"My sister. Killed by Voldemort on my father's orders when I was only a few months old."

Hermione couldn't comprehend it, at first. Couldn't understand why the Malfoys would kill their daughter. Her voice dropped until it was almost a whisper.

"Why?"

Draco laughed bitterly. "You know that phrase 'the black sheep?' Well, apparently, my sister Amalia was the white sheep of the dark Malfoy clan. She was seventeen, being groomed by my father to become a Death Eater, and she—refused. Ran away in the middle of the night, and joined the Order of the Phoenix. Said she was a Malfoy by name only, and—that was it. My father made sure to have another child first, ensuring the continuation of the family, and then… she died. A personal favor, he told me, in return for so many years of loyal service. Voldemort killed her himself." His eyes dropped. He had never shared this much with anyone, why was he sharing with Hermione Granger, a filthy- he stopped himself before he even got to the word Mudblood, reminding himself to stay civil.

"Okay, it," his voice broke, and he cleared his throat.

"Okay. It's your turn. Ask me anything."

"Alright. What's your favorite subject?"

His voice was scathing. "No, Granger, don't baby me. Ask a real question."

"I'm just easing… You yourself said 'Let's start with the easy questions.'"

"I know what I said. Things change, move on. Don't ease into it, I can handle anything you throw at me."

"Fine. If your sister could see you now, what do you think she'd think of you?

He didn't even pause before answering. "She'd be ashamed of me. Ashamed of the life I've chosen for myself. She'd be disappointed that I let my father force me into…well…everything. Most of all, I think she'd consider my life a waste. My sister, she was extraordinary. She made the hard choices. She took the path that she knew was right, and my life is just one easy path after another. She died young, but her life mattered. Mine won't."

He couldn't continue. He was overflowing with bitterness and pain and regret. He hated that, try as he might, he would always be different from his father. For Draco loved so much a woman whom he had never met. A woman who had turned her back on her family. A woman who had turned her back on him. And he knew in his heart that while he loved his dead sister, his father couldn't even muster any compassion for his living son. He saw it in Lucius' eyes. The coldness. The indifference. He forced himself to admit to Hermione,

"And I'm not guessing all this. I know. She wrote a letter to me and gave it to Dumbledore to give to me on my first day at Hogwarts. She knew she was going to die, she said, but she'd much rather die with dignity than live a lie."

"Wow. Draco, that's… I'm so…"

"Don't say you're sorry." He spat the words out. "People say it all the time, to everyone, and it means nothing. The words are so empty. Especially here. My sister chose to die. She had other options, and she chose to die."

"But she--"

"She. Chose. To. Die." His words were deliberate and forceful. "So don't say you're sorry. I don't need it."

She was somehow hurt at these words. He could call her a Mudblood, he could call her filth, and she was fine. But he had trusted her, and then rejected her. It hurt her heart to see him in pain. She could tell that he wasn't angry with her, wasn't holding her in contempt. He was just trying to be strong. He needed to be strong.

"Well." Her voice was gentle, but controlled. "I reckon we need a change of pace. A lighter question."

"Hmm, but it's what I reckon that matters. It's my turn."

He was deep in thought when he noticed that, even under all the blankets, Hermione was shivering. Reflexively, he picked his sweated up from off the ground and wordlessly handed it to her. She smiled and whispered a grateful 'Thanks,' before pulling it on. Draco watched the way her body moved as the wool draped over her. He was mesmerized for a moment by the shape of her shoulder and the freckles on her collarbone. He wanted nothing more, in that moment, than to count those freckles. She gave a tiny cough and he jumped back to reality.

"Right. My question. Are you," he paused for dramatic effect, "In love with the Weasel King?"

Hermione gave a long sigh, and Malfoy was hit with a wave of disappointment as he awaited her blissful 'Yes.' But he was shocked.

"No."

"No… you're not?"

"No. God, I wish I were. It'd be so much easier. I know he fancies me, I'm not blind. He's quite good-looking, too…" Malfoy drew in a sharp breath at these words. "but… I don't feel anything. Can you imagine how much simpler my life would be if I did love Ron? It would be so perfect. We would get married, Harry would be the best man, Ginny would be my maid of honor, we would have 2.5 children," She laughed bitterly, "a dog, a picket fence, and live happily ever bloody after."

He was taken aback by how emotional she was getting. Even moreso by the fact that she had sworn.

"Uh, sorry Granger, but you lost me at the 2.5 children part. You only want half a child?"

She smiled. "In the Muggle world, that's how they describe the average family. Everything would be so goddamn simple."

She started to cry, not knowing exactly why the tears were falling. It had something to do with Ron, something to do with Lucas Matthew, even a little to do with Draco's sister.

"I--" she managed to sob out the words "I wish I did love him." She reached up to capture a tear in her finger and brought it to her mouth.

"Granger, you've finally gone mental. Not that you weren't before. If you're thirsty, I can make you another cup of tea," he said, noticing her cup was empty.

She laughed through her sobs. "It's something my grandmother taught me. Each tear has a specific taste."

"And this one is?"

"Frustration. With a bit of…"

"Bit of what?"

"Loneliness." She had stopped crying, excess tears still falling down her face.

Without thinking about the implications, he closed the gap between them, gently grazed her cheek with his finger, and scraped a tear into his hand. He brought it up to his mouth and tasted it. She gave a shiver that, quite possibly, had nothing to do with her body temperature.

"Yeah. That's the taste I get in my mouth whenever I think about how the rest of my life is going to be. Do you want that tea?"

"Yes, please. Peppermint."

He meandered over to the kitchen, glancing back to see her burrowing further beneath the blankets.

"Draco?"

"Mmm?"

"What did you mean by that… the rest of your life being—" he cut her off.

"Think about it. Three years from now I'll be a Death Eater. Five years from now, I'll probably be in Azkaban, having people cluck and sigh about how I cold have been," he put on a mocking voice "so much more."

He placed the kettle on the stove.

Her words were soft and unobtrusive. "You could be, you know. So much more."

"No. I've considered the options. There's no way out."

"You could go to Dumbledore, join the Order, go undercover--"

"Hermione, it's like you don't get it, or something." Each word was infused with rage. He took a deep breath and calmed himself down. "All that would accomplish me is a grave right next to my sister's."

He was expecting her to be understanding and sympathetic. Instead, she flung the covers off of her body and jumped to her feet. Immediately she was hit with a wave of dizziness and collapsed onto the floor. He crossed the room in four steps, reaching down to check that she was alright. She jerked her arm away.

"Don't touch me," she hissed. "Listen, Draco Malfoy, you don't fool me for one second. You think you're all tough, but you're not. Don't expect me to feel sorry for you because you're being forced into this life. What about all the innocent people who will die at your hands just because you want to please your father. You are just a misguided little boy masquerading as a man.

"Look. It's easier to just accept my life for what it is than try to pretend it'll become something it never can be." He still hovered above her. "I'm never going to be like you. Even if I do go over to Dumbledore and renounce my father and my old ways, I'm still not going to—"

"Why?"

"Because…" His eyes were filling with tears that he tried furiously to blink away. "I'm not… I'm not strong enough." A tear slipped from his eye and fell down to land on her cheek. Slowly, she reached for the tear and brought it to her lips.

"Frustration," she said, staring into the grey eyes that reflected the same hurt that kept her awake at night.

His voice was gravelly and quite. "And… loneliness?"

"Right," she whispered. "And loneliness."

For several seconds, they just absorbed everything, spoken and unspoken, that had happened between them. The only comprehensible thought in her mind—Kiss me.

As Draco slowly bent down, his heart beating heavily and broken images clouding his mind, Hermoine's eyelids flickered shut. She could feel his breath on her lips. She knew that this was wrong, but at that moment, it was the only thing that felt right. Her body ached for his, and then—

"EEEEEEEEE!"

The teakettle was whistling. Their hot water was ready.