Commencement was a solemn affair indeed. For this special event, the graduating students were seated alphabetically, rather than by House- and no one could fail to notice that the final two chairs, which should have belonged to Ron Weasley and Blaise Zabini, were left painfully, glaringly empty; a set of each boy's dress robes, neatly folded, lying on the seats of their respective chairs in tribute.

The mood wasn't helped any by the near-constant, barely stifled sobbing of both Molly Weasley and Roberta Zabini; the Weasleys and what was left of the decimated Zabini family- namely, Roberta herself- having been invited to attend as honored guests. And then there was the fact that at least half of the graduating Slytherins had lost family members- mostly parents, but in Pansy's case, a sibling as well- in the now well-documented battle royale of the former Death Eaters. Draco and Hermione, when they rose to give their respective Head Boy and Head Girl speeches, were both subdued; at one point Hermione trailed off as her gaze was drawn inexorably to Ron's empty seat and, gripping the podium in front of her with white-knuckled hands, tears standing out in her eyes, she clearly had to struggle hard to maintain at least some semblance of composure. The hurt in her eyes was so deep and so clear that it was all Draco could do at that point to stay in his seat- his every instinct screamed at him to vault up onto the conjured stage, and, spectators be damned, wrap her in his arms and never let go.

Nor did things get any easier after the ceremony. At the reception for graduating students and their families, in the Great Hall, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife as Mr. and Mrs. Granger met their daughter's boyfriend for the first time- and learned simultaneously that he was, in fact, no longer her boyfriend, but her fiancé- and that the young couple had already begun making plans to wed in the fall.

While the Grangers were aware that in the wizarding world it was accepted and, indeed, commonplace for couples to wed at seventeen, eighteen, nineteen years of age, this did not change the fact that it was practically unheard of in the society of which the elder Grangers were a part- they had never imagined that their only child would marry just after her eighteenth birthday; the announcement stunned them. But the thing that added insult to injury was Hermione's quiet, yet firm, declaration that she would not even be returning home for one last summer; she and Draco had been granted permission by Dumbledore to remain in their Head rooms at Hogwarts for the next eight weeks, the better to supervise the construction of their new home in Hogsmeade (wizarding construction taking far less time than that of Muggles, the house would be completed easily within two months.) The land had already been purchased; a good-sized parcel overlooking the Hogwarts lake- and the groundbreaking was scheduled for the very next day.

Eventually the foursome- Draco, Hermione, and her parents- split in two, with Mr. Granger taking Draco off for a mano-a-mano out on the grounds, and Hermione remaining in the company of her decidedly distraught mother, attempting to placate her. When they reunited some time later, back in the Great Hall, which was by now nearly empty, the reception drawing to a close, both parents were at least somewhat pacified- though still rather less than pleased with the turn their young daughter's life had so rapidly taken. Draco had put across to Hermione's father, though not in so many words, that he would readily kill or die for his daughter (he had neglected to say that he had already done the former, and very nearly done the latter), and Mr. Granger had sensed that the boy was sincere. As for Hermione's mother, well, her ruffled feathers had smoothed themselves with near miraculous speed when she had demanded of her daughter just how two seventeen-year-olds without jobs as of yet planned on supporting themselves... and had learned, consequently, just what Draco was worth. Not that she was an overly materialistic woman, but still... what mother doesn't dream that her daughter will find true love with a fabulously wealthy man? And when one factored in that the galleon-to-pound exchange rate was better than five-to-one... well, Draco's fortune looked very appealing to his future mother-in-law.

Still, both Mr. and Mrs. Granger begged Hermione once again, before leaving, to reconsider and accompany them home, at least for a few weeks. They had been treating her like glass ever since the "incident" in sixth year... she could only imagine how they would react if they were to hear of her much more recent trauma. But they knew nothing of it, nor would they, if it were up to her... and, it just so happened, it was. In sixth year, she had been underage, and so her parents had been notified as a matter of course. Now, however, she was seventeen and a legal adult in the wizarding world, and the decision of whether to tell them about the recent... events... at Malfoy Manor rested on her and her alone.

And she would never tell them.

It could do no possible good, she reasoned; only harm. They would be beside themselves; flat-out hysterical. They had often wondered over the course of the years, even before the Voldemort incident, whether allowing their daughter to become a part of the war-torn wizarding world had been a wise decision... and last year she had had to beg them to allow her to return for her final year at Hogwarts. If they knew what she'd been through in her seventh year... she had visions of them going so far as to attempt to have her "kidnapped" back from the wizarding world, as some parents have their children kidnapped back from malevolent cults. And once she was back in their custody, in the Muggle world, she would have to abide by Muggle laws, which stated that she would be under their guardianship for months yet.

Months before she could decide, as a Muggle adult, to return to the wizarding world which, as bleak and dangerous as it could be at times, had become her home.

Months without Draco.

She honestly didn't think she could survive that.

So she made the decision that she considered best for both her parents' peace of mind and her own. The past was the past and couldn't be altered- well, except for certain rare instances, she allowed- but this wasn't one of them- so why add to her parents' grief- and by so doing, add to her own? It didn't make sense.

Still, her parents were her parents, and she their only child, and so it went without saying that they sensed something amiss in their daughter on this day. A deep and desperate sadness, lurking beneath her surface, that had not been there even in the wake of last year's attack... that they weren't entirely sure even the death of one of her best friends fully accounted for. And so they reached a conclusion that was quite natural, given that they knew only part of what was troubling their daughter. If this sense of melancholy that she was conveying so strongly, if unintentionally, to their parent-radar went deeper than her rape last year, and deeper even still than Ron's death, as they sensed it did- then it must have to do with this boy, they concluded; this Draco Malfoy. She seemed adamant about marrying him, but... was she being coerced in some way? The fact that she refused to come home with them for even so much as a single week was, to them, yet one more red flag.

So it was only with great reluctance, many worried backward glances, and not a few tears on Hermione's mother's part, that they at long last allowed themselves to be herded away with the rest of the Muggle relatives, for group transport back to London.

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As soon as they were out of sight, Hermione literally sagged against Draco, as if too exhausted to stand another moment. He wrapped both arms protectively about her and they left the Great Hall like that, Harry- who had had no relatives in attendance and had been standing with the Weasleys, feeling miserably- and not entirely erroneously- that though they were as warm and loving toward him as ever- almost- they would never quite forgive him for not being the one to die- joining them on the stairs. He had also obtained permission from Dumbledore to stay at Hogwarts that summer while he sorted out what to do with the rest of his life, seeing as he had nowhere else to go- his relatives, understanding that he was now a legal adult in the wizarding world, had flatly refused to allow him into their house again... and that was fine, because wild thestrals couldn't have dragged him back there anyway.  Sirius had, of course, extended him an invitation to stay with him until he got on his feet, but Harry had declined- he only had one best friend left, and she was nowhere near recovered from her ordeal yet- not emotionally, anyway- and he had the distinct feeling that she needed him close.  And if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, he would have to admit that he needed her close as well.  Needed her desperately right now.

So it was a subdued group of three that made their way back up to Gryffindor Tower, wending through corridors and up staircase after staircase amid the whoops and shouts and laughter and general, milling chaos that was the last full day before the Hogwarts Express would chug out of the station for another summer holiday. A third of the way up the final flight of stairs Hermione stumbled- she was so exhausted, wrung out from emotion, that she could barely see straight- and Draco swept her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way, Harry opening the portrait hole for them and saying a quiet goodbye in the common room.

Draco headed down the short hallway to their rooms, shouldered open her door, which she had left ajar in haste on her way down to the ceremony some hours before, and, crossing to the bed, laid her gently on it. Pressing a kiss on her forehead, he turned to leave then, but was stopped in his tracks by her voice, low and hesitant, from behind him.

"Draco... stay with me?"

He turned and gave her a long, searching look, and she raised herself up on her elbows, though he saw that even this was a struggle for her- her eyelids were literally dropping with fatigue- and held out a hand beseechingly.

"Sure?" he asked at last.

Her voice was the barest of whispers when she answered, "I don't want to be alone."

That decided him- as if he could ever deny her- he crossed to the door, but only to close and lock it, then shrugged out of the dress robes he had worn to commencement while she, on the bed, did the same. And then he was beside her, both of them in only their underthings, and he was holding onto her as if his life depended on it, and it did, God, yes, he had learned that lesson well enough; it did.

This was how they fell asleep in the same bed- other than when they'd been barely alive in the hospital wing- for the first time since their breakup, well before Hermione had been taken.

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He shouldn't have been surprised at her reaction upon waking, really. But seeing as they awoke at nearly the same time, the result being that he was groggy, and disoriented at finding himself in unfamiliar surroundings- they had once been familiar, but that had been some time ago; it felt like a lifetime ago- he was caught off-guard and it took him several long seconds to realize what was going on. What it all meant- Hermione stiffening suddenly in his arms, the muffled sound of distress she made against his chest before pushing him violently away from her, nearly causing him to fall off the bed- and by the time he'd regained his own balance, she was off the bed; she'd scrambled off the other side of it, landed in a heap on the floor, as uncoordinated as he was in her half-awake state, and scooted backwards until she was sitting pressed against the wall.

"Hermione," he said cautiously, his voice hoarse and croaky with sleep.

She stared at him with wide eyes, but they were alarmingly blank- she wasn't seeing him, not really, she was seeing something else entirely, and as his faculties returned to him, he thought he had a pretty damn good idea of what.

That sick fucking bastard. One death was too bloody good for him.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

She pulled her legs tightly up to her chin.

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the last vestiges of sleep.

"Look at me, Hermione," he said quietly. "Please, love. Really look."

No dice. She buried her face in her knees and began to rock slightly.

"Shit," Draco muttered. "shitshitshit."

Should he stay where he was? Should he keep trying to talk sense to her? Or go over there? Pull her into his arms and hold on no matter what, as Snape had done for him in the hospital wing when he'd realized...

(Don't want to think about that now. Or ever, really.)

Was that what she needed? Would it help? Or only make her hysterical? She looked to be making herself hysterical.

Some sort of action was called for.

He eased off the edge of the bed, advancing on her very slowly, as unthreateningly as he possibly could. It really hardly seemed to matter. She appeared to be lost to him anyway, with her face still hidden from view, burrowed between her knees and obscured by her vast amounts of sleep-tousled hair. She didn't react until he was right there beside her, until he decided that Snape's way was probably the best suited to this situation, and drew her into his arms.

Then she went berserk.

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"Hermione... Hermione..." Draco kept saying her name over and over as he gently stroked her tangled hair, at a loss for what else to say. She had fought him kicking and screaming, fought until she could fight no more, could barely move, and now she lay in his arms, panting, her struggles having finally lessened to the point where she at last lay, defeated, against him- not due to acceptance of him, but rather because her strength had given out.

Though she lay against his chest now, no longer trying to break away, her body was far from relaxed; she was taut and trembling, her breathing harsh, shallow and erratic.

Hence his efforts to comfort her by stroking her hair and murmuring her name. It seemed to be having little, if any, effect, however.

"Hermione," he tried again, "listen, remember... remember the unicorns. Remember... the time I took you down there, and we saw Pansy. You didn't believe they'd come, but they did. Remember the last night, when I took pictures of them in your lap." He could feel the tension beginning to leave her, could sense her going suddenly very still, listening. He was getting through to her. "It's me, Draco," he said quietly. "I know what you were thinking when you woke up, but that's over, love. I swear to you, you're safe, and you're going to remain safe. I swear, Hermione, so help me..."

She raised her head abruptly, her eyes intense, boring into his. "How did you know that?" she whispered.

"How did I know what?" he asked in confusion, and reached out to cup her cheek, to wipe a tear away, but she shied back from him, her dark eyes still locked on his pale ones.

"How did you know what I was thinking when I woke up? How did you know what your father did to me? That he turned himself into you when he- he-" she looked down and away then, swallowing hard, fighting for composure. "I never told you about that, Draco, so how did you know?"

Oh, Draco thought, Bugger. Me. "I- shit. He made a penseive, Hermione. I looked into it when I went back the manor to get Potter's cloak. I- I saw it there, in my old bedroom, and I realized right away what it must contain, and I... I wanted to understand what you'd been through, so I could support you better, but I never imagined..."

"You saw everything he did to me?" Her voice was barely audible.

Draco pressed his eyes closed briefly, wishing fervently. Wishing he hadn't seen it. Wishing it hadn't happened. Wishing he could go back in time and change this moment, change everything from their breakup on.

"Yes," he said finally, quietly, opening his eyes again, seeking her gaze- but she was still looking away from him- "I saw everything, love."

"Oh God," she whispered, hands coming up to shield her face entirely from his view, "oh God," and now her breath was hitching sharply, "I never... wanted... you... to...."

"Know?" he supplied gently. "You never wanted me to know?"

She shook her head, sucking in deep breaths in an apparent attempt to calm herself... an attempt that didn't seem to be working.

"Sweetheart, why? You must know by now that I will love you through anything? Why would you want to deal with this all on your own? Hermione?"

He reached out, intending to draw her into his arms again, but she shied away from him.

"Don't touch me!" she cried, almost frantically. Then, through breaths that were rapidly piling one on top of another, "please, Draco, I just... I n-need to be... alo-hone right now. Please... please leave."

Draco, stunned, didn't move- so Hermione did. She pushed herself up, using the wall for leverage, and then backed along it, away from him.

"Bookworm," Draco said, his tone wary, as he unfolded gracefully to his feet.

"Don't," Hermione half-sobbed. "Please, Draco, just- just go away, please. Please!" She had reached the door into the bathroom; she fled through it, shutting and locking it behind her, leaving Draco standing there in her room, in only the boxers he'd slept in, utterly shocked and wounded to the core.

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He didn't leave her room.

He paced back and forth for a while, went to her dresser, opened a drawer low down, pawed about for a moment and drew out a soft old tee-shirt of his that he remembered leaving there back when he had slept in this room quite frequently, pulled it on, ran a hand through his hair which was still staticky and stick-uppy from sleep, resumed pacing, stopped as he heard the shower go on in the adjacent bathroom, considered calling to Hermione through the door, decided against it, considered unlocking the door via Alohomora, remembered that he could not, that he would never be able to use that spell, or any other, ever again, fought the urge to howl out his rage and frustration and despair at the whole miserable situation, won- barely- and paced some more.

He paced restlessly around the perimeter of the room for a long, long time.

Far longer than it should have taken her to shower- and he ought to know, he had showered right along with her in that bathroom often enough. She was not the sort of ultra-feminine girl who regularly soaked for an hour; Hermione's practical nature extended to her bathing habits and though the showers they took together had often ended up being... pleasantly prolonged... he knew that normally, when left to her own devices, she'd be in and out in ten minutes. Just long enough to work up a nice lather, and run some shampoo and conditioner through her hair, that gorgeous bloody hair, nowhere near the... he paused and glanced at her bedside clock, an ornate antique that ran on cogs and magic... forty minutes he'd been pacing?!?

He'd been pacing for forty minutes?

A bolt of cold fear shot through him. Something was wrong in there.

"Hermione!"

He rounded on the bathroom door- crossed to it- pounded on it. "HERMIONE!"

No answer.

"Hermione, Goddamn it, answer me! NOW!"

Still nothing.

Well, magic be damned. There were other ways of getting through that door. Backing up nearly to the bed, he steeled himself, then ran at it, ramming it with his shoulder, bursting through into the small room beyond.

"Hermione?" he asked, approaching the tub. When there was still no response, he yanked aside the curtain, then just stood where he was for a moment, aghast.

"Merlin," he breathed finally, grabbing for the nearest towel, "Hermione, what the hell are you doing?"

In point of fact, she was doing very little; only sitting on the floor of the tub, knees drawn tightly up to her chin, arms clasped about them and head resting on them, face hidden from view by dark curtains of sopping wet hair, directly under the spray of the shower. The truly alarming thing was that the water had long since run cold- and in a large and ancient building like Hogwarts, when the water went cold it went cold- it was like ice.

Draco turned the shower off, went down on one knee, pulled an unresisting and still silent Hermione out of the bathtub and into his lap, wrapped the large white towel he held around her, and began to rub vigorously. Hermione just let her head fall onto his shoulder. After a while he picked her up, still wrapped only in the oversized towel, carried her back into the bedroom, and settled in a large and cushy armchair- a favorite reading spot of hers- between the bed and the hearth. She remained utterly pliant in his arms, a life-sized rag-doll of the woman he loved.

Hermione- his Hermione- bright and vivacious and strong-willed and independent Hermione- was nowhere to be found.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Hermione," he said, his voice ragged with emotion, "what in God's name were you playing at in there? What are you trying to do?"

He thought he felt her lips move against his shoulder.

"What?"

She raised her head marginally, and repeated herself. "I said, please just leave me alone."

"LIKE HELL I WILL!" Draco exploded, finally at his breaking point. "Are you FUCKING MENTAL?!? What exactly is freezing yourself to death going to accomplish, Hermione? WHAT?"

She shoved herself away from him so suddenly and violently that he very nearly dropped her. "Maybe then I won't have to REMEMBER ANY MORE!" she shouted back at him, her eyes blazing with fury and despair.

"Oh. Right," Draco said, in a falsely calm voice, before fuming, "and where exactly does that LEAVE ME?!" A voice inside of him was protesting that this was wrong, all wrong, a shouting match was the last thing either of them needed, for God's sake, call it off now- but he was beside himself, and unable to heed it. She had scared him half to death with that little shower stunt, and had cut him to the quick with her repeated requests that he leave, when all he wanted to do was help her, hold her, and he found himself reacting to these two emotions, fear and pain, as he always had- with anger and the desire, rational or not, to lash out; to hurt back. "You're not the only one with bloody problems right now, Hermione, so stop being so GODDAMN SELFISH!"

WHAP.

By the time Draco had raised a hand, uncomprehendingly, to his stinging cheek, Hermione had scrambled entirely off his lap and was standing in front of him, flushed, breathing hard, looking angrier than he thought he'd ever seen her- except, perhaps, for that day in the library when he'd intentionally humiliated her in public and broken her heart- and even that was too close to call with any certainty.

"I spent," she said in a voice that shook with rage, "three days... and two nights... being raped... so many times I lost count... by someone who looked like you, spoke like you, moved like you, smelled like you- convinced all the while that the real you HATED me- would never come for me- would probably do no more than sneer and turn away if he- if you- could have seen what was happening to me. I wanted to die. I WANTED TO DIE! And then you sit there and tell me that I'm not the only one with bloody problems right now. I-" tears were streaking down her cheeks, fast and silent and apparently unnoticed by her. She swallowed hard. "I have nothing more to say to you, Draco Malfoy, except that I'm through asking you nicely. I want you OUT OF MY ROOM! NOW!"

Draco stood. His legs felt wooden, foreign. The voice inside of him was yelling now, that it still wasn't too late to set things right, if he would only go to her, pull her to him and hold onto her- that that was truly what she needed, what they both did.

Yet he couldn't bring himself to do it. He was wounded too deeply. "Fine," he said dully, and then again, "fine." He turned and crossed to the door, not stopping even when he heard a thud that could only be her body crumpling to the floor, followed by the sound of gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching sobs. "Fine," he muttered to himself through tightly clenched teeth, refusing the impulse to turn around; if he turned around he would go to her, and he was not gonna do that.

He stepped through the door and pulled it decisively shut behind him.

"Fine."