Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A.N – Hello all of you lovelies! So, school and RL has been kicking my butt on another level, but I've finally finished another chapter. This one was interesting for a variety of reasons for me, so I'm eager to hear what you all think!

As always, a ginormous I ADORE YOU and THANK YOU, YOU'RE AMAZING to the lovely ellabelle12 for working with me on this story, and beta'ing this chapter.

To Guest, moodygoody, Clover1302, In Dreams, slincoln1122, Guest (2), Magwitch, bookworm383, lindseybee92, Mistake, Guest (3), Adeimar, Guest (4), cmtaylor531, riversgirl75, Guest (5), Guest (6), nersnime, elossa, Sair, kavii, Jkimble, Beauty Eclipsed, LadyKiller1542, Mikazuki Mitsukai, chinkie, Kyonomiko, LABM, Beth, JayBat, WarMad13, MahallieMacKenzie, notyetanotheralias, Ein011, katelynnwho, viola1701e, Nellaus, R-E-B-E-C, Guest (7), mami1, pgoodrichboggs, LazierReader, xXMizz Alec VolturiXx, Guest (8), LastLaraOnEarth, brigittar, NinaIriSemper, crookshanks the kitty: I just want to thank all of you with everything I have for your kind words, insights, questions, and criticisms. If I could send you all cookies I would. I can't, but alas, take a massive virtual hug! I take everything that you guys say into account when I write a chapter, and I reread your reviews countless times while writing this chapter. Your words support me and make me think critically about the story and the characters. On that note, strap in guys, this chapter might be a bit of a bumpy ride, but I hope that it's well worth it by the end.

/Cause I'm only human after all, I'm only human after all,

Don't put your blame on me, don't put the blame on me

Some people got the real problems, Some people out of luck

Some people think I can solve them, Lord heaven above

I'm only human after all/

-Human, Madilyn Bailey

Chapter 13 – The Dialectics of Love

I love you back.

Draco's words, torn from the very depths of his soul, should've made Hermione feel warm and giddy. She should've felt like the entire universe was finally on her side.

Fucking forever.

She only felt dread, and fear.

The sun felt good on the Trio's skin as they sat on one side of a tree on the lawn. It didn't matter that the wind was cold and attacked them mercilessly. It felt good to be together at last.

Together, like it'd always been. But even in moments of peace, darkness always found a way to permeate the space through the crack in their hearts—through the fear in their souls that urged them to constantly search and fight.

Hermione hugged her knees to her chest as Harry and Ron showed her the newspaper. There on display for all the wizarding world to see was Dolores Umbridge with a gaudy necklace around her neck. It rested in between the crevices of her chest where the demon should've had a heart. But they all remembered her cold eyes as she had held them captive in Fifth Year.

They'd been prisoners for fifteen minutes, but it might as well have been a lifetime.

They never wanted to feel that way again.

"You think this is a horcrux?" Hermione didn't take her eyes off the moving image.

Harry shrugged. "You made the possible list yourself over the summer."

"What are you saying, Harry?" Hermione frowned. "Because Umbridge isn't exactly within reaching distance? How are we supposed to get a locket from around her neck without being noticed? How are we even supposed to be in the same room with her?"

Ron cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, realistically, we're not—we can't. But you can."

"What?"

"You've got access," Ron threw his hands up in surrender. He didn't want to fight, but he'd thought long and hard before they brought this to Hermione. Before, all three would've brain stormed the problem together, but that was then. Now, life was different, and all of their priorities were different. "You're a Malfoy now, and whether or not I like it, it gives you something that we don't have."

"A reason to be in that building, or to be around Umbridge at all," Harry jumped in, eyes beseeching her to see their reason.

But the problem wasn't that she didn't see—the problem was that she saw too much, and it hurt to know they'd thought this through without her. Things really had changed.

"Malfoy doesn't just invite me with him to the Ministry when the Wizengamot meets," Hermione bit her lip in concentration. One problem at a time. One step at a time. Focus.

"Then invite her to the Christmas party—the Malfoy's throw it every year." Ron's eyes held a certain level of bitterness that Hermione didn't bother to address.

They'd already said all there was to say, and she had the distinct feeling that his emotions in regards to Malfoy had more to do with the history of enmity between the Houses of Malfoy and Weasley than her marriage.

"I don't exactly have license to invite whomever I want," Hermione sighed. Her finger brushed some loose curls from her face in exasperation. "If I could, you'd be on the list."

"You're a Malfoy," Harry shook his head at her, but it wasn't a rebuke. It was a reminder.

Remember who you are.

Draco's harshness caressed her skin as she remembered how tangible his words had felt. It was a reminder that Hermione couldn't shake, and Hermione nodded her head before she could overthink it.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."

All the while, Draco had been sitting on the other side of the tree, listening, enraptured at the way things changed, and furious at the way some things still stayed the same; Hermione may have been a Malfoy, married and bonded to him, but she was still Granger, loyal and recklessly dependable when it came to Harry fucking Potter.

It always came down to Harry Potter, and yet, Draco couldn't move.

Blood spatter was the worst part of killing for Draco. It wasn't the screams, or the pleas. It wasn't even the tiny crack that he felt in his soul every time he slaughtered someone.

It was always the way the blood exploded from a person's body. Like when you shook a soda can and then opened it right after.

We're better than that.

Blood always made his actions real. More real than he'd expect, with how many he'd killed already. He couldn't just use the Killing Curse. It was too quick. Too clean. Too fleeting as though their life had never been.

Bellatrix loved the garish visual display of a bloody death, too caught up in the theatrics to notice the silent numbing hex he'd cast on victims to ease the life out of them. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing, he told himself. Blood served as memories seared into his mind and heart, so he could never forget.

He didn't want to forget. He didn't have the right to forget.

Blood was better, but it was so much worse. It stuck to his skin, his clothes. Each drop clung to his soul, and created a rainbow of shades of red on his humanity.

You have nothing to be ashamed of.

Draco looked away from the blood pouring from Amelia Bones' body.

Draco walked the hallways of Hogwarts late at night, tired, covered in dirt and blood—covered in the essence of who someone else had been before he stole their soul. As he walked, silently, towards the Slytherin Common rooms, he saw the distinctive messy black hair.

Frankly, it could've been anyone, but Draco didn't care. It was him. It had to be.

Harry Merlin-damned Potter, who always seemed to be putting his wife in danger or in knots.

"Oi!" Draco yelled before he could think it through. "Potter!"

The body that had been turning the corner, stopped. He stopped and turned; emerald eyes shone in the darkness, the candlelight casted shadows that haunted Draco mercilessly.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry pursed his lips. He didn't want this encounter just as much as Draco didn't, but Draco couldn't let go of the anger and desolation that slowly circled around the heels of his feet, chasing him.

"Don't what me, Potter," Draco snarled. He was too filled with vitriol, too filled with self-loathing and resentment to realize that he was about to yell at Harry over something he was doing too. "What the hell do you think you're doing putting Granger smack dab in the middle of this war?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Horcruxes!"

The second the words were out of his mouth Harry has sent a quick mufflatio around them. His eyes were wide, scanning all around them for enemies.

Dumbledore really was dead, and it was moments like these that made them both acutely aware of that fact.

"Be careful!" Harry reprimanded him harshly, glowering with those eyes that sparkled like hope and naivete. "Anyone could hear you—and how do you even know about that? Did Voldemort tell you?"

"You told me, Potter, when you decided to talk in the courtyard without any kind of security measure."

Harry looked away, mentally rebuking himself for being so reckless. But he couldn't focus on that—because, though unwittingly, they'd just added one more person to their secret.

"So, now you know," Harry stared him down. "What are you going to do? Will you run tell Voldemort?"

"I'm not suicidal, Potter," Draco spat. "This, whatever the hell this is, isn't my business, and I'm staying out of it. I would appreciate it if you kept my wife out of it too."

"You think I haven't tried?" Harry snapped. He was only human. He was only human, and he felt this fire burn inside of him at the world—at himself. He was finally coming to realize that he wasn't responsible for everyone's decisions. He didn't want to be judged by the choices of others. He didn't want to judge himself by that standard either. "Hermione isn't a little first year that I or you can order about. She has to make her own choices, and yeah, I would rather she stay out of everything, but I can't make that decision for her. Neither of us can."

"Didn't sound like you were trying to me," Draco gritted his teeth, but he knew his anger wasn't really directed at Potter.

His anger was at their life. He didn't know how much longer he could struggle and fight. He didn't how much longer he could stand the fire within his own destiny before he'd be burned to the ground.

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair compulsively. "Will you help her? She's going to do this, help me, whether you want her to or not. Whether I really want her to or not. She always has. So the real question is whether or not you're willing to help her, protect her while she's doing this."

"I'll always protect her, and if that means helping you in the process…" Draco shrugged as if to say it is what it is.

Draco's ambiguity about his loyalties were too much for Harry. It was no secret that Draco was simply playing his part, making sure that he and his survived, but that wasn't Harry.

And despite how much Hermione had transformed, that still wasn't her either.

Harry asked firmly, "Whose side are you on?"

Draco silently walked away.

Hermione pretended that nothing was wrong as she washed Draco's clothes in their bathroom sink. She knew the clothes were ruined anyway, but he was down to his last dress shirt, and she knew he would rather simply borrow Blaise's clothes then go shopping.

She knew that because they'd been married for four and a half months, and his level of hate for shopping had been abundantly clear to her early on.

It astounded her that a man who could spend an hour perusing his appearance and ensuring his hair looked 'purposefully naturally in place' could moan and groan about something as mundane as shopping. It almost brought a smile to her lips…except the blood stained the water and her hands pink. Draco's words haunted her and echoed in the silence:

Creatures like you aren't made for monsters like me.

She sighed, and scrubbed harder.

Draco entered the Great Hall with the same swagger and confidence that he had when he made love to Hermione in the still of the night. He walked with grace and Hermione's eyes roved over him as he sauntered his way towards the Gryffindor table.

Robes discarded, shirt rolled up to his forearm, the mark hidden by the strongest charm, collar unbuttoned, tie nowhere in sight—Draco Malfoy was a vision of unrepentant passion in the middle of a snowstorm.

It was an unseasonably warm day considering it was December, and it clearly showed as most people decided to forego lunch in favor of basking in the warm sun for a few hours. Though they were in the Great Hall, they might as well have been in the privacy of their bedroom, for how many people were around to notice their indecent stares.

Draco noticed her gaze and smirked that lascivious and smug smile of his. Hermione rolled her eyes, but kept her body turned towards him.

Neither thought about the blood that stained his soul. Neither let his demons chase them into the daylight.

"My wife," Draco nodded his head towards her, but his eyes danced across her skin. She felt naked, yet glorious.

My wife.

It felt dangerously good, the reminder that she was his. It made her clench her thighs unconsciously, and hunger for him. But something was wrong. He was never this sweet. They were never this sweet. They didn't know how to be, not genuinely.

Even with their acknowledged love hanging in the air between them, the way they drowned in each other hadn't changed. He still ravished her with his tormenting kisses. She still dug her nails into his skin, lustfully craving his blood and pain.

They still hated each other, despite loving each other.

"What do you want?"

"Why do you assume I want something?" his long fingers went to touch her hand, but Hermione jerked away.

They were beyond pretenses and masks. They were past hiding, and Hermione would never go back.

"I know you want something because you've never been as sweet to me as you just were," she raised her eyebrow daring him to call her a liar.

But Draco, conceited and egotistical as he had always been, could never back down from a dare. "You mean calling you my wife? I've certainly called you that before, Granger."

"The way you said it," she turned her back to him and attempted to resume her lunch, but there was something so true and gnawing about the way she said it. It made all the humor Draco felt at the situation disappear.

She had wanted them to be those type of people. For a moment, as the sunlight from the ceiling pierced his skin, and the heat rose into her cheeks as she watched him appear like a Greek God, she had wanted them to have somehow, irrationally, changed.

She wanted their I love you's to have changed something. Something more than it did.

Draco almost felt compelled to apologize, but what could he say that would make it better? What could he say that would make Hermione feel vindicated? He did love her, but he wasn't soft. Voldemort had taken any softness out of him—beaten and cursed it out of him.

"I love you, Granger," he said softly, because it was the only truth he had.

"I know," Hermione nodded, silently telling him that it was okay that their love didn't change who they were, or who they were to each other. "Now, what do you want?"

"I don't want anything—but I am informing you that we've been summoned to Malfoy Manor for Christmas."

"Malfoy Manor? Let me guess, centaurian made champagne and pixie-dust covered chocolate?" Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Don't scoff," Draco leaned down until his lips were only a hair's breadth away from hers. "There's much fun to be had with champagne and chocolate."

"Oh, yum," Luna said with a dreamy sigh as she sat down next to Hermione, her blonde hair like a halo flowing about her face. "I've been told that nothing quite beats pixie chocolate except for maybe daringola chocolate."

"Do I even want to ask what daringola's are?" Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose.

"They're cousins to pixies of course," Draco smirked at her smugly.

"Hmm," Luna hummed her agreement.

"How did you possibly know that?" Hermione looked at him, scandalized and utterly betrayed. Her husband was not joining the crazy-train if she had anything to say about it.

Draco leaned in close, his lips brushing tantalizingly against her earlobe, and whispered, "Theo told me, of course."

Hermione hit him on the arm, and Draco's laughter boomed in the great hall. They could almost forget all the troubles of war.

But a cry of pain and loss overshadowed Draco and Hermione's happiness. Susan Bones was clutching a small piece of paper to her chest, crying desperately. It was as though everyone stopped to watch her, silence descended on the great hall so oppressively, but she didn't stay a spectacle for long. Her feet clanged against the floor as she ran from the great hall.

"I wonder what's wrong," Hermione frowned at Susan's back.

"Her aunt was murdered."

Draco said it so simply that Hermione almost hummed her acceptance distractedly. Almost.

"What?" Hermione's head whipped about to face him.

But one look into Draco's eyes gave Hermione all the answer she needed.

It was him.

Tears sprang and gathered in her eyes, but she didn't buckle. It was a testament to Luna's life that she didn't start screaming murder either. Instead, Luna looked sadly at her plate, and sighed deeply.

"Why?"

It was the only question worth asking; the dead couldn't come back.

"It was the Dark Lord's will," Draco said matter-of-factly. Madam Bones had been a force of nature, not just as the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but also as a voice on the Wizengamot. It was her strength that Draco would miss. Her sheer power and astuteness. It had been these same attributes that had made her a target for Voldemort. "It's always the Dark Lord's will."

He was telling Hermione to not turn his actions into something that they weren't. Amelia Bones didn't die because Draco was heartless, but because Draco was self-serving and cared more about himself and his family than her life.

But Hermione was a woman made up of empathy, and at the moment it was all directed at Susan Bones.

Hermione fixed her gaze on Draco, and for the first time in a very long time Draco felt slightly uncomfortable; it felt like she was silently cataloging his sins, and damn it, he had so many sins. Too many.

"How long am I supposed to just stand by as you burn the world to the ground?"

"As long as you love me," he gently moved a loose curl away from Hermione's face.

I'll always be yours.

Her words were chains, and she finally realized how much of a burden loving someone could be.

As long as you love me.

I'll always be yours.

Fucking Forever.

Hermione stood and walked away, chased by avowals of eternity and childish hope.

"Why are we here?" Draco asked Blaise as they sat in a corner in the Hog's Head. Aberforth approached them with two butterbeers in his hand.

"Tilly's pregnant," Blaise's words stopped Aberforth in his tracks.

"Shit," Draco ran a hand through his hair.

Aberforth turned away with the drinks, and returned a moment later with two shots of his strongest fire whiskey.

"Tilly's pregnant, Draco," Blaise repeated as though his brain couldn't move past that. Maybe it couldn't.

"Shit," Draco repeated, and perhaps he didn't have anything else either.

They were seventeen. What did they know about fatherhood? What did they know about sacrifice?

"Draco," Blaise looked at him with frightened eyes. It was too much, because suddenly Draco was terrified for his friend, and he didn't have any answers.

"Fuck, man. Didn't anyone tell you 'no charm, no love'?"

"Don't give me that crap, okay." Blaise waved Aberforth for two more shots. "I've always been careful. But she preferred The Potion to The Spell—how the hell was I supposed to know that the skele-grow she took last month because of an accident in DADA interferes with The Potion?"

It was a fair enough point. Hermione preferred The Potion to The Spell also, and Draco hadn't been aware that other potions could interfere with it. It made logical sense that of course certain potions wouldn't mix well, but…this was too much.

They weren't ready.

"What are you going to do?" Draco whispered as he waved for more drinks. This was turning out to be one of those nights, but fuck it—this was a reason to drink if there ever was one. They were seventeen.

They were barely men.

"I don't know," Blaise shrugged nonchalantly though he gripped his drink tighter. "What can I do? This is happening. It's not like I can go back in time."

"Blaise, there's a war going on. What happens if you get caught in the middle?"

"I'm not you or Potter—I'm not a prophecy child. Hell, I'm not even a son of a Death Eater like Theo. I'm only in the middle if I want to be, and the Zabini's have always been neutral in all the wars anyway."

The way Blaise laid it out, it made sense. Too much sense. But Draco had learned after all this time that war wasn't always logical. People didn't always act reasonably. Sometimes the strangest of connections made the most impact.

"Do you really think you can stay neutral, while in Britain?" Draco slurred his words a little bit.

He knew, despite what Blaise said that if Draco needed him, he'd run into the war head first. He would do it because they were family. Draco knew because he would do the same for Blaise. Shit, shit, shit.

"I think I have to try—I don't want to leave."

"Is this even about you anymore though?" Draco pityingly asked Blaise. "Is this even about what you want anymore, or what you need to do—for your family?"

There was too much truth in his questions for Blaise to answer. Instead, he whispered, heartbrokenly, "Tilly's pregnant, Draco."

"I know, brother," Draco touched Blaise's shoulder in comfort.

But fear was a terrible thing, and they were only seventeen. They were only seventeen, and Blaise broke down into heart wrenching sobs in the corner table of the Hog's Head, surrounded by darkness and whiskey.

He cried until Draco couldn't help but let the tears that burned his eyes silently fall in his own cup, mixing liquor and sadness—because they were brothers and they felt each other's pain and fear.

The snow fell in intricate patterns of stars and wishes onto the lawn of Hogwarts as everyone gathered to go home for the winter holidays. There was a subtle excitement in the air as people shuffled into carriages—they were finally going home. Away from the Carrow siblings and the darkness that hung in the air at every corner.

Hermione and Draco walked side by side, his hand warm and guiding at the small of her back. It was nice, steady when everything felt shakable.

"Alright?" Draco whispered as they mounted their carriage, Blaise and Tilly across from them. Hermione nodded and gave a small smile. She was alright, though everything was wrong. She didn't want to go to Malfoy Manor. She didn't want to go into a house full of demons and blood.

"Of course," she responded quietly, chin raised defiantly, daring Draco to call her on the lie.

His hand snaked around her waist, and pulled her closer.

"Love you, Granger," Draco pressed his forehead against hers for a second. "And we'll be back home before you know it."

Home. Their hotel suite. Floor to ceiling glass windows.

Kisses and moans.

Watching Titanic.

Together.

But then she remembered Susan's tears, and the blood on her hands in the sink.

She looked away with a terrible ache in her heart. She missed going to the Weasley's for Christmas; she missed the simplicity of knowing everything even if she truly knew nothing; there was always blood between them, and his love didn't change that.

The train ride wasn't long enough despite the hours it took, and Hermione took that time to sit with her Gryffindor friends. Harry smiled affectionately, and moved to make space for her next to him. Ron grumbled about the bag that went flying at his head. Hermione rolled her eyes, and it was normal.

It was so normal that she could've burst from joy—but it was gone too soon.

Before she could blink properly, Draco's hand was against her arm, guiding her to the apparition point. The world passed in a blur, and her heart beat erratically in her chest—she didn't want to go, she didn't want to go.

But there they were. They stood in front of Malfoy Manor, small in comparison to its grandeur. The house was magnificent and stark against the green landscape. Its sheer size and opulence of style intimidated Hermione—she'd never been inside of a house so large, so Ancient and Noble.

Even the House of Black's Grimmauld Place was a shack in contrast, though it must have been a beauty in its own right back when it was first built.

Draco didn't say a word, though he knew how impressive the Manor was when seeing it for the first time. Instead, he walked forward, and trusted that his wife would follow. Hermione, as though in sync, stepped when he did.

It was almost like when they made love—he would rise, and she would arch her back, he would bite at the junction between her shoulder and neck, and she would claw at his muscled back. But there was a tension in the set of her jaws and shoulders that didn't exist when Draco was inside of her.

This tension rose and created a sense of vertigo for Hermione as they stepped inside of the house. A house elf that was clearly sane (as it said nothing) took their belongings, and disappeared.

"We have to make an appearance in front of the Dark Lord," Draco briskly informed her. His stride never broke, and that too reminded Hermione of the way he moved her with his passion.

It was as though everything mixed in a strange ball of life—fear, hope, sex, blood, walking, touching—nothing was disconnected. Nothing could be, because she loved him and hated him; she accepted him, but couldn't accept anything else. Everything else.

The door to the lavish and luxurious dining room opened with a swoosh, and the chandelier sparkled in the distance.

Hermione saw Voldemort, and for the first time wondered what he had been like as a child. She saw his rigid back against the high chair, his elegant robe meticulously in place, his pale skin almost translucent and grim against the warm colors of mahogany. What had his mother thought when she realized she was pregnant?

The fear she felt in his presence spiked, but her thoughts went to Tilly and their conversation earlier on that same day.

"I'm pregnant," Tilly smiled watery.

"What?" Hermione gasped. Her heart wanted to lunge out of her chest, but she tried to compose herself. She tried, but all she could see was someone that could be her if she wasn't careful. "How did this happen? Aren't you on the spell, or the potion, or the Leaf?"

"I was on the Potion," Tilly explained, but there was a clear stoop to her shoulders that made her look older, wiser, burdened. "The Spell made me dizzy afterwards, and the Leaf makes me nauseated."

"Did you forget to take the Potion?"

"I wish," Tilly huffed out a laugh without any real humor. "I had to take some skele-grow last month. Apparently, it conflicts with the potion."

It was such a simple and reasonable explanation that Hermione was astounded into immobility.

The potions conflicted. Tilly hadn't been irresponsible. She'd done everything right. Things happen sometimes.

But Hermione had never thought of that possibility either, and if it had been her that had needed skele-grow, then she'd be the one in this situation.

It was horribly dangerous, and startling to realize that she was only human. They both were. They all were.

This was real. This wasn't something Tilly could walk away from, and Hermione felt a sadness deep in her heart for what was to come; because now, every decision Tilly and Blaise would make, it'd be about their child. Every choice they weighed would be considered with the effects to their child. Every enemy they made would know their greatest weakness.

Hermione didn't think she could take the extra burden, but Tilly wasn't her.

"How are you handling this?"

"It's strange," Tilly admitted quietly. Her eyes were bright and honest. "I always thought I'd be at least twenty-one before I had a child, but maybe it's better this way."

"Aren't you scared the war will touch you—touch your baby?"

"There's no escaping war," Tilly shrugged in that carelessly graceful way of hers. "But Blaise is always so busy with work and the politics at Hogwarts, and Draco, that he doesn't have time to love me. Not really. Oh, don't give me that look—he loves me the way most husbands love their wives, but he's busy, and he's focused on his best friend's problems. And let's face it, Blaise and Draco have a longer and deeper history than him and I."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that they're best friends and Blaise loves Draco. And I need someone that I can love, and pour my whole heart into. A baby can do that for me. I don't have a place in this war, outside of watching it helplessly, and Blaise doesn't want me to have one. At least a baby will keep me busy—a little person to put all of my attention."

Hermione had wanted to screech at her that her logic was seriously flawed, but who was she to judge? The reality was that for a lot of people, this war was about fear, and waiting to see which side won. Who was she to tell Tilly that a baby would make their relationship harder, not easier? What did she truly know, except that a baby would make her and Draco's life infinitely harder. Tilly and Blaise weren't Hermione and Draco, and Hermione didn't have any right to judge or project her own fears.

"If that's how you feel, then I hope this baby makes you happy," Hermione laid her palm over Tilly's hand, and gently squeezed.

But as she kneeled at the feet of the Dark Lord, she wondered where child-rearing went wrong. Was everything a child ever does always a reflection of the parent? When was love not enough?

But as she raised her head, and her eyes locked on to Voldemort's, Hermione felt an irrational hope spur in her chest. It rose with her breaths and settled deep inside of her with each exhale.

Tilly had done everything right; things still went wrong.

There was no rhyme or reason because…they were only human…but so was Voldemort.

The Dark Lord was only human, too.

It was well into the night when Draco and Hermione were summoned back to Voldemort's side. Their first meeting when they'd arrived hadn't lasted longer than a cursory glance from Voldemort, and a dismissive nod—they were in his presence long enough to simply be reminded of their insignificance, their powerlessness compared to all that he was.

Hermione wanted to dress quickly, but Draco threw his robe at her, and motioned her to go as she was. The stone floor was cold against her cold feet and Hermione couldn't help shivering.

"What do you think is wrong?" Hermione looked at Draco's profile, but in the place of her husband was a loyal and fierce Death Eater.

"Don't think about it."

"Wha—how? We could be walking to our deaths for all we know."

"I'm his heir," Draco stopped in front of the grand doors to the living room. He turned to face her, his face stoic and emotionless. But his eyes stormed and raged in repressed fury. "He won't kill me…and he knows better than to kill you."

His words were harsh and so damned dangerous, but Hermione knew it was a settled truth between Draco and Voldemort.

There wasn't anything Draco wouldn't do for her, to protect her. He had vowed.

It was all he had now for assurances, but it was enough. Hermione stepped up to stand at his side.

They were in this together.

Draco flicked his wrist, silently opened the doors, and swept into the room like the heir he was, with his wife by his side as his equal, but fear was a powerful thing.

"My Lord," Draco bowed his head as he drew nearer.

Fear was a magnificently powerful thing.

Hermione walked hesitantly, slightly behind Draco, unsure as to whether or not she was supposed to bow. She remembered the last time she had to be forced, and the consequences for Draco.

"My Lord," Hermione started to kneel, her limbs trembling softly—better safe than sorry, but Voldemort waved her off.

"You are the wife to my heir, Mrs. Malfoy. I doubt you need a reminder of my greatness."

Voldemort's eyes smiled cruelly at her. Hermione looked away, and the chill in the air made Draco's robes she wore sway perilously around her.

"How can we serve, my lord?" Draco asked warily.

There was something in the way the Dark Lord twirled his wand, in the way he lounged in such a relaxed manner that he only ever showcased when he was going to perform spectacularly cruel and gruesome dark magic.

There was a pregnant pause that spoke of magic and the promise of pain. It was provocative and seductive because the air could convince any death eater that they would be the one spared. But there was no peace for Draco—not when the only other person in the line of fire was Hermione.

"Serve? Do you wish to serve me, Mrs. Malfoy?" Voldemort smirked slowly.

"Of course, my lord."

Hermione's words were stilted, and clearly disingenuous, but it only made Voldemort smile larger. His smile, so perfect on such a monstrous face made her shiver.

"Of course, of course." Voldemort stood and walked around her slowly. Nagini slinked at his side, hissing in the darkness. "I wonder—how do you serve two masters?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, my lord," Hermione's breathing became labored. He was too close. Too powerful—she was nothing against him. Draco was nothing against him.

Am I not great?

Am I not merciful?

She shook her head, so she didn't get lost in the memories. She couldn't afford to lose herself in fears of the past.

"Harry Potter is your master," Voldemort licked his lips, and Hermione clenched her eyes closed. Her fear was a tangible entity on the air, on her skin. "Is he not?"

"He's my friend," Hermione bit out—suddenly she was on the floor, the impact of the stone against her knees echoing around her, pain running through her bones. The brief flash of pain was overshadowed by Voldemort's presence above her, his raised regal eyebrow mocking her. Her pride was in shackles, straining against her, but Hermione said what she knew he wanted to hear. "My lord."

"Ah, yes," the Dark Lord looked to Draco. "Friendship. What do you think about such a thing, Draco?"

"I think friendship is useful," Draco pursed his lips, and spoke from the deepest and darkest part of his soul. "It's a useful replacement for fear; love and loyalty motivates 'friends' to do anything in the name of that friendship."

He thought of Blaise, and how far his best friend was willing to go for him—and of all the sadness that would come of it.

"Do you think there are friends within my ranks?"

Hermione was forgotten for a moment, and she let herself breathe properly for a second. In this instance, she could see the strange relationship between Draco and Voldemort that was made up of test after test.

This was a test, too—a test to see if Draco could decipher truth in the face of one of Voldemort's biggest masks.

Draco simply nodded, unsure as to where this was going.

"Do you think I've never noticed? Perhaps blinded myself to this growing infestation within my Death Eaters?"

Voldemort gazed steadily at Draco, giving him time to think and feel. One of the first lessons the Dark Lord had taught Draco was that sometimes magic can see things that our eyes and logic can't.

"You are great, my lord," Draco knew that starting any answer with veneration was always a good way to start. "Your Death Eaters are loyal—to you and to each other. But you've never tried to stamp that out. Even when Fenrir stood up for Aunt Bella, or when Snape asked to take my father's punishment for him—you never said 'no' or punished them for insubordination. You allowed all of this—and pushed us together through our punishments."

"To what end? Every action has a purpose—no action is reasonless, despite how spur of the moment or pointless it may seem. Always remember that Inaction is also action."

This was a side to Voldemort that Hermione had never seen, and could never fathom. This was Voldemort, the educator. This was a Lord who had clearly repeated these words many times to his Heir.

"Because there's nothing people won't do for their friends—"

"You are going around in circles," Voldemort frowned impatiently. The air around them crackled threateningly.

Draco ran a frustrated hand through his hair. There was something he wasn't seeing, but with Hermione in the room he couldn't function properly. He could only think about her.

He could only think about her—

There's nothing people won't do for their friends—

Draco looked up suddenly, eyes wide in awe and understanding.

"We vie for your approval and attention, nonstop, but that won't sustain people in battle, in war," Draco talked slowly, feeling his way through the masterful logic he'd stumbled upon, and Voldemort nodded slowly for Draco to continue, an approving glint in his red eyes. "But since there's nothing people won't do for their friends—in the heat of battle, they'll fight harder, be braver. Outside of battle nothing exists outside of your grace and mercy and approval, but in battle, there's nothing but the friend next to you. Just like the other side."

"Yes," Voldemort said emphatically, with a slightly maniacal pitch. "Dumbledore's Order assumes that they will win because they are better than us. They mistakenly believe that they have the monopoly on love and affection and friendship—but they do not." The Dark Lord turned again to Hermione, and his magic caressed hers softly, invitingly. "Do you see, now, Mrs. Malfoy?"

Do you see now, Mrs. Malfoy?

Hermione nodded, and she really did see. She saw how Voldemort could amass an army, and the respect of so many. But she didn't see what Voldemort wanted her to see.

"Now...what is Harry Potter planning?"

The question came out of nowhere, but Draco didn't look particularly unnerved, just completely focused. Because Draco had spent enough time with him to learn the roads and tricks of a conversation with him; that was just how it was with the Dark Lord- whenever you thought the conversation was going one way, the Dark Lord would upend it.

"I don't know," Hermione stuttered.

Before Hermione could take a breath and offer some lie as appeasement, Draco was convulsing on the floor- teeth grinding.

"I thought you had gotten better," Voldemort said conversationally as he lifted the curse, though there was a disapproving and menacing undertone.

"I have, m'lord," Draco rose carefully to his feet, and took a deep breath. He tasted blood in his mouth but ignored it. "I was just surprised."

"Hmm," Voldemort mocked him subtly. But Hermione's horror was too delicious for the Dark Lord, and his attention was again solely on her. "What is Harry Potter planning?"

"I-I don't know, truly," Hermione tried to give an explanation. "We don't talk like we used to-"

Voldemort flicked his wand, and Draco stiffened, but didn't otherwise move. His jaw was clenched tightly, and there was a severe concentration on his face. But Hermione could just imagine the pain that coursed through his veins.

She could imagine, except...

It was nothing compared to reality- it wasn't the pointed, slashing pain of a thousand knives of the crucio. Instead, it was like the jagged cuts of a chainsaw grinding against his flesh and bones.

But pain wasn't real. As long as he remembered that, it was okay- bearable.

"Such lies- perhaps Draco needs to motivate you more," Voldemort walked towards his high chair, sat languidly and casually sent more power into his curse.

Draco grunted and buckled to one knee. His knuckles were white from clenching them so hard. The blood that had pooled in his mouth started to overflow and dribble down his chin.

"Please stop!" Hermione cried desperately. But she couldn't betray Harry. Not even to spare Draco.

"Oh, I wish I could," Voldemort smiled maliciously. "But I need an answer, Mrs. Malfoy."

He let up and Draco breathed heavily as though he'd run a million miles through the greatest depths of hell.

But his respite didn't last long. Draco knew it wouldn't because Voldemort could've just gotten the information from Hermione's mind through legilimency. It wasn't about the information - not really. It was about the pain and torture. It was about the euphoria that came with having that sort of power in your hands. It was about the tension that evaporated from your shoulders in the presence of someone else's screams.

Draco could understand that. He understood that too much.

"What is Harry Potter planning?"

Tears pooling and overflowing in fear, Hermione parted her lips, but Draco shuddered so hard that he collapsed fully and—

"I don't know! I don't—I swear," Hermione sobbed as Draco screamed. His screams were like knives on her skin, piercing her in ways she never knew she could be.

"Don't worry Mrs. Malfoy," Voldemort smiled wickedly. For a moment, she could picture him as Harry had described him back at the end of their second year—young and beautiful. Like a young god, instead of a monster. But the image disappeared as he continued, "Draco is well versed in pain. He is aware that it is not real. We can take this as slow and for as long as you need."

Darkness mixed with bright lights and—

The pain wasn't real, Draco tried to remind himself. He tried and tried, but the longer it lasted, the harder it was to remember.

There was nothing—no ground beneath his feet, no walls surrounding him, preventing escape. There was no escape. There was nothing physical.

All that was left was I love you.

I'm yours.

De magia et fides.

Those words, etched into the very fabric of his soul, were the only pieces of hope for his sanity as he succumbed to darkness and despair.

The echo of Hermione's screams outshined his own, and he could almost smile through the pain because…she really did love him.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

It was Hermione's mantra as she attended to Draco, but it was so hard—too hard.

Be strong, be strong, be strong.

Her hands were smooth on his skin as she rubbed a muscle relaxant deep into his flesh. Draco twitched and groaned lightly as he buried his face into the pillow.

Hermione was at a complete loss as to how to help him. All she could do was whisper "It's okay, I know it hurts-it's okay, it's okay."

Draco never answered, but he didn't have to. His silence, as the Dark Lord had questioned her spoke louder than anything he'd ever said.

It was better than I love you, or I'm yours. It was louder than always and de magia et fides.

His silence and understanding was worth more than anything they'd ever shared. It was clear he was on her side; whether he wanted to admit or not, he was on the light side. His silence, knowing about Harry's hunt for horcruxes said it all.

But Hermione feared for Draco. She feared the cost they would have to pay for his silent allegiance. This fear festered and burned all night long while Hermione comforted Draco. It ached in her chest as he chastely and tiredly kissed her knee that was bent next to his head. Fear curled into a deep rest inside of the crevices of her heart, longing for the safety of yesterday.

"I'm getting better," Draco whispered suddenly, his face burrowing into Hermione's thigh.

"Of course," Hermione's hand stilled, confused.

"I'm getting better," he repeated, and it took Hermione a moment to realize he was talking about controlling pain- keeping the pain at bay.

She remembered Voldemort's words.

Draco is well versed in pain.

"I'm getting better," Draco insisted as he shuddered from the after effects.

He is aware that it is not real.

"I know you are," Hermione shushed and cooed as her fingers flitted through his sweat matted hair.

"I'm getting better," he stuttered and Hermione felt the first drops of tears on her thigh.

Draco hadn't cried while under torture despite his screams, but here, in the stillness of their room, in the arms of the woman who loved him, he broke.

He broke and he couldn't bear the thought that his wife thought he was weak, less of a man.

"I'm getting better," he growled though the tears that wouldn't stop coming. "I am- I am."

"I know, I know" Hermione tried to comfort him by holding him tighter to her. But she didn't want to hurt his tense and strained muscles.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

Be strong, be strong, be strong.

Hermione continued her silent mantra as she tried to be strong for him. But it wouldn't have mattered, because Draco wouldn't stop crying and his tears could've drowned the whole world.

A.N – So what do you guys think? Love it? Hate it? Let me know and Review! **Reviews are love!**