Hope you guys still like to follow this story! Knowing I have readers, even just a few, helps me moving on with this story!

Love,

Axiomea

Nightmares tormented Hermione. Semi-real images struck her. The pub. A hand gripping her jaw. In the window, all the heads of her friends staring with dead eyes at the scene without moving. She shouted each of their names, but nobody heard her or wanted to. Then she would wake up occasionally and imagine seeing the black silhouette of a man, perhaps it was Draco, outlined against the moonlight of her window. And as her eyelids closed, or reopened, she wasn't sure, she felt the assailant's tongue on her neck. And he whispered Granger... Granger... and as she awoke from sleep, she shrieked.

"Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"

"Granger, drink this."

Draco was still there, sitting upright on his bed. He had a hot cup in his hands, which exuded a sweet aroma. Hermione looked around, gasping for breath, trying to regain her bearings. The mattress was familiar. The furniture was familiar. She was in her room. Hogwarts. She was safe. She inhaled and released the air slowly to calm herself.

The Slytherin was handing her the cup. "Drink this," he repeated.

She grabbed the cup with both hands, and brushed Draco's fingers for a second. Hermione shuddered, and brought the cup up to her nose to smell. Chamomile. She took a sip, not caring about the scorching sensation on her tongue. The hot tea felt like a blanket as soon as it went down her throat. She sighed.

"How long have you been here? she asked shyly. She didn't like people watching her sleep, especially since she had had a restless sleep. She felt it was private.

Her partner shrugged. "I didn't count. Maybe half an hour."

"Why?"

"Weaslette made me swear I wouldn't piss you off tonight. She looked a bit threatening."

Hermione said nothing and took another sip of the tea. "You can go to sleep, Draco..." she finally said.

He didn't answer her.

"I'm better, I swear," she added in his silence.

The Slytherin frowned and folded his hands together, staring at them. Was he really staying because he was worried? He didn't want to give her that impression, but he couldn't name the feeling that kept him glued there. What he knew was that he didn't want to go to sleep only to be woken up by screams in the middle of the night.

"Care to tell me what happened?" he said, recomposing his detached facial expression.

"I'm not sure I want to tell you." Hermione felt a violent shudder, nearly spilling tea on the sheets. Draco noticed.

"Are you serious? You really can't tell me?"

"I need some time, Draco. To process."

Draco bit his lip, furious, and swallowed his impatience. Damn it, Weaslette had really got to him. Despite all his instincts and his sickly curiosity that made him not want to give up, he nodded his head in agreement.

"Do you have my dress?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Soon."

"Why didn't you go with everyone else today?"

"First, because I hate it when it's too crowded. It's suffocating. We step on each other's toes. Second, I wanted to finish some homework. Third, one week is bloody enough."

"I'll have to go back to Hogsmeade," Hermione announced, taking another sip. "But I don't want to go back alone. There's something I need to check. Will you be able to join me this week?"

Draco was about to shrug, he didn't care, but he resigned himself. "Why don't you take Redhead with you?"

"Because I don't want her to know I'm going back."

"That's where it happened, isn't it?" Draco guessed, his gaze sharp and inquisitive. "Whatever it was."

Hermione took another sip without answering, which confirmed it.

"I'll go with you," Draco sighed. "But don't you dare follow me for the dress."

"I get it. When you go to the shop, I'll check on my thing."

Draco nodded and the two Heads remained silent. The brunette needed something or someone to take her mind off things. She needed to feel safe. But as soon as she thought of the feeling of security she wanted, she felt the man's strong grip crush her jaw and she quickly placed her cup on the bedside table. With this gesture, she also tried to hide her obvious trouble and the new tears that wanted to fill her eyes. Her breast hurt, and she stopped herself from patting it in front of him.

"Granger, I can tell you wanna cry."

She shook her head, as if contradicting him, but when she brushed her hand against her face, her cheeks were wet. Shit.

"It's fine," he added, looking a little embarrassed. "Do it. I'm starting to not care."

Quietly, Hermione let her tears fall as she kept her face hidden in the shadows, turned away from Draco. It didn't matter what he said to her or not, even if he would blame her for her tears, she would have done the same. How she wished Ginny could have been allowed to bunk with her, or to even wrap herself in a blanket and sleep on the floor of the Gryffindors' common room, knowing that Harry and Ron were nearby, in their dormitory.

"Whose hands, Granger?" he asked for the second time before he could hold his words. He didn't want to be impatient and rude, as Weaslette had forbidden him to be, but his curiosity got the better of him. His partner didn't respond and curled up on her pillow, looking exhausted.

Draco moved a few inches closer and leaned slightly towards her so she could hear him. "Who touched you?"

"I don't know," she whispered.

"I know there was a hand on your face, Granger, I can see the fucking bruises!"

The chamomile began to quietly soothe the Lioness' agitation, and she couldn't resist the feeling of forgetfulness that numbed her thoughts.

"Who touched you?" he repeated with more urge than he would have liked. "Why won't you just tell me?"

Hermione had already drifted off. Draco looked at her for a moment, tempted to shake her awake so she would answer his fucking questions, but he thought better of it. He waited another ten minutes to see if she was sleeping properly before getting up, taking the cup and silently leaving the room. Merlin, he would have slammed the door, but he closed it behind him with deliberate caution.

Why did seeing those bruises make his stomach churn? The idea that a stranger could have acted with unexplained violence towards the Golden Girl seemed like a wicked thing to do. No, you couldn't do whatever you wanted with anyone. Not even with inferior people?

Draco clenched his jaw and stuffed his head under the pillow to stifle his conflicting thoughts, which he was beginning to loathe with the most vile hatred.

Hermione had a dreamless sleep and didn't wake until morning.

When Hermione opened her eyes on Sunday morning, she tried to block out her memories as soon as she woke up. She ran to the bathroom and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She quickly grabbed her make-up bag and applied a thick layer of foundation to her face to hide the finger-like bruises on her cheeks. The show must go on, she kept telling herself.

Soon she began thinking about the aftermath, when Ginny had helped her remove her filthy jeans and scrubbed them meticulously in the sink while Hermione showered. Even if they were clean. Ginny knew it made her feel better. The memory of Draco turning her face with his hand, gently, as if he had never touched anything so fragile. The chamomile tea steaming between his palms.

Hermione dressed and went into the common room. The soft morning rays cast a soft honeyed light over the room. When things were lit up in the daylight, everything dark and scary seemed unreal. For a few seconds, the Gryffindor really wondered if what she remembered had actually happened. Uncomfortable, she sank into the armchair and buried her nose in a book. She didn't know why, but she was hoping to see Draco's face this morning. It seemed to her that only his sly smile or even his arrogant little spikes could make her feel better today.

Hermione had gone down to the Great Hall to eat lunch, while Draco had stayed in their dormitory. He wasn't hungry. He and Granger hadn't exchanged many words, only a few short ones about how they had each slept. The Slytherin might have played it cool, but inside he was boiling with anticipation to hear the story. And not out of unhealthy curiosity because he enjoyed hearing about others' misfortunes. Simply because something had happened to her and he couldn't bear to know that whatever it was had hurt her so much. He too had hurt Granger once, that time on the train... When the memory came back to him, Draco felt uncomfortable and distant, as if he were reliving someone else's memories. He would probably piss Granger off again, but he couldn't possibly see himself doing anything that would physically hurt her.

Draco had planned to spend a quiet day working on his scrolls for his classes. He was proud that he hadn't fallen behind since the beginning of the year. He hadn't always been like this, but since the end of his sixth year, he'd sworn to himself that he'd give his best to something that really mattered.

Someone knocked on the portrait. The Slytherin looked up from his parchment and looked at the clock. Lunch was probably over only a few minutes ago. He slipped his quill back into the inkwell and went to open the portrait.

"Hello, Sunshine!" greeted Blaise.

"What are you doing here, Zab?"

"I've barely seen you for about three days now."

"So?"

"Well, I'm bored."

Draco rolled his eyes.

"By the way," Blaise continued, "did you know that Hermione is having lunch by herself downstairs?"

"You seem to enjoy talking about Granger."

Now it was Blaise who rolled his eyes. "Come on, you know me. When strange things happen, I get involved."

"Like what?"

"Well, like her brother getting stabbed the same night my mother was robbed. And then yesterday, I think something happened. It was really freaky."

Draco raised his eyebrows and opened the portrait a little wider to stare at Blaise. "What, you were there yesterday? Did you see what happened?"

"Did she tell you about it?"

"No. But I saw her bruises. I know somebody... grabbed her."

"Yeah, that's what it looks like. And maybe even more than that... from what I noticed."

Draco slammed his palm against the wall in an angry motion. He couldn't help it. "Shit!" he swore.

"But the strange thing is that the guy doesn't remember a thing."

At these words, Draco frowned, deep in thought. The guy doesn't remember a thing. He automatically thought of the Hufflepuff brat who had ended up in the sixth floor toilet without knowing how, probably under the Imperius. Had something similar happened yesterday?

Blaise looked at his friend who seemed lost in the thread of his countless theories and hypotheses. The way his grey eyes lit up when the subject of Hermione came up, his sharp, impatient gestures, his curiosity about situations that didn't concern him in the least...

Draco suddenly remembered an odd detail he wanted to mention to Blaise. "I think Granger is becoming more and more unstable."

"What do you mean?"

"Her magic is acting of its own accord. Like when we were children, before we started our magical education."

Blaise laughed. "You mean like when you set fire to the Manor's curtains when you were six?"

Draco ignored him. "I think she knocked my stuff off the table. And that she opened a window. And all without realizing it. I'm not even sure she noticed."

His friend crossed his arms over his chest and became serious.

"If you find yourself with her," Draco blurted out, "please pay attention... We can't let her get out of control. It might be dangerous."

"What do you think is causing that?"

"Violent emotions. Instability. A great fucking deal of trauma."

"You know," Blaise said, his gaze still fixed on his friend leaning against the wall, "you're starting to show it."

"What are you talking about?" Draco's tone was snarky, but Blaise had stopped caring a long time ago.

"You're starting to care about Hermione."

Draco slammed his palm against the wall a second time. The thud sounded like an echo. "That's not true!" he growled, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

"Look at you," Blaise paused briefly before continuing. "Let me ask you a question. You don't even have to answer me. How did you feel when you saw the bruises on her face?"

Draco scowled at his friend, preparing to reply with what he knew would be a lie. Infuriated by Blaise's meddling in what he himself was trying to figure out, he refused to answer the question even for himself. He already knew the answer, but he wasn't going to voice it, not even in a way that would come close to reality in his mind.

"I don't care about Granger," he finally gritted through his teeth, his tone low and raspy. "She's always been a Mudblood who didn't deserve her magic, and that hasn't fucking changed."

Blaise rolled his eyes at the enormous pride of his friend. Whatever. It was his problem, after all. Draco would realise that sooner or later.

"You know," Blaise said, "if you started calling her by her first name, I'm pretty sure it would help you realize that you care."

"Shut up, Zab. I'll call her whatever I want."

"Fine, then I have another question for you!" Blaise was starting to get annoyed at Draco's stubbornness. "Would you stand it if someone other thanyou started bashing Hermione the way you used to? Calling her names, bullying her, labeling her a Mudblood, wanting to exterminate her for her supposedly 'inferior' blood status?"

Draco lost control of his own body and his fist smashed into Blaise's face. Blaise took a few steps back under the impact, touching his lip, bloody and swollen. He turned his icy chocolate eyes on Draco, who was panting with anger.

"You're a dick, Malfoy," he spat. He turned back without adding anything, bringing his fingers to his lips to wipe away the blood that was dripping.

The Slytherin stood motionless at the threshold of his dormitory, the portrait wide open. His thoughts swirled like a violent hurricane that screamed Blaise's words over and over. Would he let someone other than himself insult Granger? Pansy's face popped into his mind and he clenched his fists. I don't care about her, he repeated to himself, unconvinced.

She didn't deserve her magic. She was born of Muggle parents and, damn it, as sad as her brother's murder was, she didn't belong in the magical world. Her brother only had the misfortune to disappear first. She didn't deserve all of her excellent scores. All of the house points she collected for her correct answers. All of the praise from the teachers. All of the admiration the young girls had for her since the Battle...

If you really wanted her gone, you would have identified her and her mates when they were captured by Snatchers and taken to the Manor.

Only Draco had never really wanted the extermination of the Mudbloods. He'd even told her he didn't want her dead. But what about the filthy blood that ran through her veins? Was her blood so dramatic? So different from his own? If blood had no connection to a person's worth, what did?

Granger would be coming up soon and he didn't want to see her. He needed to think. Mad and confused, he slammed the portrait behind him and walked away as quickly as possible, loosening the knot in his tie so that he could breathe easier.

Hermione had decided to spend the afternoon with Ginny. She wasn't comfortable spending time with anyone but her, as only she knew what had happened the day before. She didn't know everything, but she knew the basics, and her presence made Hermione feel better.

They had sat in the park with a view of the Black Lake. Ginny had finally asked her if Malfoy had behaved well. Unsure of how to answer or what to make of Draco's behaviour, Hermione had shrugged her shoulders in genuine confusion.

"I think so," she admitted, her eyebrows furrowing. "I don't really know. I suppose it was 'good' for Draco. But it would have been better with you or Harry or Ron."

"It's normal... Malfoy would never be like Harry and Ron, you know that."

Hermione nodded. Ginny's words reminded her strangely of the Slytherin's own words he had spoken at the beginning of October. I will never, ever be like Saint Potter, Weasel and Weaslette. The brunette bit her lips, realizing that once again she was placing expectations on an unreachable reality.

"But you'd still want him to be, wouldn't you?" Ginny asked her, seeing the disappointment in her friend's eyes. "To be like us, like them."

"I think so..." Hermione admitted shyly. "Is that wrong?"

Ginny smirked. "No, it's not. And despite his endless arrogance, I'm starting to think he cares about you, but just won't admit it to himself or to anyone else. He's still in his arsehole phase."

Hermione shrugged. "If he is able to move past his prejudices, that's to his credit. At times, I actually think he's really moved on from his arsehole phase. He confuses me."

Ginny winked at her. "If I were you, I wouldn't worry about your dress!"

Flashback

Hermione and her parents were sitting down to dinner. Sam was late, he was already supposed to be there. It was 7 pm and the silence in the Grangers' kitchen was heavy. Hermione hardly dared to make a sound to chew, afraid of breaking the silence. Her parents glanced at each other repeatedly. This was the first time he was this late.

By the time the meal was over and Hermione had finished the dishes, it was eight o'clock. Her mother, Jane, advised her husband to try and get to the Ministry of Magic, but he refused, telling her that Sam would be back soon, that he must have had something to deal with. With a lump in her throat, Hermione wrung her hands as she decided to get on with her business. She locked herself in her room and sighed. Normally she would be watching a Muggle film with Sam; they liked to do that together. But she preferred to wait for him. They had had an argument this morning but she had no doubt that they would make up.

The family waited. Jane was getting more and more upset. But by ten o'clock, everyone was tucked under the covers. Except Sam. "He's gone to a friend's house or Angela's," Hermione thought, burying her head in the pillow. She fell asleep.

An hour later, Philipp had decided to go and look for his son.

She woke up with a jolt. She was in bed, covered in sweat. Through her open window, a light wind rippled the curtains. She couldn't hear any noise, but the glow of the moonlight sent shivers down her spine.

She got up and started to walk silently down the stairs to grab a glass of water, but stopped dead in the middle. The front door was wide open and the Minister of Magic himself, Kingsley Shacklebolt, was talking to her parents standing in the doorway. Behind him, motionless in the street, three of Samuel's colleagues had their heads bowed, wands in hand. She saw with her own eyes the worst thing she could see.

Her father put an arm around her mother's waist as she began to collapse. Jane buried her face in her hands and sobbed as her father spoke in a panic to the Minister. Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth and for a few moments the Minister looked at her with a broken face. Her parents turned to her and Hermione saw her mother crying and sobbing, her cheeks wet with tears. Phillip closed his eyes and sobbed as he held his wife close.

Hermione heard a few snippets from the Minister. "Body identification" "Victim" "Murder" "Investigation" "Muggle police".

Then she understood. She stifled a scream and felt a terrible sharp pain pierce her heart. She began to breathe with difficulty. "Impossible," she gasped. "God, tell me that's not possible..."

She put one foot back, but stumbled down the stairs. "No, no, no!" she moaned. "No, no, no, no, no, no…"

What was the last thing she had said to him? She stood up, climbed a few steps breathlessly as her mother fell to her knees and Kinglsey shut the door with a sorrowful look. Everything was dark, except for the glow of the streetlights that seeped in through the living room window. Jane screamed again. Her wail was heartbreaking. Hermione had never seen her mother cry like that. Her stomach twisted in unbearable pain as she clasped her hands over her stomach and bent over.

She wanted to scream too but couldn't. Her sobs, her tears, her cries, everything was stuck in her throat and she couldn't speak. Her parents, kneeling on the floor, seemed to be in so much pain that she could not allow herself to keep her eyes on them. The moonlight cast ghostly shadows across the hallway... on two shadows on the floor, curled up in pain.

Someone could have pierced her heart with a claw and she would have suffered less than seeing the Minister talking to her parents in the middle of the night. She could have each of her nail ripped off, she would have gladly accepted in exchange for what she'd just learned. What was the last thing she'd said to him?

She leapt to her feet, her heart racing. Her head spun as she ran into her room and slammed the door. She fell to her knees and bitterly and noisily vomitted on the ground. She caught her hair in her fists and squeezed, squeezed, squeezed. She wanted to die. Everything around her was black.

Time will pass faster than you can imagine. Before you even close your eyes, your life will be over.

Pain stung her lungs as she saw his face again in her mind. She tried to breathe, but she couldn't absorb any more."Lord, Merlin, anyone help me…" She suffocated and lay on her back, her spine against the floorboards.

Sam…

Sammy... ?

A bolt wrecked her soul as she realised that her life had been turned upside down forever. She understood that she would never be the same again. Her world had become a nightmare with no way to wake up in one fucking second. Darkness engulfed her and drew her heart into a dark pit of silence. When she finally stopped panting, silence fell over her room. At that moment she heard her mother downstairs.

"It can't be! Not him..."

Hermione pressed her palms hard against her ears and curled up on the floor, tucking her knees under her chin. She closed her eyes as hard as she could, but the pain would not go away. She shook violently as her blood pounded against her temples. Her mother continued to sob.

Before you even close your eyes, your life will be over.

No! He hadn't even had time to live, to enjoy life. Nobody deserved that. He didn't deserve this, and she didn't deserve this pain. She replayed her moments with him, his smile, his protection.

What was the last thing she had said to him?

She struggled to her feet and, with her arms folded over her stomach, walked over to face the mirror. She looked at herself, trembling violently, and gritted her teeth. Her right fist rose up and slammed into the mirror with a tremendous force. Pieces of it flew apart, others dug into her palm, but she clenched her fist as her blood dripped to the floor. She couldn't feel the pain at the moment.

She leaned her forehead against the broken mirror and placed a hand over her heart, gasping for breath.

The last thing she had said to him was "Leave me alone".

He wouldn't be back.

It was only when she finally admitted it to herself that she allowed herself to scream with all her might.

And

then

she

sank.

"The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him."

G.K. Chesterton