Chapter Nine

Atonement

He watched, rather wide-eyed as she leaned in and placed three light kisses on the stubble of his jawline. "You have nothing to worry about," she whispered seeming to know just what he needed to hear. She pulled away.

You have nothing to worry about.

Perhaps it was a remnant of his past life, or maybe it was a male thing, but Malfoy did like to maintain a certain look about himself. An image if you will. It had little to do with actual physical appearance, and everything to do with expression. If he laughed, it was dignified and refined. If he was upset with someone, he would respond with calculated control. He did not like people to see him unsettled or ruffled, so he simply produced an air of calm restraint. He did, however, let people see his irritation and gruffness. He supposed he probably looked rather cold and unfeeling to the outside world, and that suited him just fine.

Malfoy had no wish for people to get too close to him or understand him too deeply, just as he had no wish to get too close to other people. As was often the case for him, he found the more he knew about people, the less he liked them, and he had the feeling that the more people knew about him, the less they liked him as well. (Hermione, of course, was the exception to nearly all these things – he let her see his silly and disturbed side, he laughed openly around her, she was far closer to him than anyone else, and he always wished to know more about her, although he still wasn't sure if he wanted her to know more about him.)

Despite the persona he worked hard to deliver, Malfoy was having a most difficult time keeping a silly little smile off his face these last several days, and it wasn't because he was in a drunken stupor. He liked it, because there was a hesitant whisper inside of him that spoke of the happiness he could find with Hermione. He didn't like it, because, it was ruining his image!

You have nothing to worry about.

Without realizing it, he would be lecturing a class with a goofy grin on his face. Then he would see that half the class was looking at him strangely. He would bark at some unfortunate student who most likely did not deserve it, and the grin would disappear, only to return a few minutes later.

Even Dumbledore commented on his "lovely smile" as he'd called it. Malfoy very childishly made a gagging noise and stomped away scowling, but it only lasted a few seconds until that stupid grin was back.

In the staff room one day, Malfoy caught McGonagall smiling so warmly at him that he almost fell off his chair. She had captured his gaze so completely that it would have been impossible to look away. Her eyes danced, she quirked an eyebrow and she smirked at him. Minerva McGonagall had smirked at him! She cast a quick glance in Hermione's direction. Malfoy had to throw himself in a coughing fit to keep himself from almost blushing.

He might have to give up on his idea of a controlled façade. Really – gagging to show disgust, almost falling out of chairs, very nearly blushing and not to mention that ridiculously boyish grin. If it was to be, it was to be – Malfoy really didn't mind as much as he thought he should.

It was not difficult to discern his new sense of. . . well, Malfoy called it self-indulgent idiocy, while another might call it a guarded sense of burgeoning hope in his changing relationship with Hermione. It was guarded, because Malfoy had allowed himself to hope before, but those desperate hopes had never materialized. After nearly every break-up between Hermione and Weasley, Malfoy sincerely hoped Hermione would turn her attentions to him, but she never did, if anything, she withdrew further from him. He had made special efforts to show her how much he cared during those times. He would bring her flowers to cheer her up, hot chocolate to warm her and tentative, carefully chosen words that told her that he cared for her and would always be there for her. But it either wasn't enough, or she simply did not wish for such things from him.

You have nothing to worry about.

After the second or third major break-up, he couldn't remember which; he very nearly told her how much he loved her. As though Hermione had sensed what was coming, she had yanked her hand out of his, jumped out of her chair and bolted from the room, claiming she had work to do. He had sat in the same position for quite some time, his hands still held out in front of him where he'd held hers only moments before. He had been devastated, to say the very least, but he would not let anyone, least of all Hermione, see it.

Consequently, Malfoy had allowed himself to feel less and less hope as the years went by. At one point, he had resolutely told himself that he no longer hoped for anything, except perhaps an early death, and maybe a few close moments with Hermione. Life, by definition was hopeless, in Malfoy's mind at least. One only had to look around at the often hidden misery in people and the state of the world to come to such a conclusion. He had felt somewhat gratified that at least he had strength to admit and accept such a thing, while others could not.

However, if that goofy little smile of his was any indication, he had once again allowed hope to burrow in and infect his being – for in his opinion, hope was a disease for which a brutal acceptance of reality was its only cure.

But there was something decidedly different in his relationship with Hermione now. It had only been about five or six days since Hermione had come to him that day with her hangover remedy, but those five or six days had wrought a subtle change. Their relationship had seemingly returned to its pre-hospital wing status. They never actually spoke of anything of consequence, as per usual, although their dialogue was a bit more light-hearted, and there was a playful sensuality in their words, which had previously been absent.

There were other little things, and Malfoy knew that he might be putting too much emphasis on them and would therefore, only feel rejection in the end yet again, but he convinced himself that those little things did in fact matter. They had to matter.

The touches were more frequent and often lasted longer than they once had. They were innocent touches for the most part, but they were somehow more – a lingering kiss that brushed across a cheek, an arm snaking around a waist to pull the other closer, the shy hand that played with the other's hair, the arms and hands that frequently brushed against each other when they walked together, and his very favorite, the body that would press closely against him and the head that would rest on his shoulder, as they sat in front of the fire.

However, they were much more guarded in their little touches in more public areas, as many rumors already surrounded the two young professors, and neither had a wish to add more fuel to them. Although the rumors amused Malfoy to some extent, they did seem to bother Hermione, so he was careful not to touch her, or look at her too often around the students and other staff, which was far more difficult than it sounded.

It was a little more challenging to control his body around her these days. These touches and gentle caresses did mean he had to masturbate a little more frequently and frenetically than usual. He would allow himself a satisfied little smile as he slowly stroked himself in the shower when he thought of how Hermione had touched him, or not pulled away when he touched her. As he gripped the towel rack, panting and groaning for release, he would imagine how he would caress her and lick her, how he would bruise her lips with his own, how he would get her to open completely to him, how he would tease her and make her beg for him, and how he would take his jolly-good time with her. He had fantasized about her before of course, but his fantasies had a new dimension of hopeful reality that they once lacked.

And then there were the looks. Malfoy didn't know how to describe them. Hermione appeared as though she was trying to figure something out. Her bewildered look was nothing short of absolutely adorable. There was wonder, confusion, and anticipation. Although, Malfoy could barley let himself see that last one for fear he was imagining it. Malfoy didn't know if he had changed his expression around her. He thought he did, because he let himself be a little more open with her, which seemed to confuse her even more. He knew for a fact that he laughed more and she must have noticed.

You have nothing to worry about.

Not for the first time, Malfoy really wished he could understand people a little better. No, that wasn't true; he wished he could understand her better. He didn't know if her bewilderment was a good thing, or a bad thing. He knew that Hermione needed to understand things before she acted upon them, so Malfoy decided that he would give her the time she needed.

Unfortunately for Malfoy, Hermione's mind could grasp aspects of issues he couldn't, therefore, he was sure it would take quite some time, but it didn't matter. He didn't want to wait, but he would. Mafloy did not wish to frighten her, not now, when things were better between them then ever before, at least in Malfoy's mind.

Most suddenly, but most quietly and unobtrusively, Malfoy's focus had shifted from himself to Hermione. He supposed it happened the day she brought him the hangover remedy and told him he had nothing to worry about.

Malfoy scrutinized her body language, expressions and speech, but he wasn't really any closer to understanding her. The problem with Hermione was that she never really talked to him, so he had to rely on himself to figure her out. He had become quite skilled in picking up the little fragments of self-depreciation and uncertainty she sometimes let loose in the course of an apparently benign conversation, and he did spend more time with her than just about anyone else, so he figured that he did know more about her than the average person.

He had seen her as a one-dimension person in his first six years of Hogwarts, so it often surprised him when he noticed some little thing about her. After a couple years of study, he unearthed her nervousness and lack of confidence she was a master at concealing. He didn't know what exactly had chipped away at the once confident woman, but he had his suspicions in the person of Ron I-couldn't-keep-my-mouth-shut-if-you-paid-me Weasley. It made Malfoy angry to think that this wonderful woman didn't think nearly as much of herself as he did.

Her amazing intellect also set her apart from others which could also account for the change in her adult demeanor. On more than one occasion, he heard Hermione dumb-down her theories and ideas to explain them to another person. The conversations often took the same course - it would start with Hermione's unadulterated excitement in the hope that she had found a kindred academic. Then the realization that she was far more advanced than her conversational partner would dawn upon her disappointed face. And finally, the doubt that perhaps her theory or idea was unworthy of consideration. It always made him a little sad to see her so unappreciated. Malfoy wished he could be her. . . sounding board, as it were, but he simply wasn't as smart as she was.

Malfoy had always known she was highly intelligent, but then, who didn't know that? But her mind was far more advanced than an encyclopedic knowledge of everything. She was far deeper and more complex than anyone he had ever known, and this only increased his attraction. He had watched her change from seventh year on when she started to allow her mind to grasp even more abstract and intricate ideas. Although Hermione no longer spouted facts for the sheer joy of showing how much she knew, it was evident, even when she spoke of trivial subjects, that she was highly intelligent. And both men and women were often intimidated by this kind gentle woman who had no wish to intimidate them in the first place.

There was a bit of a wall she had built around her that he simply could not penetrate, despite all his efforts. She never came to him with any substantial problems, preferring McGonagall or her old friend Ginny Weasley. Malfoy was jealous of the relationship the two women shared with Hermione. He had always wished she was more candid with him, but he couldn't force her after all.

In the last few years, a quiet sadness had overtaken her. At the time, he did not know what was wrong with her. He had asked, of course, but she simply brushed him off. It had taken him quite some time to see it for what it was. He hadn't thought much of it, thinking that it would evaporate on its own, and for the most part, it had, but every now and again, he thought he could catch a glimpse of that beautiful sadness. There was little in her manner that suggested she was unhappy, but there was a sublime sort of. . . pensiveness about her now, despite her general cheeriness. He was determined, that if it were possible, he would find the source of her sadness and eradicate it. There was hope for both of them.

These last few days had not only given Malfoy a reason to smile and hope, but they also bestowed upon him a real sense of purpose – the first he'd had in a very long time. He would crack open Hermione Granger, they would have The Talk, or at least A Talk, and she would know how much he loved her. He would, of course, wait for the appropriate moment, and if that appropriate moment decided it wanted to be coy and not present itself, then by the gods, he would make an appropriate moment. And maybe if he was lucky, that moment would give him the outcome he wanted.

It was the night before they left for the Potter's. Malfoy did his best not to think too much about spending a whole week with Harry Potter and his mewling brats, for Potter's children could nothing but mewling brats. But it was very important to Hermione, so he had no desire to try and renege on his promise, and he did feel gratified that she wished him to be with her. He could barely admit it to himself, but he was looking forward to it. She was welcoming him to share more deeply in her life. If that couldn't make a bloke happy, he didn't know what would.

Tonight, he made his way to Hermione's rooms, and if he were a skipping man, he would have skipped, but he most certainly wasn't. He had not seen her all day, so he was looking forward to spending the evening with her. He had just come off his rounds, and even the nasty little berks that were Hogwarts students couldn't put him in a bad mood.

"Strange." He uttered the password to Hermione's rooms and stepped inside.

Unlike his own chambers, Hermione's were warm and welcoming, and not surprisingly, there were insane amounts of books scattered about. It was uncharacteristically dark in Hermione's rooms. Malfoy withdrew his wand, and lit the lights. Hermione told him he could come and see her tonight. Had she forgotten?

Crookshanks sat on his favorite chair, lewdly cleaning himself. Malfoy grinned and turned to look for Hermione, but did not see her. He knew she was there as her overflowing school bag was on her desk. There was a small suitcase with a few clothes carelessly tossed inside.

He stepped into her bedroom, but she wasn't there either. Odd. He wasn't exactly sure why, but it bothered him that she wasn't there. The door to the bathroom was open, light spilling out of the room. Why was it so quiet in here? If Hermione wasn't reading, she generally had some sort of music playing.

You have nothing to worry about.

He quietly stepped around her bed to the bathroom. Through the open door, he could see Hermione's reflection in the large mirror. Her hands were placed flat on the countertop and she was staring at herself, trancelike, with the most heartbreaking expression he had ever seen. It looked like sad resignation to a horrible fate.

"Hermione?" he said quietly as he pushed the door all the way open.

As though she had not heard him, she continued staring at herself, but after just a moment, she broke from her trance and faced him. "Oh hi Malfoy," she said quietly.

"Hey," he started for her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, "are you alright?" He could see their reflection in the mirror. Hermione's posture was a little slumped, a little defeated, while he was the picture of utmost concern.

"Oh, I'm fine. I'm just so tired. I-I had a long day." She gave him a faint smile in a vain attempt to dispel his concern, but she did not meet his eyes when she spoke and her voice was painfully quiet.

"Here, let's go sit down, I'll make you some tea." He guided her out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom and into her living area. Hermione did not raise her eyes from the floor. He gently deposited her on her sofa.

"I'll just be a minute." He stepped away to make her some tea. What was going on? He had never seen her so sad, so ready to break. Even at the many funerals they attended during the battle with the Dark Lord, she had carried herself with a soft dignity, allowing only a few tears to escape from her lovely eyes. And although she did not look as if she'd been crying, it seemed only a moment or a word away. He searched his mind for a reason for her blatant unhappiness as he quickly and quietly prepared her tea. Perhaps she was second-guessing the last few days and their growing closeness. At the moment, he didn't care, as long as that horrible look was removed from her face.

Trepid footsteps led him back to Hermione. He really didn't know what to do. He wasn't exactly good at dealing with people. Hermione held Crookshanks close to her with her head resting on his back. Crookshanks did not look particularly comfortable, but he purred anyway. Her eyes were wide, but vacant. He had no idea what that meant. She didn't even notice when he re-entered the room.

He stepped in front of her. "Er-here. This might make you feel better." He gave her a diminutive smile. Detaching a hand from Crookshanks, she reached out for the cup, took one sip and placed it on the table behind her.

He sat on the edge of the sofa, so he could face her. He reached out and pushed her hair behind her ear, hoping this might at least get a glance in his direction. He had not meant to, but he let his forefinger linger on her ear lobe. But she did not notice or simply did not feel the need to respond. He needed something from her. She had to give him some clue as to how to proceed. Hermione's unresponsiveness frightened him quite a bit more than he wished to admit. Without thinking, he had labeled her as the steady one in their friendship. Seeing her this way shattered his illusion.

He gently stroked her hair, his hand barely touching her soft bushy locks. He swallowed, and slipped his hand beneath her mass of hair to cup the back of her neck. She was tense, so he lightly massaged her neck muscles, occasionally letting his fingers slide into her hair. His other hand grasped hers, but she did not squeeze his hand as she normally did.

Hermione leaned back into his touch. Her eyes were closed, her mouth a little open, and her hold on Crookshanks slackened. Crookshanks looked grateful, if it is possible for a cat to look grateful. Good, at least he was getting a response. They stayed this way for a several quiet minutes.

Malfoy watched her closely for any sign that might give him an idea of what was going on. His breaths were shallow – not knowing what bothered her was killing him – he ran through dozens of scenarios in his head – her parents were harmed or ill, one of her friends was in an accident, another student made mention of a mudblood professor, Crookshanks bit her, she didn't want him near her anymore - Malfoy really didn't know.

"Hermione. Hermione, please. Talk to me." He could hear the desperation in his own voice. He pressed his forehead against the side of her head. He dumbly noted the sweet scent of her hair.

"I can't." Her voice was barely audible. He pulled his head away from her to watch a fat tear slip out of her eye and travel down her skin. Her chin quivered. She jerked her hand to cover mouth, but the tortured sob she tried to suppress still made its way out. Her motion sent Crookshanks to the ground.

He moved even closer to her. "Yes. Yes, you can. You know you can talk to me about anything." His voice was so gentle, it surprised even himself.

In response, she shook her head furiously. This was so unlike her. Hermione did not let people see her this way. She was not prone to this type of thing. Malfoy felt as though he'd fallen into another plane of existence. How to deal with something that made no had no basis in this dimension of reality?

He made to wrap his arms around her, but she pulled away. She eased herself from the sofa and stood away from him. Silent sobs wracked her body. He got up and wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her tightly against his body with quiet intensity, as though the action would squeeze the pain out of her. She hesitantly buried her face in his chest, while her arms hung limply at her sides.

"Hermione, you have to tell me," he said, just a little firmly. "Please don't do this to yourself."

He heard her say something muffled against his chest, so he caught nothing. He lifted her chin to look up at him, but her eyes darted this way and that, alighting upon everything but his eyes. "What was that, love?" he asked as he stroked her cheek.

Hermione finally looked at him. There was a stormy finality in the depths of her eyes, as she pushed herself away from him.

"I can't do this Malfoy. I-I thought I could, but. . . but I can't. I just can't." The words struggled to make it out of her mouth – they came in fits and starts in the tortured whispers of her broken voice. Her mouth did not wish to release those words, but her body forced them out.

"What do you mean?" he breathed. She meant him. She meant them. No, she couldn't. She couldn't mean it. No, they were so close. So close to each other and so close to something new. Something that made him happy. He realized now that the stupid grin that haunted his face this last week signified his anticipated happiness. He had never really been happy before. He had been so close.

You have nothing to. . .

"Malfoy, I'm so sorry, but I just. . ." She turned from him again, and raised that hand back to her mouth as the sobs once again overtook her weary body. She flopped on the floor, sitting like a little girl all curled up into herself with her hands covering her face.

Almost by instinct, he rushed to her, and pulled her off the ground. With much awkwardness, he lifted her limp and unresponsive body against him. He tried to think of something to say that would comfort her, but no thought materialized. This could not be happening.

Malfoy carried her to her bedroom, with Crookshanks at his heels. He gently placed Hermione on her bed, and she turned to press her face into her pillow. Crookshanks hopped on the bed and nestled against her. The mangy cat made a sound that sounded like "meep" as Hermione pulled the animal closer to her. Not knowing what else to do, Malfoy very deliberately removed her shoes and socks.

When that little task was done, he stood over her, watching her weep. Part of him felt dirty for seeing this part of her that she so obviously wished to hide.

Malfoy was so confused. He wanted to make things better for her, but it seemed he was part of the problem, so he really didn't know what to do. But he had to be here for her. She was his best friend, and he would not leave her to suffer alone. He shuffled out of his own shoes and crawled into bed with her.

Malfoy was very hesitant in his movements because he didn't know if this was the right thing. He spooned into her form and he slid one arm underneath her head and wrapped the other around her body and held her unresisting body close to him. He held her, and she held Crookshanks.

Her wracking sobs eventually quieted into soft cries. Malfoy simply held her. He made no motion to touch her in any other way. All he really felt was sadness. Sadness for her and sadness for himself. Things had been going so well. Had he said or done something to bring her to this state? Had someone else intervened and been harsh with her? He felt completely impotent.

They spent quite some time in this way until Hermione stopped crying. The silence in the bedroom was occasionally punctuated by her hiccups. He waited. If this was the appropriate moment he'd been hoping for, he would curse Fate for the cold bitch she was.

"I'm sorry," she said in a voice that almost sounded like her own.

"Don't be. You've nothing to be sorry about." And she didn't.

"I didn't want you to see that," she said as she shifted to pull her familiar closer to her.

"I know," he said as he tentatively allowed his thumb to stroke the hand that rested on Crookshanks.

It took a few more moments for Malfoy to realize that she would offer no other information. He would have to draw it out of her. Oh gods help him, he was no good at these types of things.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked soothingly.

"Ron." He was glad that he wasn't facing her. He didn't want her to see the pained look that crossed his face.

"What about W-Ron?" He thought he had more control over his faculties, but as it was, he didn't, so the question sounded a bit like a whimper.

A slight pause on her part. "He forgave me."

"He forgave you?"

Another longer pause. "I don't think I would have if I was in his place, but he did." Almost as an after though, she added, "I miss him."

"Forgave you for what?" Malfoy did not wish to address the other statement.

"Er," he could feel her pulling away again, "you know."

"I don't know what you mean Hermione."

"Yes you do," she sounded tired and just a tiniest bit exasperated.

"I really don't." He really didn't.

She turned to lie on her back so she could see him. She opened her mouth once or twice to speak, but thought the better of it.

"Hermione, what's going on?"

"Nothing," she sighed, "it's obviously nothing." She squirmed her way out of his embrace. "Listen, we have to get up early tomorrow to get the students to the Hogwarts Express, and I'm really tired."

He stared at her dumbly.

You have nothing. . .

"I think you should go," she said with subtle conviction.

"Hermione-"

"No, I'm just really tired. I didn't sleep at all last night and I just," she sighed, "I just need to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow." He knew they wouldn't. Tomorrow would not carry the intensity of tonight. He could see she was embarrassed for her earlier display, and she would not wish to explain it to him in the garishness of the day. No, she would not do this again. He was hurt and angry that she would dispose of him so easily, but he was also concerned for her. Something was very wrong with her.

He grabbed her wrist as she made to get out of bed. "Oh no Hermione. Weren't you the one who said we couldn't keep doing this? That we couldn't keep turning away from each other? Huh? You did say it, didn't you? I for one, remember it quite clearly." Her eyes widened at his angry tone. "You can't make statements like that in the expectation that it will only suit your needs. I'm not going to let you. We are talking tonight." She huffed and sat on the bed. Out of Hermione's grasp, Crookshanks settled himself into her pillow and watched the two of them. Malfoy propped himself up on one elbow.

"I don't want to talk to you tonight." Her eyes were clear and she was suitably angry. Exhausted, but angry. He had his Hermione back. "I'm so tired of this," she said motioning her hand between them.

"What?"

"This, this," she continued wildly motioning between them, "this you and I. And why do we have to talk when you want to and not when I want to. God, you are so selfish. Everything is about you isn't it?" Her words held a dark sarcasm.

"It is not and you know it."

"Oh yes it is," he could hear a bit of the bossy know-it-all in her tone.

He could see she wouldn't back down. It was time to try something else. "Okay, so what if it is. Everything has to be about me because you won't let me in."

She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. Good, she was confused by his little maneuver.

"Yeah well," she said, sounding like a child who knows she was caught doing something wrong, but was still going to try and weasel her way out, "you don't try very hard do you?" She pointed a finger at him accusingly.

"For fuck's sake Hermione," he cried, completely frustrated, "I've been trying to get closer to you for years." She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off. "And if you think I haven't been trying hard enough, well, maybe I haven't, but I didn't want to push you away. I didn't want to lose what we had." He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

"Really?"

"Good gods Hermione!" He knew she wasn't stupid, but anyone could see how much she meant to him. "Why do you think I hang around you all the time? Huh?"

Malfoy jumped out of the bed and moved in front of her. There was a kind of dark energy tearing up his insides that refused to let him sit still. How could she doubt him like this? He had endured accusations and threats from her friends just to be near her. In his seventh year, his housemates joked that he followed "goody-goody Granger around like a lost little puppy. Ha Ha Ha." In his defense, that wasn't really true, he'd made a concerted effort not to show her too much affection. He supposed it was inevitable, their friendship was cast in mystery, and people were bound to say things that weren't precisely true.

"You know, I really don't know why you hang around me. We're there for each other when it's easy, but when things get difficult, we just can't handle it." She was just rationalizing now. Malfoy knew this because he did it all the time.

"Hermione," he grabbed her arm. Her surprise was evident. "I have always been here for you," he seethed, "you just never come to me, do you? You would probably go to that stupid house-elf you like so much before you would come to me."

"I would not, and Dobby is not stupid, so don't say that," she said, very nearly shouting.

Malfoy started to pace. He feared that if he opened his mouth to speak, he would start shouting at her and although he couldn't remember ever being quite this angry with her, he didn't wish to start a shouting match. Stomping around on her floor made him feel markedly better. They two had something to accomplish tonight. He had almost forgotten why they started arguing in the first place, but he would find out why Weasley had to forgive her. Malfoy forced himself to take deep breaths in the hope that it would calm him. Hermione would not respond to unadulterated anger, so he would have to try something else.

He watched Hermione out of the corner of his eye. She was watching him trying not to watch her. When he saw her shake her head and look at the hands that rested in her lap, he made his move. He sat beside her and took her hands.

"Hermione, I think we can both agree that I'm lazy, complacent, I give up easily, and if I can dump my work on others I don't hesitate to do so. You remember the Valentine's Ball last year that I was supposed to organize? And I got McGonagall and Snape to do all the work, well, I had to blackmail Snape, but all the same. And I put myself in charge of the balloons because I thought it would be the easiest thing, but it wasn't because Dumbledore wanted like a million balloons? And it took me days to take care of all the balloons?" Complex, hurtful subjects were best approached with a hint of comedy. Humor made things go down a little easier. He thought he saw a baby grin through the curtain of her hair. "But I think we can both agree that, on occasion, that rare rare occasion, that I can be quite stubborn and might I say, even unreasonable." He played with her fingers. "I'm not leaving here until you tell what's wrong."

She said nothing, just watched her hands. It was torture. Malfoy was beginning to think that if this night didn't kill him, nothing possibly could. Maybe he could get himself a nice cape and introduce himself as Invincible Man. All he would require was a theme song and maybe a trusty sidekick.

"Hermione," he said firmly as he gripped her chin to force her gaze to him, "why did Weasley have to forgive you? I honestly don't know what you're talking about."

Rather painfully, she opened her mouth. "He forgave me for the time when you and I, you know." She gave that look. It was the look that said, "I know what I mean, you know what I mean, but I don't want to say it and you don't want to hear it."

"Hermione, I really don't know what you mean." Malfoy had never acted out against Weasley with Hermione, so it wasn't that. He was starting to fear that he knew what she meant – "when you and I, you know." It couldn't possibly be. He would definitely remember something like that.

"You really don't?"

"No."

"Oh." She looked like she would very likely fall into silence again.

"Hermione, what did you and I do?"

She fidgeted. "Well, I let you, um, that is to say. You really don't remember? I just can't believe that, you seemed so lucid at the moment." He shook his head. "Ginny said you probably didn't remember, and that it was unlikely that you would have. . . but I didn't believe her. And Harry said you would have, that if you really cared about me, you wouldn't have done it." She looked up and they locked gazes. He slowly and unassuredly raised his hand to cup her cheek.

"Tell me." He didn't want to hear, but she needed to tell. If her earlier breakdown was any sign, it was slowly, but surely eating away at her. He was prepared to take it on himself.

She swallowed and turned her gaze back to her hands. Complex hurtful subjects were also easier if you didn't look another in the eye. He didn't exactly know why that was so, but it was.

"Well, you, uh, you remember when Hagrid and I came and got you from Knockturn Alley?" He nodded. "I mean you were so messed up, and-and you tried to hit Hagrid and he had to carry you out of there and I was really scared for you. And we didn't know what you had taken, and you were so, you just, babbled, and we couldn't understand you at all. We tried giving you different potions to ease you through, um, through that time, but they didn't work. I think they actually made you worse."

"And-and you weren't sleeping, and I thought you just going to totally lose it." She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts, or steel herself to tell him the thing he didn't want to hear. Malfoy didn't know which.

"Anyway, on the second night you were there, at Grimmauld Place, you tried to kiss me. And you told me that you loved me, and you said something about a center, you called me your center, but I didn't understand what that meant. And you said I deserted you and why would I do that." She kept shooting glances up at him to see how he was taking this. He honestly didn't know how he was taking this, but he was holding his breath.

"And you just, said all these things, and you kind of, um, you kind of begged me," she said that last bit very quietly. "And you just seemed so lost and broken, that-that I let you. . . er, you know."

You know.

Malfoy felt very strange. He supposed shock was the overwhelming feeling. Of course, he felt remorse, but that feeling didn't crush him as he thought it would, considering the situation. Perhaps when the shock dissipated.

"Did I, did I hurt you?"

"Um," she looked down. The remorse started making its presence known – it exploded through every system in his body. He had hurt her. She looked up at him, her face full of wonder.

You are nothing.

"No, no, it wasn't like that Malfoy. I let you. It was consensual. It wasn't, it wasn't like that at all. You didn't force me, you didn't even try to force me," she said, gripping the hands that had become limp in hers.

"Were you a virgin?" Malfoy asked, holding his breath in fear of her answer.

"No, you were just, kind of. . .f-frantic." She surprised him by throwing her arms around him. "Oh, I shouldn't have told you. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have told you. I thought you knew," she whispered against his ear.

He pushed her away. "You have nothing to be sorry about Hermione."

"I know," she said quietly, but he could tell she didn't really believe it.

"Hermione, you have nothing to be sorry about," he repeated.

"I know, I should have known that you weren't, er, with it, but you just, it was the first time you made any sense in two days."

"So you thought, for all these years, that I just, let it go – that I just thought of it as a one-time thing? That I would just discard you like that?"

"Well, yes."

"Hermione, you know I would never knowingly do that to you. I would never hurt you like that."

"I know how you are with women Malfoy," Hermione said, soundeding defeated.

"Hermione-" How to reply when she had a valid reason?

"I mean since we've been friends, your longest, erm, relationship has lasted twenty-four hours."

It was true. Malfoy wasn't some sort of playboy, but he did seek release from anonymous women when he felt the need. He never led them on. There was an understanding that it would be a one-time sort of thing. These encounters were never really satisfying, not when he really wanted Hermione.

They sat next to each other, holding hands. Neither knew what to say. Neither knew how to rectify the situation. It slowly started to dawn on Malfoy how much he had hurt her with that forgotten action – how much it had shaped their relationship. Their sexual encounter, which he couldn't remember, had far-reaching consequences. He didn't want to think how far. He didn't want to think about how things would be different between them if it had never happened, or if he had remembered their night together. He didn't want to think how she might be different and how it had changed her relationship with Weasley. That one act was the cloud that hung over their friendship – it was why she never let him get close to her, why she never really talked to him. He was so completely unworthy of her.

"Hermione," he began quietly, "I don't know what to say. I don't know how to make this better. You just have to know that I'm so incredibly sorry for what happened. I wish you had told me sooner." He spoke slowly and tried to choose the perfect words. "You. . .I mean, I've. . ." he sighed. "You are the only real person in my life, and you mean more to me than anyone or anything else. I-I just, I'm so sorry, Hermione I. . ."

"I know. It's okay."

"No, it really isn't."

A tormented silence fell between them. They both lightly fidgeted. An inner battle waged within Malfoy. He was still overwhelmed with guilt, and yet, he still felt a sliver of hope that things might work out. But how could they? After what he had done to her, after how he had hurt her in so many ways? But that was so many years ago, and he was obviously not himself, and she said she forgave him. But that didn't make everything okay.

"Malfoy, what, I mean, well, what happens now?"

He didn't know. "What would you like to happen?"

"I'm not really sure. I mean, I don't think we can let this go," she said, motioning between them. "You and I are – I guess I don't know what we are, but I don't want to lose you either."

He grasped her hands. "Well I guess we want the same thing then. That's a start," he said, trying to flash her a grin. She was too exhausted to see it.

"Would you still like me to go to the Potter's with you?"

She nodded with closed eyes. He felt rather relieved.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed. It looks like you're about ready to collapse. Where do you keep your bedclothes?"

She pointed to her bureau. "Third drawer down." He reluctantly let go of her hands and rummaged through the drawer. He saw a few sexy little numbers, but felt nothing. He pulled out a pair of pink bottoms with tacky bright blue flowers, and a green t-shirt with a silly cartoonish tiger baring its teeth.

He held them up for her inspection. "You've always had a little different take on fashion than the rest of the world." She gave him a tired grin. The poor woman could barely keep her eyes open. He cleared his throat. "Do you, uh, need help?"

"No," she said, but she started struggling to get her shirt off her head as he watched her. It embarrassed him.

"Here, let me help you." He pulled the shirt off her head. Trembling, he reached behind her and unsnapped her bra, and she made no move to resist him.

"Raise your arms." Malfoy did his best not to look at her as he slid the shirt over her head.

"Stand up," he said as he lifted her off the bed. She held her arms a little behind her as he unbuttoned and unzipped her. Pulling her pants off, he hoped his actions were as asexual as possible. He helped her step out of her pants and into her bottoms.

Although Hermione only had to walk a grand total of about three steps to get into bed, Malfoy felt the need to pick her up and place her in the messy bed. He pulled the covers around her and made quite the show of tucking her in.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead. "Sleep well," he whispered as he squeezed her hand. Malfoy really didn't want to leave her, but he thought it was the best thing. He reluctantly pulled away, but she did not release his hand. In fact, she pulled his hand towards her.

"Are you sure?"

She just gave him a little smile and scooted away from the edge of the bed. Crookshanks had to reposition himself as Hermione invaded his space. The cat didn't seem to mind. Malfoy stripped to his t-shirt and shorts. He felt very cold.

Malfoy tentatively lifted the covers and slid in beside her. He hesitated. What did she want? She put her hand on his chest. He slid closer to her and enveloped her in his embrace. He tried, with little success, in not holding her too tightly.

"Hermione?"

"Hmmm."

"I love you," he whispered.

"Yeah?" she looked up at him.

"Yeah," he almost laughed. How could she not know that?

"Like?"

"Like I never want to be apart from you. Ever. Like I'll let you win every argument from now on. Like I've never been more sorry for anything than what I did to hurt you."

"Even-"

"Yes. Go to sleep love. We have a long day tomorrow."

"Okay." Within a few short minutes, she was fast asleep, her head against his chest, her mouth slightly open.

While Hermione slept soundly, Malfoy could hardly blink. Hermione's revelation opened up a whole new facet of their relationship. He ached when he thought of all the pain and uncertainty he had caused her. He tried to excuse himself for his action. There were many valid reasons – he had been supremely fucked-up, he hadn't wanted to hurt her, and he couldn't remember it, but despite all that, he still couldn't forgive himself.

Malfoy liked to think that he had absolved himself of the sins of his youth. He had been a different person then, just a boy really. The images haunted him though – no one can really imagine what it's like to watch a tormented soul take ten hours to die without actually witnessing it. He remembered entrails being pulled out of a person screaming for mercy, he remembered women lying lifeless waiting for the next brutal rape, and he remembered children who didn't yet understand the cruelty of the world crying for their parents with insanely frightened looks in their eyes. But Malfoy didn't know these people. He imagined their families and friends – how these violent acts had changed their lives, but he didn't see it, so he couldn't really know.

But he was more remorseful for this, this, thing he'd done to Hermione. It made him feel a little ashamed because he knew it should not be so, but it was. Surely, torture and death were more reprehensible than forgotten consensual intercourse. Of course, he had never actually engaged in the torture and death, but he had done nothing to stop it; he had sat on the sidelines like the scared, weak little boy he had been.

He had been relatively close to Hermione for years – he could see now how it affected her. Unlike the death and torture he had watched, he saw the aftermath with Hermione. He didn't witness families torn apart and children dealing with absent parents, but he did see Hermione's shrinking confidence, her lack of trust and her sadness.

Malfoy didn't know how exactly it had affected her. He wasn't so arrogant as to believe that he was the sole cause of all these things, but she might be different if he had acted differently. Perhaps she had wanted the two of them to get together, but they didn't. Or she may just have wanted an acknowledgement of her gift, or an apology. He was sure that she felt guilty about it, as she had been with Weasley at the time.

Malfoy was one of her closest friends, and she thought he regarded her as a convenient lay. He wondered if perhaps their growing closeness of the last few days had frightened her. Perhaps she didn't want to be tossed aside again.

But she had stayed near him for all these years. That must mean something. He wondered if she thought about that night often, or if, like him, she pushed unpleasant memories to the edge of her consciousness. He thought that might be the case as she had never mentioned anything to him. Perhaps it was a night she simply wished to forget. Malfoy wasn't sure how that made him feel.

And Weasley. He had forgiven her. She must have told him. He could not imagine Weasley being so magnanimous as to forgive Hermione for a night of infidelity, and with a Malfoy no less. Malfoy grudgingly admitted that he new little about the man. His hatred for Weasley stemmed from a dark jealousy rather than any actual knowledge of him and his relationship with Hermione, but as he thought on it now, Hermione had seemed so happy when she was with Weasley and tonight she said she missed him. Best not to think about it too much.

Malfoy wasn't sure if he had forgiven himself for his past life, but that didn't matter right now. What mattered was her. How to atone for a sin one couldn't remember committing? How to atone for any irredeemable, unpardonable sin?

Malfoy pressed his face into her hair and tried to get some sleep, unaware that his little grin had taken its leave of him.

You have nothing to worry about.