~Chapter Thirty-Eight~ Unwilling

Hermione remained where she was standing for several minutes, processing what had just happened. Her mind was reeling, caught off-guard by the suddenness of his attack, the brutality of his words, the things he'd said that just didn't make sense, and part of her stung from what Draco had said, the baseless accusations he had thrown at her.

She knew he was lashing out, that she was just unlucky enough to be the person there, that it was all his disappointment from years and years of trying, compounded by seeing the potions work for others but not for him. She knew that despite all the growth she had witnessed, that Draco would never be comfortable with being vulnerable in front of anyone, and this was his greatest vulnerability. The death of his hopes after opening himself up so much was rebounding, closing up and protecting his inner feelings from greater hurt and disappointment.

His parting words stuck in her mind, however, and they circled there until Harry came down, still excited.

"Hermione! Kingsley's here! He's coming to see for himself and congratulate you!"

Hermione nodded abstractedly.

Harry looked as though a month's worth of worries had been wiped from his mind. He was beaming, his hair standing on end from how many times he'd run his hands through it with excitement. Nothing could deflate him. "Where did Malfoy go in such a rush? He didn't seem pleased?"

Hermione pulled herself out of her speculations. "Uh, I think he was just pre-occupied, Harry. He's as tired as I am. Don't worry about it." She dredged up a smile.

Harry nodded, beaming. "This has taken a weight off my mind, you know. And Kingsley's too. You're a genius, Hermione. An absolute genius! This is closure for the families. Dignity!" He hugged her tightly. "We'd be lost without you."


Hermione did her best to sneak down to the laboratory as silently as possible. She knew that in the mood he was in, if Draco caught her sneaking into his house now he would in all likelihood blow his top again, but her notes were down there, and she had to find the solution.

Kingsley had been effusive with his praise, and he and Harry had quickly fallen into discussions about the possibility of releasing the information that it was possible to remove Marks for those who wished to move on with their lives. Hermione had dropped out of the conversation quickly, her mind on Draco's resistant Mark, soon begging weariness to leave.

Faint concerns about whether the potions wouldn't work on others had dogged her mind during their conversations, but it hadn't felt right to mention what had happened with Draco. Not yet, anyway. She had no evidence why it had occurred, had no idea whether it was because he was alive, or if there were some other, more nuanced reason. And she hadn't wanted to dim Harry and Kingsley's relief and elation.

It didn't make any sense at all why the potions wouldn't work for him when they had for all the victims. Only two things stood out. The first had been the thought that perhaps it was because the caster was different. It made sense that a Dark Mark cast by Voldemort would probably be more indelible than one cast by anyone else. But even that hadn't held water, because they'd been able to remove Mr Parkinson's original Mark without any issues.

That left only the second thing. Unwilling. The word echoed around in her head over and over again. Hermione knew Draco hadn't been a fully willing recipient of the Mark. She had experienced his branding with him too intimately to think otherwise. No matter what he had said before and after, no matter how much he had swaggered at school, she knew the fear that had lurked behind it all, the terror for his life, and the disgust that he felt whenever he saw it on himself.

His outburst ran through her mind on repeat, the words so strange, so filled with self-loathing, so clearly what some part of him still felt was the truth. The very idea that he felt that way made her ache on his behalf, but she shelved her own emotions about it all. Now was not the time to unpack all of that or to even bring it up. She only had to do right by him.

She gathered up what she needed from the lab, had a quiet word to Crookshanks to stay at Draco's for the night, then flooed back home. Her house felt cold after being empty for a few days, but she quickly lit the fires and brewed a pot of tea, then sat at her desk with books on curse removals, several potions at her elbow to keep her going through the night, and settled down to research.


By dawn next morning, Hermione was certain she understood what had happened. Pages of notes covered her desk and the surrounding floor, the dark and light grimoires open on the table along with the potion-splattered notebooks that contained the information from her trials. Wild-eyed after three consecutive nights awake, working hard, and propped up with potions, she tugged her clothes straight and headed directly for the floo.

She blasted into Draco's sitting room, and almost cannoned directly into him as he was pouring himself a glass of Firewhiskey. He turned to her as she arrived, one hand coming up reflexively to grasp her arm and steady her against him, though his expression remained cold and haughty. He quicky released her, taking a step back, inserting negative space between them.

"Draco! I–"

She got no further however, as the fire roared again, and Harry came barrelling out, clothing just as skewwhiff as Hermione's, panting.

"It's happened. The murderer."

The glass fell from Draco's grasp, Firewhiskey spilling unheeded onto the carpet, and Hermione spun around, seizing Harry, eyes wide with horror and shock.

"What?!"

Harry nodded, distracted and infuriated. "It's eleven this time."

All the success of the previous few hours felt drained away, and a new wave of exhaustion and horror rolled over the room.

Hermione slumped against Harry. "When did it happen?" she asked numbly.

Harry shook his head. "Hermione, I know what you're thinking. Don't go there."

Hermione raised her eyes to his. "Harry. When did it happen?"

Harry avoided her gaze, turning away, but he couldn't ignore her completely. "Last night. Saturday night. We only just found the bodies."

Hermione collapsed onto the settee.

"The Ministry is going to have to release an official warning. It's gone too far now. Locally and internationally. Kingsley is meeting with the Muggle PM in an hour."

Draco sat heavily in the nearest chair, face in his hands.

"Kingsley wants you both to know that he greatly appreciates what you've been doing for the case, and the ruse. What you achieved with the potions last night was truly remarkable. And you shouldn't be thinking this is your fault. You've done a marvellous job of it." Harry's tone held no positivity through his tiredness, though it was firm. "Do you understand?"

Hermione nodded her head mutely, eyes empty.

"I have to go and push back the reporters from the crime scene. The two of you stay here. I'll be back when it's time for you to come and look at it. But I hope you've got strong stomachs. It's…not pleasant."

Draco nodded silently, and Hermione simply blinked.

"I'll see you in a bit."


For the full hour that it took for Harry to return, neither Draco nor Hermione uttered a single word. Draco picked up his dropped glass and refilled it, right up to the brim, and sat across the room, as far as he could get from Hermione without physically leaving, drinking. Hermione remained shocked and silent, too exhausted to exhibit any of what she was feeling.

Despite Harry's words she couldn't help but face the ugly truth. That her determination to find a cure for the Marks, that her desire to help Draco specifically, because she wasn't about to lie to herself about that, that that had taken over her professionalism. Being a distraction for the murderer and making herself a target was what she was supposed to have been doing. That she should have spent Saturday, not in the basement, but out, in London, protecting its citizens.

She wanted to scream and cry and rage against herself and her selfishness, she wanted Draco to hold her whilst she did so so that she might feel just the tiniest bit better about it. But she could feel his coldness from where he sat, even though she couldn't see him, and she knew it wasn't the time. That there might never be a time now. Even that would've been yet another self-indulgence, and her self-indulgence had, if not caused, then at the very least contributed to the mess that Harry was now having to manage. Contributed to the gruesome murders of another eleven people. Eleven more families now grieving their loss, a hole ripped in their fabric. She smote herself for still entertaining the indulgence of wanting Draco's comfort, even now, when the very worst thing possible had happened.

Self-indulgence, a daydream, a faint wisp of a hope that could never come to pass had distracted her to the extent that she had forgotten the job. Forgotten her task. Forgotten what she was really there for. What the ruse was there for. Why she and Draco had been thrown together in the first place.

It could never happen again.

By the time Harry reappeared, she had managed to pull herself together, professionalism branded into her brain.


The crime scene was an appalling sight. The bodies had been treated in the exact same way as before, the letters slashed into the chests, blood and viscera everywhere, and this time each body had been branded with three Dark Marks. Where every other killing had been somewhere out of the way, somewhere concealed where the murders wouldn't have been interrupted, this had happened in the middle of a Muggle high street.

Aurors dressed as Metropolitan Police were keeping the Muggles away, and all the shops lining the pedestrian thoroughfare remained shut. What in ordinary times would have been a very pretty area to walk through, with raised beds and wooden benches to sit on, and trees casting shade for the shoppers, was splattered with blood and gore from the bodies, which had been strewn across the hundred-meter stretch of pavement.

There didn't seem to be a pattern to the layout of the corpses, propped up against lampposts, on benches, and half out of the flowerbeds. But everything about the scene was being documented by the Magical Forensics Squad down to the last, minute detail.

"We've already pulled the Muggle CCTV footage, but there's absolutely nothing," Harry said tiredly as he stood with them in front of the line of bodies. The corpses had been brought together, laid out neatly after being photographed in situ, but even that did little to lessen the gruesomeness of the collection, and the rusty tang of blood still hung in the air. "The only thing it gives us is a definite time – seven minutes past midnight – because that's when all the cameras cut out. It's in keeping with magical interference with Muggle devices too – the faint purple warp over the footage. To be frank it's astonishing we've only just found the bodies now what with the location, but..." Harry's voice tailed away.

"The letters are the same as the second group." Draco said, frowning as he glanced over the bodies. "Even tidier, I'd say."

Harry paused. "What?"

"Look at them, Potter. It's as obvious as your scar." Draco's tone was clipped, more acid in it than there had been for many years, and he paused, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. "Last time the cuts were neater because of the wand, and deeper. But they were still fairly broad. These…these have more control. Whoever this is, they're bonding with the wand."

Harry and Hermione exchanged alarmed glances. Draco was not wrong. It was difficult to see because of the mess of blood but the letters were precise, and so deep they cut through to the victim's backs.

Harry nodded at a nearby forensic wizard, making sure they noted down the observation. "We'll have to see whether the magical signature matches up to the one on the other bodies."

"I can tell you already it'll be hers," Draco said emotionlessly. "D, E, E, R, E, S, T, C, U, R." He read out the letters carved into the bodies. "I'll work on the code. See what it turns up."

Harry nodded.

"Which communities are the victims from, Harry?" Hermione asked, her voice very quiet despite herself, forcing her eyes to stay only on Harry.

"Mostly Muggles." Harry seemed to age as he said the words. "Muggle-borns, and two or three ex-Death Eaters."

"I know them. The ex-Death Eaters." Draco said, barely an intonation to the words. "Not high ranking. Just grunts. Not even sure whether they really understood what they got themselves into." He paused. "They have families we need to contact."

Hermione sucked in a deep breath, feeling more giddy than steady from it, and managed to walk forwards, squatting down and lifting the sleeve of a clearly Muggle young man. His forearm bore three Dark Marks. She stifled a little sob, a single tear falling onto the ground beside the body, then got up, forcing herself back into the job.

"At least we can take the Marks off them. Give them back their dignity." Despite herself, her eyes flickered to Draco as he shifted slightly, and the expression on his face was tight, a muscle shifting in his jaw. She swallowed nervously.

Harry nodded. "It's true. Kingsley has already okayed the next batch of ingredients you need to remove them from these bodies. He wants you to do it as quickly as you can, once the Magical Forensics Squad have tested the caster on each. We'll need to return the bodies of the Muggles to their families as soon as possible."

Hermione nodded silently. Even the knowledge that the breakthrough would slightly lessen the heartache of the victims' loved ones wasn't enough consolation for the responsibility she felt for the bodies lying before her.

Harry seemed to marshal himself, moving to stand in front of them both. "Now that the Muggles are going to be involved, there will be panic. Kingsley knows this. We all know this. A lot of how we've operated is going to have to change. The Muggle police are going to be aware that there is a murderer going around – but we don't even have a description to give them, and the story we can provide is flimsy at best. Catching the murderers is on us. Even with a description, they stand no chance against someone like this. These have to be the last murders they commit. Got it?"

Hermione and Draco nodded seriously. They all felt the same as Harry. They all felt the responsibility for the deaths weighing heavily on their shoulders like a mantle that it was impossible to take off or make comfortable, though none of them wanted to escape the weight.

"Hermione, I need you to accompany the Aurors going around to the families of the Muggle victims. You'll be taking a member of the Muggle Liaison Office with you as well. We have people working on identifying the Muggle victims now, and the list should be ready in a few hours."

Hermione nodded, relieved to be given something that meant she wouldn't be stuck thumping her head behind a desk for once. Research left too much space to dwell on indulgent thoughts of guilt. Research hadn't helped prevent these killings.

Harry turned to Draco. "Malfoy, I'll be going out with you to notify the families of the ex-Death Eaters. After that, I need you to spearhead a protection scheme. We need to contact all known former Death Eaters and assign them Aurors for protection until this is done. I need you to make sure that all of them agree to this. This has a greater priority than the decoding for now. We've failed at catching the murderer so far, so we have to work on protection first."

Draco nodded solemnly, eyes betraying no emotion.

Harry sucked in a deep breath. "Before the end of the day, we need to reconvene back in my office. The Forensics Squad tells me they'll have all the magical signatures off the bodies ready for us, and the full autopsy reports done by then, and we'll go through them before finishing. I know it's going to be a long day for you both, and I'm sorry for that, but we have no choice."

"It's fine, Harry."

"It needs to be done, Potter."

Harry glanced between the two of them, reading the compounded days of exhaustion in each of their faces, and nodded, reluctant to say more. "All right. Let's get going."


The rest of the day was a whirl of busyness and home visits, bearing the grief and anger of the victims' families with equanimity and generosity. Hermione found it all a welcome distraction from her own feelings, happy to be on the receiving end of the various questions and accusations that came from the Muggle families, despairing over the loss of their loved ones and a mixture of disconsolate and furious that the police, from whom Hermione was purporting to be from, had no answers as to why or who. Handling their rage and grief was easier than facing her own guilt, and it felt a just punishment to have to face up to the rage of those who had been affected.

Draco similarly found the visits a boon. It had taken all his self-control to let go of Hermione when she had come through the floo that morning, taken all of his self-control to march himself across the room and sit down beyond the reach of temptation, taken all of his considerable willpower to remain cold and aloof when they were in the same space. He had wanted nothing more than to apologise, to explain his behaviour from the previous day, to tell her it wasn't her fault, that he didn't really blame her. That he didn't want it to change anything between them. But it wasn't possible.

The other half of him did still blame her, even though he knew it wasn't fair to, and he hated himself for it even as he hated her for offering him absolution and then being there to witness it being taken away. The fact that she had seen him at his most vulnerable, in some ways more so than when she had been in his mind, rankled. A deep, old part of his psyche rebelled against the idea of anyone knowing his weaknesses and fears, and was angry that she had seen and knew any of it.

The newer part of him was still smarting from the thought that she didn't really want him to be cured, the nasty little voice whispering to him through the night that maybe she had picked up on his thoughts, on those deepest and most buried wishes that he'd started to have, perhaps some time during their Legilimency, that she had become aware that he wanted more than the charade, more than their genuine friendship, and as a result had pulled back, had not quite finished the magic that was needed to remove the Mark. That hurt more than anything else. And the notion wouldn't go away, no matter what logic he tried to use against it. Fear gave it power. Even so, try as he might, he couldn't quite squash the desire for something more with her, although he knew his behaviour had probably now dashed any hopes of that.

Since returning home from the Ministry the previous evening, he had drunk himself into a torpor, trying to numb the circling voices in his head. The ones that told him he was wrong to have hoped, dreamt, that the Mark would come off – that he deserved for it to remain, that he deserved to be a pariah. And the ones that smote him for what he'd said to her, for the hurt he'd seen in her eyes as he'd spit words with bones in them, fashioned from his disappointment and hurt.

It had taken a bottle and a half of Ogden's to do the trick, and he'd woken on the floor of his bedroom, cold and stiff and feeling even worse than before, an almighty hangover throbbing in his temples along with the congestion from his wretched emotions and the existing exhaustion of the previous three days. Then there had been the news.


By the time they all reconvened in Harry's office to go over the morgue reports at four o'clock they were little more than the walking dead.

Each of them had a copy, and they sat at their respective desks, reading through the information in silence.

"So. That's that then." Draco dropped his copy back onto his desk. "At least we know where the wand went for certain now."

Harry sighed, defeated. "Yes." He frowned. "Or at least, we know it's the same wand that was used on the second group."

"I need to see for myself." Hermione got up, brushing past the men towards the filing cabinet.

One by one, they made their way back down to the morgue, Hermione and Draco both banishing the memory of what had happened there less than twenty-four hours before from their minds, all three of them approaching the drawers were the new bodies lay.

Hermione opened one of the drawers, and they gathered around, Draco and Harry watching closely as she performed the diagnostic spell, frowning with concentration, seeking out the details of the casting wand. She shook as the spell took effect, her own wand shaking slightly, and fell back as the spell finished.

"It's hers, isn't it." Draco said, knowing the answer from her expression.

"I'd recognise the feel of it anywhere." Hermione raised her eyes slowly to his. "But it's not her casting it." She frowned for a moment. "Are you sure she never had a child? Absolutely certain?"

Draco shrugged helplessly. "As far as I'm aware. You know what I know already, Granger."

Hermione sighed and nodded. "It just feels…so similar."

"For the wand to bond with them, whoever they are, I can't say I'm surprised. They have the same brand of psychotic." Draco muttered.

Harry let out a deep breath. "I know it's not encouraging, but at least we do know for certain what happened to the wand. And it narrows down the field. We know something about our murderer now. Before we were guessing, assuming, but we know for sure there's a link to Bellatrix in here somehow. Either a genuine connection or as a red herring, and both of those options give us information. We have leads because of this. It's better than casting around blind in the dark."

Draco and Hermione nodded solemnly.

"I have a meeting with Kingsley to go to. You two, head home, sleep. Take whatever it is you need to make it happen, but sleep." Harry eyed them both sternly. "We're at the bottom of a new mountain, and things are going to be kicking off because of the announcement."

"Yes, Harry." Hermione shot Draco a sideways glance, but the openness she had seen before was gone again, hidden behind shutters.

"I'll see you tomorrow." Harry led the way out, and in his office, they all went their separate ways, Hermione flooing home, Draco to his apartment, and Harry heading off into the Ministry to the Minister.


Hermione paced back and forth in front of her fireplace. She had eaten dinner, although she wasn't sure what exactly it had been, and afterwards had slowly been screwing up her courage to go back to Draco.

Her house had already been pelted with owls after the press-release Harry and Kingsley had done at six, and she had forced herself to listen to it on the wizarding wireless network. The reactions had come pouring in over the various wizarding channels, horror and fear bursting the banks of the shaky control they had been managing to maintain until now. Reports were already spreading of shops being flooded by panic buying, people stocking up on ingredients for protection potions, books of protective spells selling out within hours, and the Ministry bombarded by desperate people wanting more information and reassurances.

The fact that Kingsley had had to speak with the Muggle Prime Minister was bringing back memories of the war, and although the murderer was a far cry from the return of Voldemort, it was the first huge event to rock the public since his defeat at Hogwarts. Memories and fear were powerful. Coupled with the fact that there were now elven new victims, and the Ministry suggestion to travel in pairs when out of the house, people were concerned, and had every right to be so.

It hadn't been helped by the fact that the Muggle news reports had gone out at the same time, and those with feet in both camps had shared the information, the fear spreading. Hermione had called her parents, reassuring them as best she could, but they had been able to hear the strangeness in her voice. Even putting it down to tiredness from working on the case, they hadn't sounded terribly convinced, and were vaguely suspicious when she said that Aurors would be detailed for their protection.

She had done her best to assure them that the Aurors were a courtesy to her, a result of being famous and influential, and then cut the call short, citing her exhaustion and the need for an early night, and then she had only the fireplace and the floo before her.

With a deep breath, she released the shimmering green powder into the flames, stepping into them and calling out Draco's address with as much fortitude as she could muster.


Draco struggled to lift his head as the floo chimed, frowning. The whole room was blurry. He wasn't sure whether that was the Ogden's or the exhaustion. A familiar figure slowly came into focus, and he tried not to scramble to his feet from the chair.

"Granger? I assume you're here for your cat." It was remarkably difficult to maintain his cool exterior with the furry beast purring against his ankles and the alcohol fogging his brain, but he did so with an effort.

Hermione bit her lip, and nodded, stooping to run her fingers along Crookshanks' spine as he came over. "I did think I might pick him up. I don't want him to be a bother for you."

Draco shrugged slightly. "Dilly wouldn't mind."

"Oh. Right." Hermione stood, trying to meet his gaze. "Truthfully, it's not really why I'm here."

Draco avoided her eyes, afraid of what she might see in his own, and marched away to the side table where the decanters were, pouring out a fresh glass despite the fact that most of the objects in the room were still fading in and out of focus. "I see."

Hermione watched him, torn between concern and confusion, doing battle with her own nervousness. It was obvious he wasn't going to make it easy for her. "Well, the thing is. I looked into things. Did some more research. About why…why the potions didn't properly work for you."

Draco downed the glass, then poured another, remaining by the table, his back to the room. He could just sense her over his shoulder through his peripheral vision.

"I…I did find something. There wasn't a chance to tell you earlier." Hermione paused, teetering on the brink of more, watching Draco's tightly bunched shoulders, the tension radiating out from him. "It was something you said that made me realise, actually. About willingness." Hermione did her best not to let the hurt show in her tone, forcing herself to be professional. Her own feelings shouldn't come into this. This wasn't about her. "Because the victims weren't willing recipients of the Mark, there was nothing preventing me from removing the Marks." Hermione paused, trying to get as much of her findings out before she set him off. "I found some notes of Dumbledore's in the light grimoire. I think he had also been looking into something similar. Maybe not a way of removing Marks necessarily, but ways of counteracting and reversing Dark magic." She paused again, trying to catch a glimpse of his face to gauge his reaction.

Draco had poured his second drink, but was yet to lift it to his lips, concentrating on what she was saying.

"It looks like you may be a unique case. That you have some unique requirements that the formulae of the potions need to take into account." Hermione continued, forcing herself to get the words out, no matter what reaction they elicited. "Whilst you might have accepted the Mark, you never truly were willing…however…I believe there is something in you that is resisting the removal."

"What?" Draco snarled, turning at last. "Don't be ridiculous."

Hermione clenched her fists, holding onto her courage. Draco's eyes were on her for the first time, and she didn't need legilimency to understand the unwilling message in them. She paused on the precipice of addressing what she knew to be true. That the part of Draco who felt like he deserved to remain Marked had to be faced down. But she knew from his eyes that he wasn't ready to hear it. That he feared hearing it. She gulped, and stepped back from the edge. "I think a variant potion is required for you. The intentions and emotions driving the spell weren't fully combated by the base formulation. The only thing is…the ingredients would be hard to find. And I don't want to get your hopes up."

"Tell me."

Hermione shut her eyes.

"Tell me, Hermione."

She opened her eyes as he said her name. The harshness in his tone since his disappointment didn't carry over into it. "It needs true love's tears – someone who willingly suffers on your behalf. And your own tears of remorse."

"I see." Draco was avoiding her gaze again. He turned back to the decanter, downing the still full glass, and moving to refill it again. "Thank you. For telling me, Hermione." He paused, glancing back to her. "Don't feel like you need to hurry to take your things out."

Then he walked out, glass in hand.

Hermione remained where he'd left her, Crookshanks settled by her feet, staring after Draco with her. She felt like something in her was breaking for him, but she knew there was no more she could do.

"Come on Crooks. Let's go home for the night."


In his room, Draco stood by the open windows. The night air blowing in was on the edge of freezing, and it seemed to chill the alcohol in his veins, clearing his mind. He knew what Hermione had left unsaid between them. That he needed to forgive himself. That he needed to let go of the hatred for his own choices, and the voice that told him he needed to be punished for them. But that was too great a task.

He let out a deep, slow breath, sucking in a fresh one of the cold air, feeling it needle at his lungs like ice.

He would never be rid of his Mark. Even if he could find it in himself to defeat the voice, he knew he would never be lucky enough to find true love's tears. He resigned himself to his fate. One of concealment charms and flinching when he caught sight of the ugly thing in the mirror. It was not the heaviest burden he had carried, and the knowledge that the door was now well and truly shut on him was a kind of peace. It just meant that other doors, better doors, were now also shut. Doors that might have contained a different kind of future, one where Hermione might have figured in his life.

More than anything else, that was what stung the most. He had felt so close to something, shining and bright and filled with goodness. Near enough to touch. He sighed. Some part of him had known he was living a charmed life, able to be so close with Hermione for the sake of the case, able to play at a pretend life where the ugly deeds from his past no longer mattered, no longer haunted his footsteps. But he knew now that such wishes had been a foolish hope. Reaching beyond his station. He would keep his Mark, keep his shame, and he wouldn't taint her life with his darkness.

Draco turned and walked into his bathroom, pouring out the full glass of firewhiskey, watching the amber liquid as it swirled down the plughole.

He padded back into his room, feeling very empty. There wasn't enough left in him to feel disappointment or regret or even sadness. Not tonight anyway. He cast his gaze around the room, suddenly feeling very detached from his surroundings, almost like the wind might pick him up and suck him out into the dark streets of London like a feather. There was little left to anchor him to his body.

His eyes fell on a striped orange and cream rectangle on his dresser, the colours too garish to be anything that belonged to him, and his brow furrowed, unable to place the foreign object. He walked over, still in the same disconnected haze, and picked it up.

It was Hermione's copy of Frankenstein. One of her favourites.

He flipped through the pages, breathing in the puff of book scent. A very faint waft of her perfume came off the pages. Gardenia and beeswax. He put it back down with a mental note to return it to her the next day. There was no point in holding onto mementos of a dream anymore. He was halfway across the room to his bed when he paused and turned back, glancing at it.

Despite everything he had said, the hurt he knew he'd caused her, the fact that a future he'd dared to hope for had now been snatched away, he still wanted, powerfully, to be in her presence, to be her friend, to be something more. The thought of her falling asleep against his shoulder at her house blossomed in his mind, fending off some of the chill that was numbing his body, and despite his better judgement, he breathed in the feeling. Even if he was to be denied the reality, he couldn't quite bear to cut himself off from the dream. She had felt safe with him. Had trusted him. He still couldn't fathom why, much as he cherished the notion. And as much as she had felt safe with him, he had felt safe with her.

Though it had only been a few days, the moment felt like it had existed lifetimes away. He glanced to the book again. One of her favourites.

He crossed over to the dresser, picking up the book, and bringing it back with him over to the bed, and sitting down on top of the covers leaning against the headboard. It was only a slim volume. He would be able to read it before he returned it tomorrow. There couldn't be any harm in that.


Happy Holidays all!

I'm not sure about you, but for some reason December hasn't felt very Christmassy to me this year. Maybe because I started prep in November, and now I've run out of steam. It honestly doesn't feel like it's Christmas next week. But no matter, here is my Christmas gift to you! I wish it could have been a happier chapter, but alas, angst and horror it is.

It feels unreal that I've managed to upload so many chapters through the pandemic, particularly in this past year. As a writer, a lot of what we do is very singular work, and fanfiction is one of those beautiful things where I get to interact with all you lovely readers, and feel your excitement, which in turn helps motivate me with the writing. If this story has brought any small measure of joy to you throughout these strange and difficult times we find ourselves in, I am glad to have been able to offer that. The love you have shown me and this work have made me smile every month, and I am so grateful that you choose to spend some portion of your time and energy in reading and engaging with this story.

Last month, shortly after I uploaded the chapter update, I did actually break a personal milestone with my original work! This year I've been working on the manuscript of my second novel (it's a series) and last month I finished the first complete draft! Since then I've managed to go back and do some editing in the form of adding in missing scenes and tweaking a few bits, and now I'm turning my attention to getting and agent and working on book 3! Fingers crossed next year I get to share the news I have an agent, and if I'm lucky, a publishing deal! Sharing fanfiction with you all is such a rewarding experience, and I can't wait until I'm able to share my original work with the world.

And now to chapter notes!

Poor Hermione. She's having a rough time of it these two chapters. She is, of course, smart enough to understand why Draco lashed out (although that doesn't make it acceptable!). With the murderer ramping things up, and the guilt, it's certainly a tough road for her at the moment. Draco, of course, does not have the healthiest of coping mechanisms. Guilt is a particularly difficult thing for him to handle.

I hope you've all enjoyed it, even if it's not very festive in content! Thank you all for continuing to read along on this journey with me. The pandemic has been a tough time for us all, and I think it's worth saying now that the year is coming to a close and a new one arriving, that if you didn't achieve all you wanted to, or if all you did was "just" get through it, you shouldn't be hard on yourself. These are extraordinary times. Ones we could never have been prepared to deal with, or expect to be launched upon us. And just getting through, day by day, finding what small joys we can, is enough. Your productivity does not equate to your worth. It's so easy with social media to compare our difficult days to other people's highlight reels, but remember that it's all curated to show a particular tale. Be kind to yourselves.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and have a safe and good New Year. 3

Please do review and/or favourite :) Tell me what you like or don't like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)

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