now. They were too far gone to ask for release—of their turpitudes, of their hearts that were slowly becoming intertwined.

Draco's lips grazed the space under her ear, and Hermione shuddered. Yes, yes.

It didn't matter that there was blood on their hands; blood wasn't new to them; anger wasn't new to them either, and Hermione had felt hate and washed blood off his clothes too many times to count for this to be a special event—she'd made it a habit to wash his clothes the same night he came back so as to avoid the house elves seeing the proof of who she married; she'd check her reflection each morning after she washed his clothes, looking for signs she'd been crying that she needed to glamour away; none of this was new.

His lips were like silk against her skin. Yes, yes. It didn't matter that his mask was on the floor, creating a black hole of despair between them the more he wore it. Nothing mattered because, please don't ever stop.

Never.

The friction between their bodies as Hermione pushed herself against his front caused the towel covering his modesty to fall.

Neither noticed because there were demons chasing Draco, and he felt like he couldn't breathe for a moment. Hermione felt the hitch in his breath and turned precipitously to gaze at him. Her arms were still trapped in his grasp as he let go of her hands and ran his blood soaked finger up her arm, until his fingers were digging into the soft flesh of her upper arm.

Hermione let her hand rest on his chest, over his heart, and tried to see into him. But there were too many demons for her to slay. There were too many deaths at his hands for her to ever pretend that any of that was okay.

Instead she gave him the only thing she had to give. "I love you," she whispered, heartbroken, confused. "You're okay—I've got you. I've got you, Malfoy. I love you. Always. No matter what."

Neither knew if she was telling the truth, and it was so different from where they started.

"Fuck, I'm yours, Granger," Draco whispered harshly as his lips descended upon hers. "Never fucking doubt—I'm yours. Only yours."

Their passion was unstoppable; but Hermione couldn't forget—she wouldn't forget. Not tonight, not after the smell of burnt clothes still permeated the air.

She pushed him away, tears stinging her eyes, hate burning in her heart, and asked him, "what have you done?"

Draco knew his answer wouldn't change the horror she felt. "I did what I had to, Granger. I always do what I have to."

"How—how can you stand there as if nothing happened? How dare you stand there as if you did nothing tonight?"

Hermione's body shook with all the rage she felt, and she felt vindicated when she saw pain in his eyes, when his skin paled even further that he looked sick.

"You don't get to judge me, princess," Draco growled harshly, sneer in perfect place. "Not until you're the one surrounded by Death Eaters—not until you're the one looking down the end of someone's wand, knowing that your choices don't just affect you."

"That excuses nothing!" Hermione snapped, and she was in front of him, shoving him, angrily rubbing the tears that had started to fall off her face; the blood had dried on her hands, stuck. "What did you do? Tell me! What did you do?"

"I did what—"

"No!" Hermione was hoarse from yelling, tired from always having the same argument behind closed doors. "Just tell me the truth. For once—just once, give me a straight answer, Malfoy. Tell me what you did—please."

Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she held on. But she wasn't just holding on for herself, she was holding on for them because she knew they would break under the weight of so much blood if they didn't hold on to each other for dear life.

Draco looked down at his wife, the only light in his forever darkness, and he was overcome. He was crushed beneath the weight of her despair and tears, but fuck if she didn't look beautiful when she cried.

Her tears reminded him of how it all began; her tears reminded him of his shameful desire before he'd accepted himself, and his humiliating lust for her that had caused him to want to see her cry.

His hands reached for her cheek, and he wiped a tear away. "I killed, Granger. I killed men, and women, and watched as Dolohov killed children because that's his thing, and stood by as my uncle sliced someone limb by limb because he loves the slow process—" Draco gasped, caught in the memory and horrified at his own actions and passivity. But Hermione simply dug her nails deeper, and he understood; they'd either stand and face their sins, or break—and Draco refused to break. "I didn't just shout the killing curse—that's too easy. Too quick. That doesn't make me feel superior, and don't fucking doubt it, Granger. This is all about feeling superior. Powerful. No, I cast pellorno and caused a man to literally explode like a volcano. I cast oscurealte and caused his wife to vomit blood until she died on her own blood, convinced she was drowning in darkness, instead of in front of an audience. I—"

"Stop," Hermione pleaded suddenly, too disturbed to handle hearing more.

"Isn't this what you wanted?"

Isn't this what you wanted?

Maybe it had been, before he'd actually answered. But now all she wanted was Harry's innocence—his ignorance of the way this war was actually fought and paid for—in blood.

She didn't have words for him, and so she shook her head as her lips trembled, but she didn't let go of him, and that was enough.

"I'm sorry," Draco whispered huskily, his truth tearing him apart. "I'm so fucking sorry that I'm not that sorry at all. Because if it comes down to the entire world, or you and me, I'll always choose us. Always."

It was the worst thing he'd ever said to her, and Hermione couldn't blame him because that was exactly why she'd married him. She'd wanted that security that men with morals, people like Ron and Harry, could never give her.

She knew that was her ugly truth that never failed to surprise and disturb her.

"I know," she replied quietly, heart beating to the same beat as his. "I know, but—what have you done?" she sobbed and pounded her fist against his chest half-hazardly, and Draco wanted to cry with her because he knew there was a darkness in his heart that even her caresses and warmth would never chase away.

Draco wrapped his arms around her, but he didn't want to cage her. He wanted to comfort her, and she wanted to accept his comfort as her sobs tore at his heart—her face buried in his smooth chest.

In his embrace, Hermione couldn't stop herself from the impossible hope that things wouldn't always be the way they were.

Draco could feel the whisper of that hope in the way her nails let up just a little—could feel the impossibility of it in his own touch.

What have you done?

Her sobs shook them both, and Draco felt like he was being torn and dismembered by her. He was sure he was tearing her apart, too.

"I know, fuck, I know, Granger," Draco apologized in his own way, almost desperate to calm her—desperate to have her forgiveness too. He didn't know what to do, so he let words tumble forth, as he kissed the top of her head, her forehead—he let his lips trail down the side of her cheek. "I'm a dick, and I shouldn't have told you. I'm unbelievably cruel, and sadistic, but I'm yours. I'm yours, Granger, and we belong together. Despite all that I am, we belong together."

His words, more so than the trail of his light kisses, calmed Hermione down enough to stop shaking. Her tears started to dry on her skin; she wanted to flee his presence. Suddenly, it was all too much and she was too small, too fragile.

"I should go wash my hands," she said quietly as she stepped away from him and looked away. She couldn't bear to look him in the eyes. Not then, not when there was so much in between them, stopping them from being who they should be instead of who they were. Draco nodded stiffly, but Hermione paused. "I can handle the truth, Malfoy. I can handle all of it—I won't stop caring. Nothing you could ever do would make me stop. Even if I die hating you, I'll never stop caring."

It was because it didn't make logical sense that it made the most sense—this was who they were, and who they'd always be.

She'd never walk away, and neither would he. Even if she wasn't sure if she loved him at all. Even if he wasn't sure he could ever love her.

"I know," he smiled sadly, eyes glittering in a rare show of honesty. "I know. But don't be blinded by your emotions, Granger. If you love me, then you'll learn to love the darkness, because that's who I am. It might be all I am by the end of this war."

The firelight danced across their skin in shades of red, orange, and yellow; the possibility of their love became the color of fall leaves as Draco conjured a wet washcloth, and gently took hold of her hands and began to scrub.

They didn't talk about how hard the blood was to wash off;

What have you done?

If you love me, then you'll learn to love the darkness

What have you done?

That's who I am, that might be all I am.

But they—they would forever be the embers of something greater—infinite.

The blood on their hands linked them like love, like life—she knew she was as much to blame as him; she'd taken to turning a blind eye to his crimes after so many arguments and pleas for him to stop.

He'd never stop.

What have you done?

Not as long as the Dark Lord lived. Not as long as he was searching for power that he felt was just outside of his grasp.

What have you done?

Their hands wiped clean, Draco kissed her crushingly, and Hermione moaned as he laid claim to her like the day he'd offered marriage.

I'm yours.

We belong together.

What have you done?

But, lips bruising and scalding, punishing each other for making them doubt (she: her righteous pedestal; him: his rightful place in the world), they buried themselves deep within the haze of their lust; they forgot how guilty they were.

What have you done?

I'm yours.

I love you.

Always.

No matter what—as they climbed up and down the ladder of ecstasy; this was their new normal.

---

"Expelliarmus!"

"Crucio!"

"Imperio!"

The curses blasted off the halls because the third years didn't have great aim. But Hermione couldn't think, couldn't stop to question what was really happening. Unforgivables! They were throwing unforgivables around in the hall. It was too much.

"Incarcerous!" Hermione yelled furiously, aiming at both young students. She could barely breathe, barely contain her rage. Unforgiveables!

"What in the hell do you two think you're doing?"

Both students launched into a complicated story, but Hermione heard what they didn't say. They had learned that unforgiveables were okay. They had learned that there was no such thing as boundaries. They had learned the joys of dark magic, and Hermione felt tears well up in her eyes.

"I don't care what happened," she said sternly. She may not have gotten Head Girl for clearly political reasons—and who in their wildest dreams would've ever thought that being Head Girl would be political—but she was still a Prefect. She still had some kind of power, and even if she didn't, she was a Malfoy. She'd never be powerless again. "One hundred points from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff each!"

The surrounding students gasped, astounded at the amount taken from both houses.

Hermione's voice was thick with emotion. Her heart was beating erratically. It was as though the Earth was slowing down, crushing her ribs with the force of gravity. It was too much; everything was too much, and she couldn't breathe.

She couldn't breathe. Her hands started to flail, and her heart felt as though it would explode out of her chest. She was sinking, colliding with the ground, as she tried so damn hard to simply breathe. But she couldn't. She wasn't strong enough, good enough.

Black dots started to swirl around the world, covering everything in a darkness that would consume her. But then there was a voice, so gentle, so sure, whispering into her ear.

"You're okay," the voice said assuredly. "I've got you, Granger. You're okay."

Suddenly there was a sliver of more space, and she could inhale a bit more. "I can't—I can't" she tried to finish but the walls were closing in on her. Everything was so sharp, and crushing.

"Yes, you can," the voice said tenderly. Whoever it was, he was a rock, solid, comforting, unmovable and immeasurable in this world that never stood still, and was constantly changing around her, and under her. "You can do anything, Granger. Just breathe—that's it. Take nice long breaths. No one's waiting for us—just take your time. That's it. Just breathe with me, just like that."

It was like a rush of air flooded Hermione's lungs, and she knew that voice. She turned to face the speaker, and her husband's pointedly aristocratic and painfully beautiful face stared down at her.

Draco had calmed her down from a panic attack as though she were his wife, and not just the woman he used to purge away his demons at night with every thrust, every hiss and moan.

Hermione had to look away, too destroyed by so many emotions colliding within her. His hands were warm on her back, and she realized that perhaps she had been his wife for a while now.

"Take a walk!" Draco barked at the crowd that'd been watching entranced. "But let me be clear: I find anyone throwing around unforgivables, and I'll take points you don't have to give—so many points that you'll never recover given another seven years here."

His voice was harsh and immutable. No one doubted that he'd do exactly as he said.

"What are we going to do?" Hermione asked him breathily. She wanted to run, hide, cry until she drowned the whole world with her pain.

What are we going to do?

Draco saw himself, reflected in her eyes, proud, lord, and he didn't have an answer. The shame ate at him. The ire and disgrace that tore at his very core wound itself tight around his chest. From the time he was a child, he'd always been taught that the husband was supposed to have all of the answers. The husband was supposed to be protector, and professor.

But all he could do was swing with the breeze, roll with the hills, and bend with the trees.

What are we going to do?

"We'll survive, Granger," Draco said quietly. "That's all we can do."

"Just stop!" Hermione pushed him away. There was fire in her eyes, and the rage she felt could burn mountains. "We need to do more than just survive! Can't you see how simply surviving is tearing us apart? It's tearing Hogwarts apart!"

"Don't be dramatic," Draco scoffed, secure that she was fine if she was raving at him like she was prone to do. "What you saw wasn't a result of people surviving—that's fear. Fear makes people see enemies where there aren't, and fear assures that we all adapt. The Hogwarts that used to be doesn't exist anymore. That's the fact of the matter, Granger, and I suggest you get with the program. What you saw was just a bunch of little shits adapting to the new Hogwarts."

SLAP!

Hermione's palm stung. But they both knew that she wasn't hitting him over this. No, this was so much bigger than just one argument. One moment. One problem.

This was about the blood that he had shed. This was about all the blood that he would shed.

"How can you be so uncaring? So cold?" Hermione whispered harshly, and her words were punches attacking him in all of his soft spots. Her words were knives dragging across his skin, and he was battered and bruised by her honest eyes.

"I am what I need to be," he said quietly, reveling in the sting her hand left behind. His icy eyes pierced her, made her immobile.

"Don't do that!" Hermione glared. "Don't try to excuse everything that you do! Not everything is excusable."

"What would you have me do, Granger? Would you rather I wither and die from self-loathing?"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it!" She went to turn away. She felt as though her body was under constant attack from his gaze—always watching, always scrutinizing, always judging her emotions based off of her body language.

Draco's hand touched her shoulder, effectively stopping her. But she couldn't look his way. She couldn't bear to see his searching stare that always saw too much.

She couldn't look his way, and Draco couldn't stop looking at her because she was like the fucking sun, so bright, so untainted, so damned beautiful, that he couldn't bear the weight of his own truth sometimes.

"I'm yours," he whispered huskily, and there was nothing sexual about it. He meant it. He'd never meant anything more, and he was overcome.

"I know," she responded quietly. "I know you are, Malfoy, but that doesn't change the things you do. Who you've become."

"It doesn't have to—my sins are my own. You don't own that. You don't get to own that," he growled. His hands dug into her shoulder, but it felt nice.

Strong.

Grounded.

Them.

Hermione turned around and kissed him. She kissed him with care, because of all the wild and terrible feelings inside of her. She kissed him as though the ocean was under her feet, and the heavens above the crown of his head.

He kissed her back, and it almost felt like love.

---

Dear Mrs. Malfoy,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I know we haven't had many chances to get to know one another. I know that you may not want to get to know me, considering my lineage, but I need your help. I need your guidance.

It is a new world we are living in and I don't know how to help your son. I'm not sure how I am supposed to help him when there are so many things, secrets, separating us. Even the truth becomes its own wall between us, and we always seem to be on opposite sides even when we're not.

I am his wife, and as his wife, I know my duty. I will, of course, protect him to the best of my ability, but there are things that I cannot protect him from. There are those who he sees often that I cannot shield him from, and I am at my wits end.

I cannot protect him from his own actions, and my words seem to fall on deaf ears often. Perhaps I am naïve in thinking that you can help me—that you would be willing to help me. Perhaps there is too much of a divide between you and I for you to find it in your heart to help me. But you love your son. I know that you do, and I can only pray to the Earth that this love is enough for you to share some way to keep him close to me, to keep him safe from his own passion for glory and blood, to help him in my capacity as his wife.

Sincerely,

Hermione Malfoy

Narcissa Malfoy let the words turn to ash in her hands as she thought of what she should do. She hated the idea of her son married to a muggleborn, but she loved her son. The young Mrs. Malfoy was correct—she loved her son more than anything in the world, and even if she hadn't said it, it was clear that she loved Draco too.

'How things change' Narcissa thought grimly as she reached for a quill.

---

Hermione was still reeling from all of the shocks of the past week, when she went to sit down at Gryffindor Table for breakfast a few days later after a quick visit to the owlery, next to Ginny and Luna. It wasn't strange to find Luna at the Gryffindor table by Ginny's side, but there were too many eyes centered on the table.

Hermione sat tensely, eyes like owls looking from left to right.

"Is it just me or is everyone looking at us?"

"Not us," Ginny rolled her eyes. "Neville."

"Why?" Hermione asked, dumbfounded.

"It's clear that there's a crumple-horned snorkak infestation near Neville," Luna replied noncommittally. "It's driving all the girls crazy."

"More likely the title and galleons hanging on his neck," Ginny snorted.

"What?" Hermione flexed her hands exasperatedly.

"Neville's of age," Ginny clarified as she put some jam on her toast. Hermione didn't bother to grab anything, too floored with the world turning around her. "It's time for him to pick a wife, and so as you can see, the vultures are on the hunt."

"That's a little harsh," Hermione noted. She went to pour herself some orange juice, but Ginny jumped in frustration, and startled Hermione, causing her to spill some juice.

"It's not harsh enough," Ginny glared. "Look at them! They disgust me! All anyone can talk about is the Longbottom title that he'll inherit, and his status. What is wrong with them?"

"Hmm," Hermione pursed her lips. "Says the girl betrothed to Harry Potter."

Hermione couldn't stand to hear Ginny's hypocritical words, if only because her own hypocritical nature had been made clear to her over and over again since the day she married Draco.

"What does that mean?" Ginny glowered at Hermione, but Hermione could care less. Not today. Not after Malfoy's crimes seemed to chase her, biting at her heels. Ginny didn't deserve Harry. She never would in Hermione's eyes.

"Who do you think he'll pick?" Hermione switched topics. She was too emotionally exhausted to spar with Ginny today. Hermione could clearly see that Ginny wasn't about to let it go, but Luna jumped in, a calculating look in her eyes before it was masked by the natural hazy expression that seemed to perpetually grace her face.

"I heard that Mrs. Longbottom was trying to convince him to petition for Pansy Parkinson, but I also heard that he was trying to marry Ron," Luna shrugged in that flighty way of hers.

Ginny spluttered and coughed in surprise. "Now, that's absolutely bolloc—"

"Hey guys," Neville appeared behind the girls, and they whipped around to face him, faces red in embarrassment.

"Hi Neville," Luna recovered first, having very little sense of propriety anyway. "Happy Birthday!"

"Thanks, Luna," Neville smiled, and he was glorious in his own way, completely different than Harry or Draco. But there was something familiar, yet different about him—he held himself similarly to many Slytherins she'd met. Not arrogant, but aware of his power, though not uncomfortable with it like Harry was. It was interesting, yet Hermione figured it was because he was groomed since the day he was born for today. Strangely, she missed the Neville that was unconfident, courageous despite his overwhelming insecurity. He turned to Hermione, "Can we talk?"

"Of course," Hermione stood, and Neville placed his hand on the middle of her back. It was a gentlemanly effort he would've never done before, and she wasn't quite sure why he'd start now. Nevertheless, she turned to Luna and Ginny. "I'll see you guys later."

They nodded, Luna with a smile on her face, and Ginny with a devilishly curious look that tried and failed to mask her jealousy. But Hermione knew that Ginny didn't love Neville. She never had, even though they dated very briefly last year. But Ginny Weasley was possessive, with or without reason. Like brother, like sister, Hermione guessed.

"So, congratulations are in order," Hermione smiled at Neville once they crossed the doorway of the Great Hall.

"Thanks," Neville let his hand fall, and saw the curious look on Hermione's face at his gesture. His hand lifted and rubbed at his neck uncomfortably. "It's just, people watch me now. Not for a punchline, but as heir to a Lordship as Head of House. My actions matter now."

She thought of Draco, how stressed he seemed to be all the time, and she wondered if this was how he felt too, only he refused to say anything.

Hermione touched his arm lightly. "It'll be okay, Neville."

"Will it, though?" He stopped walking, and faced her, his eyes shining with worry and pain. "Because I'm expected to marry a half-blood or a muggleborn, someone who I don't love and who doesn't know the first thing about being a Lady of a Most Noble and Ancient House."

Hermione retracted her hand like she'd been burned. Anger and shock coursed through her, but this was Neville. He wasn't a bigot. He couldn't be. He'd defended her too many times alongside Ron and Harry to count.

"I didn't realize that you cared about blood," Hermione quietly said, suppressed rage evident in her steely voice.

Neville ran his hand over his face, a frown of fatigue marring the handsome features he'd grown into.

"I'm not a blood-supremacist, Hermione. You know that I'm not. But there's a difference between championing a people, their rights, and marrying them into your family, into your bloodline, your legacy. This isn't about half-bloods or muggleborns being less than, this is about history. Wizarding history that muggleborns and half-bloods raised in the muggle world don't know, and will find hard to understand. My gran is beside herself—she thought the marriage law would blow over, but after Malfoy married you, everyone knows that's not true. He gave it fuel."

Hermione was beyond confused on multiple levels. She felt like she'd been thrown into an alternate universe.

"I highly doubt Malfoy marrying me made much of a difference to those fear mongers," she snapped. "And saying that you're not a racist doesn't make you sound like less of one."

"Hermione," Neville said her name softly, and she remembered that this was her friend. If nothing else, she couldn't crucify him for being honest with her. It just stung that his honesty was a lot like Draco's—brutal.

"The Malfoy name may not mean much to muggle-borns, but in the wizarding world it matters. He's Lord of the House of Malfoy, and Heir apparent to the House of Black unless another heir pops out of the woodworks before all the Blacks die out. His actions, his decisions even before he married you mattered to Wizarding Britain. The second he married you, so soon after the law was enacted, set a precedent. And you know that I don't bow to all that pureblood nonsense, but there's credit to the difference in being raised in the Wizarding world than the muggle one—not everything can be learned by books."

Hermione wanted to refute his words, but hadn't she thought the same thing not so long ago? She remembered the fateful conversation of magical marriages she'd had with Draco, what felt like a lifetime ago.

"How exactly do wizards get married?" Hermione had asked a few days before the ceremony.

"Most purebloods, especially the Most Ancient and Noble houses get married in the old ways. With a seer, and a sacred circle," Draco had answered her distractedly. He'd been trying to find a correspondence that he'd written to the Ministry requesting a specific Ministry Official.

"Why a circle?"

"Life flows constantly. It's a circle of life, of magic, of our bind because once we're bound, we can never be unbound," he'd responded. Hermione had realized early in the first week that he was a plethora of information.

Draco, being pureblood and raised from birth in the wizarding community, knew so much that Hermione had never thought to ask about. Or could never find the answer to because it was an unwritten knowledge in the magical world.

There was a difference. Not in magical ability, but in culture and understanding of the world around them. It was such a small thing, but significant. It mattered to those who were born and bred to be the cornerstones of the magical world in Great Britain.

It was in this moment that Hermione finally realized the sacrifice that Draco had made by marrying her—by wanting her so much that he'd married her without a fight or second thought.

Perhaps they were closer to love than they'd ever realized, or she'd ever hoped.

But she couldn't focus on that. Not now, when Neville clearly didn't ask to speak to her about this.

"Why did you want to talk, Neville?" Hermione asked straightforwardly, but her eyes were caring and warm.

She was obviously sidestepping the issue and shelfing it for another time, and Neville saw that. But he wasn't Harry or Ron; it wasn't his place make sure that she was facing hard truths head on.

"I'm nervous," he admitted quietly. His voice was filled with restrained fear and strength, because he wouldn't be broken. Not by this. "I have to pick a wife, I know that. But who'll she be…if she'll be my equal or my complete opposite—it's all up in the air, and…I guess, I wanted to know how you did it?"

"Me?"

"Yeah. You married Malfoy—against all odds, you were bound to the Earth together. And, well, you're clearly not enemies. He obviously cares for you, given the law amendment he pushed through…You guys made it work, and I want my marriage to work, regardless of who she is. I want it to work. It's forever."

His honesty, so pure and open, struck her and she couldn't move. She couldn't speak. Since when was her marriage one to aspire to have? Had she and Malfoy evolved so much without her notice? Or were they just that great at acting?

She didn't know, but Neville waited patiently for an answer. His gaze was intense and frank, without judgement, and so she gave him the only truth in her heart. The cruelest truth about her marriage.

"Just don't lie to each other—no matter what, no matter how bad the truth is, just don't lie to each other. That's the only boundary line Malfoy and I have, the only one we've ever had, for better or for worse: to always tell the truth, even if it hurt—sometimes because we knew it would."

Neville heard what she said, and what she hadn't said; truth destroyed worlds, but it also rebuilt from the ashes. He smiled, and Hermione knew she'd given him what he'd been after.

She'd helped him, and she thought that if she could help just one person a day for the rest of her life, then maybe it'd absolve her for turning a blind eye to all the horrors Draco committed in her name.

---

After Hermione's conversation with Neville, she couldn't help but seek out Harry. Despite everything, she knew he'd be a calming presence to her turbulent emotions. They were best friends, and he knew when she needed to take her mind off the problems surrounding the war. Just like the second she saw him, she knew he needed to get something off of his chest.

So in this silent knowledge, they smiled, quietly went outside, and sat beneath a tree by the lake. The silence wasn't stifling. It didn't sit between them, static, nor did it try to drown them in its heaviness.

The silence was comfortable, as it had always been between them.

The longer it stretched, the more Hermione relaxed; the more Hermione relaxed, the more Harry relaxed. This was simply how they worked, because they'd been two pieces of the same puzzle for too long not to be that way anymore just because she belonged to another, and soon so would he.

Hermione and Harry watched as a Seventh Year Ravenclaw chased a fellow Hufflepuff, laughter floating in the air.

"That could've been us," Harry noted quietly. Hermione looked at him sharply for a moment, until she felt she could see into his soul—because they were best friends and she could see into him that fully, if no one else.

"Harry," she said his name like a warning and a request.

"Do you ever think about it," Harry asked Hermione, though he didn't look away from the two young lovers, so happy in their apparent innocence. "About us?"

Hermione felt like she couldn't breathe for a moment, she was so shocked, and yet, not so shocked at all. This, the possibility of them, wasn't new. It'd been there for a very long time, buried beneath friendship, honor, and Ron's presence that had always served as the greatest barrier.

"Don't go there," Hermione pleaded quietly. They could see their breaths, it was so cold; their hearts uncertain.

"Why not?"

"Because that time passed," she said honestly. It was a different type of truth than she was accustomed to with Malfoy. This truth hurt just as much, but it wasn't meant to. It was harsh only because it didn't have to be the truth. But now it was.

"I know," Harry nodded slowly.

It struck her just then, how different Harry truly was from the boy he'd been last year. This was the Chosen One—a man who saw and understood even what she didn't want him to.

"But doesn't it ever bother you?" He turned to face her—because he wouldn't let this be the one truth that they never uncover. Hermione was married. Soon, sooner than he liked, he'd be married too. This wasn't about changing the future. This was about acknowledging the past, and all the things that could have been, if only they'd been better, more. "Doesn't it ever cross your mind?"

"What do you want me to say, Harry?" Hermione frowned, an anger she hadn't felt at him since he'd used Sectumsempra on Draco started to burn in her veins. It was building slowly, making her uncomfortable in her own skin.

"This isn't a test, Hermione," he shrugged, because though he might have changed so much in such a small time, he was still a teenage boy, and he could solve the problems of the universe with a shrug. "There's no right answer."

"I know that!" she snapped, annoyed. "But what's the point? Why even bring this up? That's not us—it never was."

"But it could've been—"

"Yeah," she sighed in frustration. "It could've been, back in Fourth Year. Or fifth year. Or last year, even. But that was a long time ago."

"The day you hugged me, right before that first task," he ran his hand through his hair, and Hermione watched the way his fingers threaded through his mop of messy black strands. "I thought the Earth was going to fall from under me."

"Because of me?"

"No," Harry let out a quick incredulous laugh, and Hermione pursed her lips. Every girl liked to think that their hug or kiss could make someone feel that way. She wondered if Malfoy ever felt that way. Maybe that was the difference—she and Harry were never meant to be, and so their touch could never be that electric, that overwhelming.

"It's not because your hug wasn't great," he continued, and cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to backtrack. "You give good hugs—really good…as good as hugs can be…I guess…anyway, there was just so much going on that day—that year."

"Okay?" Hermione was trying to follow his logic, to see how everything connected, but perhaps it was the sun or the cold, but she couldn't.

"C'mon, 'Mione," Harry's emerald eyes cut into her, and she felt like she was fourteen all over again. "You hugged me, but we both know it was different than any other hug we'd ever had. Didn't you feel it? How different it was?"

Hermione contemplated it for a moment, went back in time while she sat on the damp grass with Harry, and let the feelings of that day grip her. She'd been terrified. Anxious. So damned happy afterwards, too, that tears of relief had sprung to her eyes.

"It was the beginning of what could've been. Of another life, I guess…I was scared for you," Hermione whispered. "You were my whole world and you could've died, right there, in front of me. And the rules wouldn't let me just jump in—you could've died, and I would've been helpless. I felt helpless."

"But I'm not your whole world anymore?" he asked her, though he already knew the answer. This year had decided so much. Everything was different now, and they couldn't go back, even if they wanted to.

"You're my best friend," Hermione asked him silently to understand. And he did. He understood, but it hurt to know that he wasn't her sole focus anymore.

"I know I haven't always been the best friend I could be," Harry's hand lifted to reach for her, but he quickly retracted his hand. She wasn't his. That time, that possibility, had come and gone. They'd watched it pass them by. "I should've treated you better, been better—I get that."

"I love you," Hermione whispered, and there was an inflection in her voice that made something tear at both of their chests. It felt like they were under the knife without anesthesia.

"But you love him more, now." It wasn't a question.

"I love him differently," the words tumbled out of her quickly, a Band-Aid to soothe Harry's confusion and pain.

Hermione tried to explain, but she knew that it'd be impossible. She and Draco were too complicated for that. Hell, she and Harry were too complicated as well for that matter.

She didn't know what she felt for Draco most of the time. But she'd told him she loved him so many times, so engrossed in the hunger for him, that the words weren't foreign to her.

I love you.

I'm yours.

I love him differently was better than I don't love him at all, but he still takes precedence over you.

"I almost kissed you," Harry switched gears suddenly, a wistful smile on his lips, but Hermione wasn't lost.

She knew the exact moment he spoke of, and frankly, what did she have to be afraid of? He was her best friend. Through the ups and downs, he was a constant, and that would never change. This conversation, this honesty, could only make them stronger.

"I almost kissed you back," she smiled sadly.

A loud squeal broke through their bubble, and they both turned back to watch the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff that started this entire conversation.

But they both knew they'd needed this conversation, if they were planning to move into a new stage of life together. If they planned to stick by each other no matter what, they needed to put this to rest.

"I've always taken for granted that you and me—that we were the most important thing in the world," Harry admitted quietly, but it wasn't a tortured confession. They weren't long lost lovers, aching to reunite. They were first loves that never came to fruition; they were complete trust. "You, me, and Ron. Nothing could ever separate us, no one could beat us—me, if I had you on my side. I always took for granted that you'd be on my side."

"I still am," she reached over and broke the space between them, and laid her hand on his. "That hasn't changed, Harry. I'll always be on your side."

"And Malfoy?"

"You know that's complicated," Hermione went to remove her hand, but Harry laid his free hand on top of hers, making a sandwich with hands and hearts.

"I know, I get that," he licked his lips, let his nose bump hers. "I just, I don't want to lose you. Not like I felt I did before."

"You never lost me," she shook her head, her brow furrowed in worry and denial.

"No, but it felt like I did. When I almost killed Malfoy, you were so mad—no, disappointed. I'd thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd never regain your trust, your friendship, your love."

"I never stopped."

She didn't clarify which she meant, and Harry was grateful for that. Choosing one would have made him feel like they had lost the other two.

"I was there…" Harry started, but his eyes were far away.

"I know," Hermione responded, having already heard his conversation with Luna. His eyes snapped to hers, and between them flowed all of the scents of secrets, comfort, and home. "I know."

"I always will be, too," Harry smiled that small smile of his that could break her heart.

"Me too," she whispered and smiled the smile of woman in the moonlight, instead of the smile she'd always had before of a little girl gazing up at the sun. "Me too."

Their faces were inches away, their breaths brushed past each other's. They were young, and beautiful, and optimistic, and best friends. Nothing could ever change that. Nothing could even come close, especially now that the past didn't hurt so much.

Now that the past didn't feel tense and tortured with countless what-if's—only, now, what was.

Hermione drew in a breath and they both went to step away from each other, to regain a sense of the equilibrium that they'd started to lose, when—

"What the fuck?" Draco's voice boomed and shattered the calm around them. Hermione and Harry let the cold wind separate them, and turned towards Draco.

Hermione felt a touch of guilt, but she kept her shoulders relaxed. She kept her face emotionless like she'd seen Draco do dozens of times.

"Never seen friends talk before?" Harry snapped at Draco, brows furrowed.

"I sure as shit don't talk that close to my friends, Potter," Draco drawled, cruelly composed after his initial outburst.

"Do I even have to say that this isn't what it looks like?" Hermione pursed her lips, and stared at him condescendingly. She could care less that it might have been exactly what he thought—the point was that it wasn't.

Draco simply raised an eyebrow, and clipped out a curt "Potter, keep your hands off my wife."

Harry rolled his eyes, but took an extra step away from Hermione, and Draco dismissed the situation in the typical aristocratic nature that most purebloods of exceptional peerage did. He looked down his nose at them both, and proceeded to inform Hermione that McGonagall wanted to see her, before turning on his heel and leaving both Hermione and Harry staring after him.

"Are you in trouble?" Harry questioned worriedly.

Hermione wasn't sure, but she couldn't say that, and so she simply shook her head. "He's just dramatic that way."

Harry raised his eyebrow at Hermione, and for a second she was struck at how alike Harry was to Draco sometimes. She hated it, almost as much as she could hate Malfoy sometimes.

"Better be careful, or your face'll get stuck that way," Hermione pursed her lips.

Harry blinked at her owlishly, surprised.

Hermione stared back, nose in the air.

Mischief rang in their eyes, beautiful, and organically them as they succumbed to laughter. Their laughter caught the attention of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff they had been watching, and Hermione and Harry laughed even harder.

The wind whipped at them, the sun glared ferociously, but nothing could break them. Nothing could ever break them, because even in a thousand years there would never be a purer tale than that of Harry Potter, and his best friend, Hermione Malfoy.

---

Draco breathed heavily, perspiration sticking his blonde hair to his forehead. He pushed all of his energy outwards, until the tips of his fingers felt burnt by electricity, and tried to conjure a sword.

Voldemort's gaze cut through him, and saw the struggle as though they weren't in a dimly lighted room in Malfoy Manor.

"How is Mrs. Malfoy?" Voldemort had asked in a sinister, hissing voice when Draco had arrived an hour earlier. It'd been his first words to Draco, and Draco couldn't shake them.

It had been a simple question, meant to throw Draco off of his game, or meant to see how well Draco kept it together. None of the constant tests were ever clear.

How is Mrs. Malfoy?

His skin felt cold, and Hermione's smooth skin underneath his fingertips flashed across his mind.

Fear tried to grip him—why had he asked? Was there something Draco didn't know? Was Hermione in danger? The fear turned into possessive anger, because no one touched what was his, but even more importantly, he knew that nothing was actually wrong.

This was just another moment in the Dark Lord's endless set of mind games.

But even so, his feet rolled slightly with the need to run. To leave.

But Draco knew that Hermione wasn't the type to run and hide. That wasn't who she was. That wasn't who she'd ever be. Nonetheless, Draco wished that she could be. He wished that he could dominate her so fully that she'd never turn back—the image of her and Potter so close flashed in his mind's eye. They'd never turn back and only run.

Run.

Never stop running.

How is Mrs. Malfoy?

"You are not concentrating," Voldemort scowled, a casual crucio hanging off the tip of his tongue.

"I'm trying, m'lord," Draco responded carefully. "But I'm not sure what you want from me."

It was always a dangerous affair, to be honest with the Dark Lord, especially after his betrayal, which he'd skillfully masked as helpful to the Dark Lord and their cause.

"I want you to be great," Voldemort snarled. The air crackled around him. The wind spun and Draco was left breathless at the glory of him.

Fuck, he wanted to be like him—to wield that sort of power; he was terrified, and his bones trembled.

"How" Draco despaired, so tired of trying so hard, and feeling like he was found wanting. "How can I be great?"

"By forgetting what you know," Voldemort touched Draco's shoulder, and it was as though the Earth had bathed him in grace and infinite power—he was immobile under the hand of his Lord. "Forget the chains that bind you to gravity, to your wand. You must believe that your will is greater than everything you know."

"How do I forget? How do I forget a lifetime of everything?"

Draco was baffled and frustrated. He could feel the Dark Lord's magic pulsing into him through his hand. He wanted to kneel, if for no other reason than to feel like a miracle under the Dark Lord's hand.

He wanted to feel like he could do anything in the world.

Chocolate orbs flashed through his eyes.

Eyes that believed in him grounded him as Voldemort pushed his own magic into him, and Draco let the shackles that bound his essence fall, and his magic pounded against the stone walls in ripples, shattered the glass around them with a deafening crack that exploded around them like a shower from heaven.

A shimmer appeared before his hand, long, bright, silver—then gone.

But it was there. It was there.

Voldemort's lips twisted cruelly into a tiny smile of approval—so tiny that it might not have been there at all. But it was.

"Again," Voldemort let Draco go, and stepped back. His eyes glittered, and the air was heavy with magic and dark hope.

How is Mrs. Malfoy?

Her eyes sparkled in his mind, like russet diamonds, and his heart skipped a beat. There was so much faith in her shining back at him—though he knew he wasn't worthy of it.

But it was there.

Hermione Malfoy, and Draco screamed like he was being crucio'd as he let his magic surround him, and move past him.

Hermione Malfoy, Draco fell to his knees, heart pounding, hate, passion, hope, and every single emotion he'd ever felt for her pinning him, and liberating him.

Run.

Hide.

But he'd never hide from his truth. He'd never hide from himself, or her.

The shimmer that had appeared before was brighter, more there.

Draco took a breath, and it vanished as though it hadn't existed. But it had existed. Just barely, but it had. He'd seen it. It was there.

He was there.

Hermione was in Hogwarts, relatively safe.

They existed, and her love for Harry Potter would never change that. Harry Potter's expressive face, so close to his wife's would never change that.

"Let go, Draco," Voldemort hissed. "Let go."

Draco did, and his soul cried out to Hermione who was so far away, and couldn't see how great he'd truly become.

The sword was heavy underneath Draco's palm.

"Good," Voldemort smiled, his eyes possessive and proud. Draco felt like a king, and perhaps the Dark Lord had finally raised him high enough to be one. "Very good."

Draco let a triumphant smile grace his lips for moment, just long enough to be more. "Thank you, my lord."

Voldemort nodded dismissively, and waved his hand through the air. The sword was gone. Draco's shoulders, which had been squared in a sense of fulfillment, drooped in weariness and exhaustion.

"Again," Voldemort's cold voice and hard eyes tore Draco down again.

But he would build him back up. Draco knew he would. Because…

How is Mrs. Malfoy?

Because he had someone he was fighting for, and so long as he had that, he'd strive to be the greatest damned Death Eater the Dark Lord had ever seen. For Hermione Malfoy.

Draco nodded, determination glinting in the dim lighted room. "Again."

---

Mrs. Malfoy,

You are correct on many fronts. Do not delude yourself into believing that you can change the hunger in my son's stomach for more. He is a Malfoy, and Malfoy men have always wanted more, strived for more, even when what they had was enough.

Do not believe that his thirst for blood will dissipate, for he has Black blood running through his veins and we are a lot fueled by bloodlust and revenge.

Do not mistake his passions for affection, or his desire for trust—Malfoy men know nothing of their own feelings, and crave the submergence of their selves more than the honesty of their souls. Draco is no different—he admired his father too much to be.

So, helping him and protecting him are jobs that will come at great sacrifice. Do not convince yourself that you will teach him to sacrifice in return, because it is a fool's errand, and you would not have been the first Mrs. Malfoy to have tried only to fail. He is selfish. He is arrogant. But he is my son. If you love him, then accept these truths, and love him.

In light of this, if you still wish for my advice, then I will tell you the only advice worth hearing: Malfoy women are strong when Malfoy men can't be. Never forget this, and you will help him when it matters most—when the time comes when he is unable to help himself.

Sincerely,

Narcissa Malfoy

Hermione read the letter carefully at dinner, confusion, hope, and despair crashing inside of her. She knew there was truth to Narcissa's words, but her heart couldn't let her accept all of it; instead, she refocused on the food, and tried to smile at something Ginny was saying.

She wasn't sure if she'd gotten what she'd been after in her letter, but a convoluted and confusing answer was always better than no answer at all.

---

Once Draco arrived back at Hogwarts, through the floo in Snape's office, he took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a glorious moment that gave him respite from the amalgamation of despair, and optimism that roared and lived inside of him.

"Have fun?" Snape's dry voice penetrated Draco's moment of relief. His eyes snapped open as though the Dark Lord had arrived behind him. Snape saw the reaction, raised an eyebrow in mocking question, but said nothing.

"As much fun as possible," Draco smirked—his mask restored and in place. He went to move towards the gargoyle and staircase, but Snape stopped him cold.

"Your father wishes to see you."

"Why?"

"Do I look like his keeper?"

Draco's smirk grew into an incorrigible grin, but he said nothing. Snape glared in return, and it was so comfortable, so normal, that Draco felt himself relax like he hadn't in months.

He swaggered over to the high chair that had belonged to the late Albus Dumbledore, and lounged across it as though he owned it.

Snape's jaw clenched furiously in annoyance, and Draco couldn't help the light chuckle that escaped him.

"Come now, uncle Sev," Draco grinned boyishly at him. "You know I do it just to annoy you."

"Yes, well," Lucius interrupted Snape's reply as he walked imperiously out from the fireplace. "You should know by now that Severus doesn't have much of a sense of humor."

Draco let his eyes rake over his father's figure, taking in the pressed and expensive cloak, the dangerous looking cane which housed his wand, and Lucius' impeccably groomed hair. His chin was just as stubborn as ever, and his frame looked full and healthy.

The father that he'd been in Sixth Year was gone, in place of the father he'd always known. Perhaps, Draco surmised, Sixth Year was a bad year for everyone.

"Hello, father," Draco's smile dimmed, but was genuine. "How are things?"

How is Mrs. Malfoy?

"Things are as they should be," Lucius touched his son on the shoulder, much like Voldemort had. Only this touch didn't remind Draco of his power or reach.

"Then why the visit?"

"I shall leave you two to talk," Snape said graciously. His black robes billowed around him as he spun to leave, but Lucius stopped him.

"Nonsense. You're family, Severus," Lucius waved him over, and shoved at Draco to get out of the Headmaster's chair. Draco lifted his hands in surrender, and regally removed himself.

Snape rolled his eyes at the dramatics of the Malfoy's, and for just a second, Draco forgot that he was a Lord now, and married. For a moment, it was Yule break in Third Year, during the Winter Solstice, and he was content and innocent. They all were.

"Draco," Narcissa had scolded him as Madame Guillermo tried to measure him for a pair of special robes for that night.

"Can I go, yet?" Draco had whined. "Theo and Blaise are waiting for me downstairs."

"Yes," Narcissa had ran her hands lovingly through his hair. "And they will wait a few more minutes. Honestly, Draco, you'd think the world was at stake the way you go about sometimes."

"Not the world—just my sanity," he muttered. Narcissa frowned, and he sighed deeply. He raised one hand to let it run through his locks, which he'd started to let loose and grow out at the beginning of the year.

Finally, Madame Guillermo put her wand down, and turned towards the mounds of fabrics and colors. Draco looked to his mother, her blonde hair pulled up and high for the celebrations that night. He pleaded silently with his eyes.

"Fine, yes, go have fun," Narcissa shook her head in exasperation. Draco fled without another word from his lips, trusting that everything was right in the world, and that his parents would protect him from all.

She wanted to yell out to him that Malfoy's did not run, but yelling through the Manor would have been horribly common.

Draco, on the other hand, had zero qualms about acting like a commoner, and raced through the Manor in search of his friends. He was thirteen—fourteen soon, and he couldn't wait. He'd be fourteen, nearly a man, win the Quidditch cup for his house this year, and lord himself over Potter and Weasley.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" Snape's voice had stopped Draco in his tracks.

"On my way to Theo, and Blaise."

"Where are your manners, Draco?" Lucius' disapproving tone had cut in. His presence wasn't as large as it had been when he was a child, but it was still large enough to intimidate him, dominate him.

"Sorry," he tried to hide the bitterness in his eyes. Those days, his father had always seemed disappointed in him. Draco had felt as though he couldn't do anything right. So, instead, he turned to Snape, a welcoming smile on his face. "Happy Yuletide, Uncle Sev!"

Snape had smiled winsomely in that rare fashion of his. His eyes were as dark as ever, but they shined like obsidian. Nonetheless, he still drawled, "You better walk slower. If Narcissa sees you galloping down the halls, there'll be hell to pay."

"He's only saying that to show me that he has parent potential," a beautiful dark haired beauty had come out from behind Lucius and Snape.

"Son, this is Marietta LunKimper," Lucius had smirked slyly, genuine joy in his eyes. "Severus's betrothed."

"Almost betrothed," Snape had almost snarled grumpily, and refocused on Marietta. "And I deal with children almost all year round. That should speak for itself in favor of my 'parental potential'"

Marietta laughed, and her laughter twinkled and reverberated in Draco's heart. She was like a shiny galleon that would never get old, and he had instantly liked her.

"Go get Theo and Blaise before the ceremony under the stars begins," Lucius had ushered Draco away in his typical stern and polished fashion. "Last year Theo missed it because someone had left him stuck in the Clock Room, and wasn't blessed by the moon—you know how well that turned out. The whole year the boy was left without grace and favor. I want all of you boys ready long before the ritual begins. Merlin knows you three need as much help as you can get."

Draco had nodded, a slight blush in his cheeks, and took off running towards his friends. But when he had found them, he completely forgot about being on time for the Winter Solstice ritual, and instead had smirked roguishly at his friends.

"You'll never guess who I met."

"Who?" Blaise had tilted his head, always eager for new gossip.

"Marietta LunKimper!"

"Of the Southern LunKimpers?" Theo had inquired while he lazily looked for hidden liquor. "Wasn't there a scandal about the last LunKimper killing a LeStrange twenty years back?"

"No, no" Blaise had rolled his eyes in exasperation. "That was a Duton. The last male heir of LunKimper died in a battle against a vampire he was trying to mate with a few years ago—rather strange way to die, honestly."

"Well, were they mating or fighting?" Theo had been crawling underneath the table, in search of a loose floorboard he knew was there.

"Won't lie, mate," Blaise had wiggled his eyebrows. "They were doing both! Heard a bloke down in Batton—you know, the restaurant my mother likes—say that apparently mating with a vampire can be brutal. Not sure how, really, but—"

"Not the point," Draco had pursed his lips. "The point is that she's apparently set to marry Uncle Sev!"

"I wonder how they met?"

"I wonder how he got her—LunKimper women are notoriously beautiful!"

"I wonder why it's not set in stone yet—think he can't pay?"

In all the fuss, the boys had forgotten about making the Solstice ritual.

Draco smiled thoughtfully at a past that he missed dearly. The following year the Dark Lord had returned, and Draco wished now that they had attended the ritual—perhaps the moon and the Earth would smile on them now, in their time of need.

"The Dark Lord thinks you've chosen our side," Lucius cut to the chase. He'd always been a straight-to-the-point, no dillydallying around the issue type when it came to Draco. "He thinks that Potter can't win."

"So?"

Draco masked his features with confusion, but it wasn't true, and everyone in the room knew it. Lucius was looking for clarification. He was looking for an assurance he wouldn't find.

"Is it true?" His voice was hard and Draco couldn't figure out if this was a father asking his son, or a Death Eater asking his brother-in-arms.

"The Dark Lord will win," Draco answered in a very Slytherin fashion, but Lucius knew his son well. Proclaiming that the Dark Lord would win wasn't the same as saying that Draco had chosen their side. Blood shed wasn't the same as unwavering loyalty.

But Lucius couldn't ask. He couldn't be too direct, because if Draco gave the wrong answer, it could be the death of them all. It could mean the end of his son, the one person whose life Lucius valued more than his own.

Lucius turned and nodded at Snape. It was a silent message: talk sense into him before it's too late.

"Is that all you wanted?" Draco pushed. He pushed because he was a warrior, and he didn't know any other way.

"You and Theo have been chosen to begin recruiting at Hogwarts," he replied tersely, a severe frown marring his handsome face. "The Dark Lord expects results."

"Then he'll have them," Draco nodded, relief flooding his body that they wouldn't have to deal with more Death Eaters at Hogwarts. He didn't bother questioning or caring why the Dark Lord didn't tell him himself when he'd been with him; it was just another move, another little game. But the relief was short lived as Hermione's fearful eyes flashed before him. Hermione's desperate pleas muted the world around him. Her tender kiss shook his core, and found himself warning his father without thought. "But they won't be taking the mark. We'll recruit them, but I won't be sending anyone off to get marked—not until they're of age."

"Draco," Snape said his name warningly, as Lucius spun around, anger trying to mask the fear in his eyes—the fear for his son. Lucius' heart felt as though it would run away from him, but his figure was tense, coiled, a veil in of itself that only came with years of pretending.

"Be very careful how you tread, son."

"I'm loyal," Draco said passionately, "But I won't send kids to be marked—not yet. Not until we've won this war unarguably. When we've crushed the Light side, then I'll take them to be marked myself, but not before then. Not until I know the mark won't mean a one-way ticket to Azkaban."

"That's not your choice," Lucius cautioned him, a dark look on his face.

"It is, unless the Dark Lord wants to send in more Death Eaters, and scare them enough to go home instead of joining him."

"You're playing a dangerous game, Draco," Snape interceded between Lucius could lose his temper. The man loved his son, but it was this love that spurned an unimaginable fear that unleashed itself as fury—a fury that could attack Draco swiftly, without pause and with too much regret that never saw apologies.

Draco knew that this was only a temporary solution; Lucius wouldn't tell the Dark Lord anything other than Draco would handle it, and try to postpone Voldemort's attention until he could no longer, and the Dark Lord would demand the Hogwarts recruits be brought to him. He knew. But it didn't matter.

Lucius loved him, and he'd protect his son as long as he was able. As long as his fear didn't overtake his love—fear for Draco, and fear for himself.

The clicking of a clock was the only sound in the stillness as Lucius walked stiffly to the floo. Draco saw his father's back, so proud and weary simultaneously, and he couldn't help but resort to Snape's peace-keeping.

"At least I'm playing the game, and not letting it play me."

Lucius turned, red floo powder in hand (expensive because the traveler didn't need to shout out their location), anger and despair mixed so beautifully and painfully upon his face. The lines on his face spoke of years of regret, and wisdom gained the hard way.

He faced his son with the only words of wisdom he could think to impart.

"Potter's prophecy doesn't speak of the war. It speaks of the Dark Lord's downfall. He may have started this war but it won't end with him," Lucius said gravely, the fire in the chimney sailing outwards and inwards until he was gone, like hope. Like the possibility of love, and innocence.

Silence embraced Draco and Snape for a few moments where they did nothing but wish for the past, and a simpler time.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do?" Snape broke the hush in that no-nonsense way of his that could so easily grate on a student's nerve. He was pushy too—another warrior.

"What can I do?"

"You're a dragon."

"That means nothing!"

"Your prophecy doesn't mean nothing!" Snape snarled, almost ferally. "If Potter can be hailed as the next wizarding savior because of his prophecy then your prophecy most definitely means something!"

"Prophecies only matter to the people who believe in them," Draco said, unconvinced.

"You were born under fire," Snape growled frustrated. "It's been decreed that the heavens will never abandon their dragon. There's no doubt that whatever side you choose will win. The real question is which side you'll choose?"

"I'm not Potter," Draco snarled. "You don't get to put that on me. I live my life for myself."

"And your wife?" Snape asked his pointedly.

And your wife?

How is Mrs. Malfoy?

"Don't even, Severus," Draco turned away from him, face stoic. "Because this war won't be won by blokes like me, or you. We're not the saints of this war. And no matter what I may or may not have to offer, it won't be the deciding factor. I'd think that one prophecy deciding the war is enough."

"You say that, but you heard your father. Potter's prophecy has nothing to do with the actual war. You say that, but it's just because you have yet to realize what I already know," Snape eyes softened for a moment. This wasn't a professor speaking to his student. This wasn't a death-eater speaking to his brethren. This was a godfather speaking to his godson, and it'd been too long.

"What's that?"

"That you are a good person, Dragon," Snape said softly. "You already are one of the saints in this war—whether you want to admit it or not, whether you want to see it or not."

"Tell that to the people I've killed."

Draco walked away without another word.

All the while, Harry's eyes, that'd been hiding in Snape's office under the cloak, were like saucers in the night sky, as he took in all that he had heard.

---

It was only a short time later, as Draco was trudging down an empty hallway, on his way to a meeting with Snape and Theo to decide how they would recruit, when Harry appeared, cloaked in the miseries of all their sorrows and secrets.

"Got something to say, Potter?" Draco drawled, his dispassionate mask flawless as always.

Draco wasn't a fool. He'd felt the tension in the air when he'd arrived earlier. It didn't matter to him that it'd been dissipating. All that mattered was that it'd been there, existed, and over his goddamned body would that ever be okay with him.

"I saw you—with Snape." Harry didn't mince words. "I heard you."

"For Merlin's bloody sake, Potter! Your stalker tendencies are getting out of hand," Draco practically exploded. Harry glared, but didn't respond. Draco gritted his teeth. "What exactly do you think you know?"

"I know enough to know that I'm not the only one with a destiny. With a decision to make."

"Worry about your own problems, Potter," Draco said stiffly. He'd hated Harry for too long for that to disappear, for him to welcome Harry's nose in his business. It also didn't help that just looking at Harry sent Draco's heartbeat skyrocketing in possessive anger because his mind wouldn't stop conjuring the image of Harry and Hermione together.

But Harry wasn't blind. He knew, without words, what the barrier was. He was a teenage boy, and he'd felt similar feelings before, so to him, the problem was clear.

"She's your wife, I get it." Harry pierced him with his eyes, so green, so hard, so unfathomably filled with genuine loathing, and hope. But despite it all, Harry was waving the white flag. It wasn't a typical flag, with its scars, and holes, but it was a flag nonetheless.

Draco took it for what it was: a declaration to appease the animal, the dragon, roaring inside of him to kill, burn, and shred any living soul that looked at Hermione with the kind of bottomless emotion that Harry Potter did.

"Fucking right, she is," Draco snarled, clenched his jaw, and nodded his head. "So keep your hands off her."

Harry nodded once.

The fire simmered; they understood each other. It was strange, but not unwelcome—they'd been at war, feuding for no other reason than on principle for so long that the settling of animus and antipathy was a welcome reprieve from the hatred that rose into the air and could consume.

"She's your wife," Harry repeated, but the wind couldn't carry away the devotion to Hermione that leaked through. "So treat her right."

"I don't abuse her, Potter," Draco scowled at him, slightly appalled, but not wholly surprised. "I'm not that much of a monster."

"It's not about being a monster," Harry ran his hand through his hair for a moment—lost, but trying so hard to find himself in the mixture of war and growing up. "It's about treating women with respect—treating your wife with respect."

"I'm not you, Potter," Draco squared his shoulders. He did the best he could, but he wasn't Harry Potter, and he'd never be him. All he could do was try, and that would have to be enough. "I won't scrape and bow at her feet. She's not a doll to be protected. Not if she's my wife. Not if she ever plans to survive being a Malfoy."

"Then why hide things from her?" Harry lashed back, fire raging in his emerald gaze. He could feel the apathy overwhelming him, could feel it stirring in his stomach and making it lurch and shake. "Why hide things? Because I know she doesn't know about your prophecy—it's obvious she doesn't. And when you're not hiding things, you're making her go against everything she's ever believed."

"You mean I'm making her go against you," Draco said sharply. If Potter wanted this battle, then he could have it, because he'd grown to detest Harry even more after he married the woman who idolized him.

"The Light Side."

"Wake the fuck up, Potter!" Draco sneered. "The light side? Really? If you think this is about light and dark you're delusional. This is about power, and who has it. You think Granger's choosing my side? You think she's slowly rallying around the Dark Lord? No—she's a survivor. She's a Malfoy and she'll play the cards she's dealt. She's not choosing me over you—half the fucking time she wishes I was you!"

The masks and pretenses were gone. Their truths and emotions whipped and crashed against them like the harshest tidal wave crashing against rocks.

He hadn't meant to say that, but the words, so bitter and true, had flung themselves from his tongue without restraint. He hadn't been aware of how much that truth had been eating at him since he saw them together, earlier in the day. But something lifted off his stomach. The ache was gone. Because she knew who he was, and inexplicably, Draco felt like he'd forgotten who she was.

She was Harry Potter's best friend, whether she was Hermione Granger or Hermione Malfoy. That hadn't changed, and it wouldn't. She was Harry Potter's best friend, and after the horrors he'd exposed her to, Draco felt that he owed her enough to be civil to Harry, if only because he'd caused her so much pain already—if only because he knew he would cause her even more pain before this war was through.

"What do you want from me, Potter?" Draco asked quietly. The only truthful and genuine question he'd ever asked the Boy-Who-Lived. Maybe the only candid question he would ever ask him.

Harry saw the question for what it was: a moment to be honest, a moment to be two men who loved the same woman fiercely, wholly, in their own different ways.

"I want you to never lie to her—never disrespect her. Believe in her, because you're her husband and she'll never stop believing in you, even if she never says it. Trust her enough to not play her like a pawn in your twisted mind games for power. Don't try to dominate her—let her stand right at your side, because that's the only place she deserves to be. That's the only place she's ever been, at my side, since we were eleven, and she doesn't know how to be anywhere else."

Harry's honesty was the dusk of peace washing over them both. Because friendship and love were two of the greatest moving forces on the Earth, and neither were immune to the sway it had in their common ground.

"I can't promise you anything," Draco sighed, tired, but unwilling to stop fighting because to stop was to give up and dragons don't ever give up. "But I'll try. For her, I'll try."

It was the closest words Draco had ever said to I love you—I love her.

Harry heard it anyway, and he knew that he'd never love Ginny the way that Draco must love Hermione—even if he'd never say it. Even if he couldn't admit it to himself.

An image of blonde hair and silvery blue eyes that always made him feel everything flashed across his mind.

It was the kind of truth he hadn't been prepared for, and it hurt.

---

The darkness was like a cloak sometimes that caressed Draco and gave him the strength to be anyone he wanted to be. Sometimes it gave him the ability to be the best Death Eater. Other times it allowed him the strength to be a decent husband. But on a night like tonight, all he wanted to be was anyone but himself—someone without burdens and worries.

Draco sat on the mahogany colored armchair that faced the bar he'd had installed, parallel the fireplace, milk and honey in his hands, a muggle book that'd been in the lobby of their hotel suite. He'd been reading it for days whenever he got the chance.

He had charmed it so that no one could see its real title. He didn't understand the book of poems, but he felt that if he did understand—if he could truly grasp what it said, then maybe he could understand something about himself. About his wife.

But this wasn't who he wanted to be tonight, and so he set the book aside, sighed, and ignored the urge to reach for a glass of whiskey. He tried to think of a person who smiled a lot, and danced even more. This person liked to sing too, and so Draco caught the beat of the first song his mind conjured.

He couldn't help the smile that formed on his face, because, really, who wouldn't smile?

For a moment, Draco wasn't a Death Eater, or a dragon, or a Lord by rights. He was just a boy, nearly fourteen, uncontainable in every way, belting out his favorite song.

"So, won't you fly with me? I wanna make you feel alright, alright with me. Let me mend your broken wings, and set you free girl, it's alright. Girl can't you see—"

"Are you singing a muggle song?" Hermione interrupted Draco, a supercilious smirk on her face that could rival his any day.

Draco turned his head towards the door, and looked upon Hermione. It'd been such a long day that he couldn't help the way his body practically thrummed in the anticipation of being buried deep inside of her. So fucking deep.

He was himself again, carelessness gone from his face, weariness set again in his bones, the burden of so much heavy on his shoulders, but in moments like these, when he knew Hermione could sooth him, it wasn't so bad to be him.

"I absolutely was not," Draco said haughtily, but she saw the desire in his eyes. Frankly, she couldn't help sashaying her hips as she let the door to their bedroom close behind her, and walked towards him.

It was almost like a mating dance—what they said, versus what their bodies shouted.

"That was 98 degrees," Hermione went to pass him, but Draco grabbed her arm, and hauled her onto his lap. She squealed in surprise, but Draco's lips were nipping at her neck and ear so deliciously.

"You won't distract me," she said breathily, as she maneuvered her body comfortingly on top of his, legs on either side of him, hands unbuttoning his shirt, hips rolling over the length of him that was hard and straining. "That's a muggle boy band."

Draco's hands slapped Hermione's backside, mischief in his eyes. "That band isn't muggle, Granger. The song is called Fly With Me, and they have another called Invisible Man. Their songs are played on Wizarding radio. They are most definitely not muggle."

His words did nothing to stop the trail of kisses he left on her chest, shirt removed magically with a flick of his wrist. Hermione didn't comment at the sudden shift between them. They needed this, she knew they did. They needed to just be them for a moment, without the bloodshed lingering in the space between.

They needed to—yes, yes, right there.

Draco's fingers entered her from the same angle he'd spanked her, and Hermione moaned into his mouth.

They were fire, and so fucking content.

I love you

Like that?

Yes, yes.

Tell me you'd rather have me than anyone else?

I'd rather have you, yeah—just like that, you, nobody else.

Never?

Never, never.

Her body was—oh. Sometime between her plea and her admission, Draco had removed his own pants magically, and she could feel him, hot, wanting, against her.

Her hands gripped at his hair, pulling hard, and Draco hissed his approval as he rutted against her.

His hands never stopped their rhythm, and Hermione never stopped—never stopped pulling, biting, clawing because she wanted him inside of her. She wanted him to remind her how explosive and everything they could be, in that good way.

In that magic-is-real awesome way.

But before she could beg for his passion, for his incessant pounding inside of her, Hermione's body started to explode in tiny little bombs that caused her to mewl and rock desperately.

That's my girl.

Fuck, fuck

That's it—cum for me, all for me

Yes, yes—only for you—please, please.

Her body was high enough to touch heaven, and Draco, without remorse or thought, lifted her, and impaled her to the hilt, eyes wide and hungry. Oh, they were so damned hungry.

Hermione's screams of pleasure bounced around them, though neither bothered with a silencing charm. She was his. He wanted the world to know it, to grasp just how fully she belonged to him.

She knew that he needed to claim her like this, and she wanted to be claimed like this, too.

Spank me

Fuck, yes.

His hand was soft and hard against her, dominating her, but he knew he was at her mercy. He knew that he was kneeling at her feet, because he'd do anything for her. He'd do anything for her, and it made his chest ache at the truth of it.

He was just as much hers as she was his—she'd lain claim to him long ago.

Draco's thoughts were a jumbled mess, and he couldn't reason properly. His hands stopped bouncing her on him, and ground her against him.

Her electric moans were replaced by breathy sighs, and a twitching that was so sporadic it was almost too sweet.

I love you, she almost sobbed against his lips, and Draco couldn't stop himself. He couldn't help himself either.

Fuck, yes, love me, Granger. Love. Me.

I do, I do.

Fuck, I love you—and it was like the walls closed in on him, because he'd never said it before, and he wasn't sure if he meant it.

She wasn't sure if he meant it, either, but it felt so good to hear it.

I know, I know, and maybe she really did know. Or maybe what had begun as unpredictable and volatile had culminated into something more real.

Draco's hands were everywhere suddenly, and time sped up. They were rushing, and frantic, so full, yet never full enough.

Draco slammed into her suddenly like he was a man at war, fighting for his life, if only he could possess her fully, consume her to his own salvation and triumph.

Hermione's twitching escalated, and her body couldn't decide if she wanted him deeper or further away.

Say it again, she commanded.

I love you, he obeyed, eyes clenched shut in ecstasy.

I'm yours, she whispered as she pushed him away and Draco knew her body couldn't take another orgasm.

Mine, all fucking mine.

She knelt at his feet, breasts glistening with sweat, body heaving like she'd run a marathon, fucking glorious.

Draco groaned, unable to contain himself at the image she presented. But his mind was gone a second later as Hermione tasted him for the first time—pink tongue against the tip, once, twice, the taste of him mixed with her own juices filling her mouth, then her bow-shaped mouth wrapped around him, cheeks hollow as she sucked—and he was undone.

It would've been embarrassing, except that he could see the pleasure in her eyes. It would've been mortifying, except she swallowed every drop, and Draco couldn't help but push further in her mouth just to hear her gag.

He would've been ashamed at his instinctual response, except he could see her hand slip between her legs, and Draco knew she enjoyed it.

They were one in this moment of bliss, of letting go.

But nothing could ever last forever, not with them, not with how fierce and unforgiving they were. Not with how much they cared, and wished that they didn't.

"What's on your mind?" Hermione asked a moment later, when the haze of fulfillment and lust lifted enough for both of them to breathe, though she was still on her knees, and he was still sitting in the armchair.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what's on your mind?" Hermione pushed, because they'd been married long enough for her to know when something was bothering him. They'd been married long enough for that instinctual knowledge to feel like a victory.

He wanted to lie, to avoid, to deflect because he knew he was good at it. He could give her a thousand and one feasible answers, but he'd said I love you, and he wasn't sure if it was true or not. He wasn't sure if he was duty bound to honor it or not.

"I saw my father today."

"You love your father," Hermione said cautiously. She could see that something wasn't quite right, but Draco seeing his father shouldn't have been cause for concern.

"I do," he traced her cheekbone with his finger. "But he came with orders."

Hermione didn't say a word—she couldn't. There was a ball of dread in the pit of her stomach that wouldn't let her speak or move.

"They're not sending more Death Eaters," Draco lead with the bright side, a twitch in his lips attempted a smile. But there was no use, and it quickly unmasked itself as a grimace.

"But?" Hermione whispered. Her heart was racing, eyes trying to dig into his soul.

"But I'm expected to recruit for the Dark Lord."

There it was. His burden. His sadness, and her eyes filled with betrayal and tears.

She tried to get up and away from him, but Draco held her firmly in place with his hands digging into her forearm—he couldn't let her go. He didn't want to. Not when they seemed to have so much between them, so much more than there was before.

"You coward!" Hermione yelled, thrashing against him, arms flailing, hitting him like horror and heartbreak. "How could you? How could you say yes? Don't you know that they're kids? Spineless!"

Just like that the blood was between them again, and all she could see was the blood. All she could see were his clothes bathed in blood, and his chest and arms covered in proof.

She wanted to claw her way to his very core to see what he was made of, but Draco hissed in pain. She could feel the Snake on his skin slithering against hers.

The Dark Lord was calling him.

How could you? But Draco let her arms go, his own body scratched and bleeding at her feral response. She didn't move. She stayed, still, legs bent as she sat on the floor, disillusioned once again.

How could you? Draco stood, but though he was towering over her, he didn't feel powerful. He didn't feel worthy.

How is Mrs. Malfoy?

You're good person, Dragon.

Tell that to the people I've killed.

The entire day rushed at him, circled around him, making his knees quake.

How could you?

His mark burned, a constant reminder that he was a slave, and resentment bubbled. Fear crashed around him because he wasn't sure how much longer he could play this dangerous game. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep his sanity—wanting Hermione the way he did, craving power the way he did, and feeling fear as wholly as he did.

But Hermione could only see the blood, the admission of guilt. She could only see him looming over her, ready to leave, whispers of love forgotten in favor of a greater master than her, a greater priority than her.

She thought they were past this, that he was better than this.

"Off to do their dirty work, huh," Hermione sneered. "Just like a good little soldier."

Draco's hand twitched so hard, she almost thought he'd hit her. His eyes were wild and untamed, much like all of him when he was inside of her.

He moved away from her, and about the room like a caged animal. Maybe he was. Perhaps they both were, and they just didn't know how to articulate their fury at their lack of freedom.

Nevertheless, she never stopped watching, and he never stopped reveling in the feeling of being watched by her. But he was slowly being crushed from the inside out.

You're playing a dangerous game, Draco.

I love you

I'm yours.

He stopped prowling, shoulder tense, eyes burning into her.

"Get it together, Granger," Draco said slowly, pointedly, voice full of emotion—demons clawing to get loose. "Get it together, because we both can't fall apart, and I need a damn turn."

His words were brutal in their honesty, and manipulative in their simplicity. Draco did need a turn, but he'd just about had it with Hermione milking her turn for all it was worth. She was better than this, stronger than this. He knew she was, and he was over allowing her time to grieve the life she used to have, could have had still if she'd chosen differently.

She didn't choose differently. She chose him. These were the facts, and Draco didn't have it in him, not today, to deal with the hints of what if that seemed to plague their conversations.

Didn't she see how much this tore at him? Couldn't she see?

But Hermione was too busy seeing her own distorted soul, because through it all, despite time and time again coming face to face with the reality of their life, his choices, she could love him.

She could love him, and she knew she wouldn't stop once she did. She wasn't sure how to stop, and suddenly I love you wasn't such a lie.

"You're a monster," she whispered.

Draco unclenched his fist, and walked towards her—her breasts still glistened with sweat, visible in the moonlight that shined through the enchanted window.

He knelt and touched his forward to hers. "I know."

I love you.

Tears trailed down Hermione's face because she knew they would never be the same again.

---

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