Hermione barely saw Draco for the next week.

The first morning that she woke up alone, it frightened her half to death. She nearly didn't bother covering up with their sheet when she barreled down the stairs, screaming his name and frantically searching the house. He never got up without her. Something had to be wrong. Had Aurors come for him? No, it couldn't be, because Harry...

Had there been an adverse reaction to her salve?

Was he...

No. She wouldn't think it.

When she found him with his travel thermos by the front door, Hermione nearly collapsed—from both relief and the lack of oxygen in her lungs.

Hermione had been taken aback by the cold, heartless look on his face. His beautiful storms, pools of silver that melted and glowed when he looked at her, had hardened into unfeeling steel. His lips curled in a sinister sneer that she had been certain would never be directed at her again. That perfect, angular jaw that softened and slacked every time she kissed it had turned stiff, harder than stone.

His spine stood straighter than any ruler or board a muggle could ever invent.

She hadn't seen that cruel, inhuman façade since their joint Hogwarts days—since before the war. He stood rigidly by the door, grasping his mug so tightly his veins nearly popped out of his skin.

She swallowed.

Draco's robes were in perfect, pristine condition. The hair gel, though not nearly as much of it, had made a return. She wanted to stomp straight into his room and burn it.

This wasn't her Draco. This was Malfoy, and it was enough to literally take three steps back.

"Draco... Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

She noticed his jaw clench and flex, saw the flash of something familiar in his eye, but it was gone so quickly she wasn't sure if she imagined it there. She decided to try again. Slowly, hesitantly, she clutched the sheet to her breasts and reached out with her other hand.

"Talk to me, love. Please."

Draco's averted gaze was a stupefy to her soul. "Drop the pet names, Granger," he muttered quietly.

Hermione's heart turned to ash.

It was only after he wordlessly closed the door behind him that she allowed herself to collapse.

He didn't come to bed that night. It was the first night that Hermione lay awake until nearly dawn, wondering what on earth happened. What had she done?

The second day was much the same, except Hermione didn't go screaming through the house like a madwoman. Instead, she donned one of Draco's shirts and walked downstairs, only to find that he already left. She found her favorite mug on the counter, steaming with a fresh brew. Hermione's eyes pricked with tears, hot as the coffee he'd made for her that was too sweet. What had she done? Why wouldn't he talk to her?

Think, Hermione! Think!

She'd told him she wasn't going anywhere, warned him that even if he tried to push her away, he would be hard pressed to do so. Now it was time to follow through. Hermione dropped her head into her hands and groaned. The question was... why was he pushing her away?

Ice froze her veins when a disturbing thought struck her.

Had it been the sex? Was he disgusted with having bedded a virgin... a muggle born virgin? The series of events certainly fell in line with that theory.

Nausea erupted in a hideous, powerful stream of vomit on the floor beside her stool. For the first time since her magical core got bound, she wished she could wave her wand and take care of it. Her entire body trembled as she stared at the slimy, repulsive brown mess below her. The putrid stench wafted up her nose, causing her wretch all over again.

Brown... the color of mud. Like her blood was supposed to be.

It couldn't be that. It couldn't be. He showed her time and time again that he didn't think that way anymore. But, what else could it be?

He'd told her he loved her, showed her he loved her. Draco's never been one to do things he doesn't want to. Not unless his or his family's lives are in danger.

Hermione knew him. She knew him nearly as well as she knew herself.

Though he was a proud Slytherin, donning most things in green, his favorite color was actually blue. It surprised her until he told her that it reminded him of clear skies and the freedom he feels when he's on a broom.

He has a sweet tooth that matches her own. He lights up at the thought of French cuisine. He abhors spinach, so much so, that he wouldn't go anywhere near the stuff with a fifty-foot pole. He can't swim, and he dreams of a day when he can open his own apothecary. He keeps Professor Snape's journals in the bottom of his trunk. He adores his mother.

He loves her.

What are you doing, Draco?

Mopping this up was going to be disgusting.

He didn't come to bed that night, either. The first of what would be thousands of tears fell from her eyes. Sleep didn't come until nearly dawn.

By the third day, Hermione awoke curled around a pillow that was starting to smell less like Draco and more like her. Her resolve to catch him came back in full force. They needed to talk. This ridiculousness needed to stop. She missed him.

There had to be a good reason for this madness, and he was going to tell her what it was whether he liked it or not. She rolled up the sleeves of his button down that she'd worn to bed the night before, so it was a simple matter of heading downstairs.

Once more, all that was left was a mug of coffee that he'd put too much sugar in. As it turns out, a confused and broken heart doesn't do a thing to dilute a liquid cavity. She didn't pour it out. It was all the proof she had that the man she loved still cared.

That night, Hermione stepped into her potions lab for the first time since Christmas Eve. It was with a guilty conscience and shaking fingers that she picked up a bottle of Sleeping Draught. If he was going to do this, if he was going to destroy her, she at least deserved a decent night's sleep in exchange. She'd hardly slept a wink in three days, and it was wearing on her.

She understood the message. Draco was furious with her about something, and he wasn't coming back to bed. At least there was a Silencing Charm on her room. Hermione dragged her feet back to the room that she'd hardly used in the last month. She couldn't understand. Her mind couldn't comprehend the sudden, drastic change that was happening around her.

This wasn't her Draco. This was someone else, wearing a Draco-shaped-body suit. She didn't hardly recognize him; it tore her apart worse than any torture curse.

Silent tears stained the parchment as picked up her Twinned Quill off her desk. Her written words were barely legible, but she couldn't find it in her to care.

You should get off the couch and take your room back. I'll move back into mine. Please, talk to me soon. I miss you.

She tipped back the bottle, ignoring the instant glow of the sapphire around her neck, and sobbed until the potion did its work. She'd never felt so dirty in her life. She almost wished he would have called her a mudblood instead. That didn't hurt so much—it didn't feel nearly as grotesque as this.

For the love of Merlin, why wouldn't he just talk to her?

Hermione was struggling to breathe when she finally found sleep, tightly gripping onto a silver dragon that protectively held onto her birthstone.

On the fourth day, she came out in her own clothes, tossed Draco's shirt back into his room and tried not to care where it landed. She stubbornly stalked down the stairs, going against every instinct to turn around and put his shirt with the rest of the laundry.

Hermione only made it a few steps down the stairs before she had to stop and catch her breath. New Year's was only two days away. If Merlin would just let her have two more days, that would be all she could ask for. It wasn't that she felt she couldn't go on without Draco—that was the thought process of a foolish little girl—she just simply knew her number was up. She hated it, loathed it with every fiber of her being, but even though this first, desperate love of hers appeared to have ended so quickly... it was probably for the best.

Her heart was shredded, burned to a crisp and the ashes scattered in the wind, but at least she had managed to find real love before she died.

At least, it was very, very real for her.

No, Hermione thought. She refused to believe that Draco played her in that way. The pendant around her neck was proof he hadn't lied to her. The only conclusion she could come up with was that Draco was protecting his own heart.

Maybe he just couldn't see himself babysitting a sick, magicless witch until she inevitably died.

He was a wizard—he should be with an actual witch who can do all the things he can.

It's plausible that she'd scared him off when she told him she loved him.

It's also plausible that Narcissa and Lucius found out and they threatened to disinherit him.

Either way, the time she did get was more than a lot of people who lived hundreds of years could say.

Hermione pulled a Calming Draught from her pocket, only to find that she couldn't swallow the liquid. She rolled her eyes at the discovery and chose to just let it sit in her mouth until it finally drained down her throat. It appeared she would be using ice cubes and letting her coffee get cold before she got any today. The gem kept glowing a furious blue, equally as bright as a Lighting Charm. Irritation flared inside her, and she shoved the pendant inside her shirt so she wouldn't have to look at it.

Cancer or no cancer, she would not be going without her caffeine.

She took one last step before her world went dark.

When she awoke, the first thing she noticed was that her head felt like it would split in two. The second thing she noticed was that she needed to dust the ceiling fans. Were they always so dirty? Merlin, that was just awful.

The last rays of the sun colored the living room a lovely portland orange, and part of her wondered if she should lay there to watch the world turn black. Would it really be so bad?

Clearly, she couldn't even get down the stairs in one piece. Maybe she should start sleeping on the couch. Hermione nodded to herself. Yes. Draco would be giving up his spot on the couch tonight. That is, assuming he came home.

But Draco always comes home.

Hermione let out a deep, shuddering sigh. Yes, if there was one thing she could still count on, it was that Draco would always come home. With that being said, she hadn't fixed anything for dinner. She groaned as she tried to sit up. Her head was going to be throbbing for days after that one. She wished she could accio some Tylenol or any one of the pain killing potions upstairs.

When she finally managed to stand, she had to stop once more to let the room settle back right. This is going to be more fun than a little bit.

She wouldn't let Draco... Malfoy... whoever he was now... see her like this. She wouldn't be a source of his pity.

Hermione still had cold, overly sweet coffee in her mouth, with a quick skillet dinner just getting started on the stove when Draco swept in the door. It hadn't escaped her notice when something that almost looked like him flashed in his eyes. Just like before, it disappeared quickly. Too quickly. This time, Draco took out his wand and pointed it at the sofa. A moment later, it had been extended and a copper blur zipped into the room.

The blonde wizard stalked out of the room, leaving Hermione's blood to run cold as she examined the Wiggenweld potion he left behind. So, it appeared that the only time Draco would show anything at all would be if he came home to find the woman who fixed his dinner covered in bruises. And he still couldn't be bothered to say a word.

Hermione grit her teeth. "Draco!"

No answer.

"DRACO!"

She took one shaky, ragged breath, and once again ignored the burning in her lungs. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. But she had to breathe. She didn't have choice.

"DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY!"

Hermione snatched the bottle off the counter, practically stumbling toward the stairs. He cared. She knew he cared. Why wouldn't he answer her?

"Answer me, damn it!"

Hot, traitorous tears slid down her cheeks as she glared pitifully up the stairs.

"I know you still care. I know you do! You never do a damn thing you don't want to do," she rasped, fighting to force air down her throat. "Love doesn't just die overnight, Draco, and you wouldn't have said the words if you didn't mean them!"

Nothing. The silence was officially beginning to drive her mad.

"If you're done with me—done with us—damn you, just fucking say it!"

It was no surprise when he didn't say a word then, either.

Hermione resolved, right then and there, that she wouldn't shed another tear over Draco Malfoy, no matter how much she loved him. If he was going to do this—going back to hiding his heart and only showing the barest hint of decency—then she would have to do the same. She had to protect her heart. She tipped back the green liquid inside the copper container and stumbled with jelly legs back into the kitchen. Hermione muffled a cry of pain when her hip sharply collided with the corner of the counter. Hermione didn't say a word for the rest of the night.

She ignored her destroyed throat in the morning. She was beginning to get used to it again.

By the time New year's Eve rolled in, Hermione wondered if Draco felt as bad as she looked. She suspected as much because she saw the slight, barely there, shimmer of a glamour charm. Surely, he didn't think he could hide something like that from someone like her, who knows all about these things.

She supposed it didn't matter. They hadn't talked in a week.

At this point, she was just proud of managing to get up and down the stairs the last few days, even if the act itself was becoming more of a challenge. A feat, really, so monumental that she considered owling Harry. Naturally, she didn't, as he was still in Auror training and she didn't want to be a bother, but it was... challenging. He'd drop it all in an instant if she told him, but she didn't want to interfere with his career.

It was on this day that Hermione knew Draco needed to make a choice; either tell her what was wrong, or finally cut their ties and be done with it. She was too weary to continue to cry over him every night, wondering what she did or what they were. She was doing good to just breathe right now.

Her painting still sat on its easel—right where she left it. A magnificent silver dragon, wings spread high in all its glory, perched atop a large bounder in a mountain-bordered valley, dark clouds in the distance, that lowered its neck only to be eye level with a lone woman, remained untouched. She couldn't look at it. It reminded her too much of that night.

Reminded her too much of him, of her Draco, who she would continue to mourn with her last breath. The man who looked like him and stalked around her house... she didn't know who that was.

Hermione glared down at her syrupy coffee. That was the one thing that remained the same, and that's why she continued to drink it, cringing and all, every morning. This was all that was left of him—of them. How could it all have crashed so quickly, so easily? After everything?

Sure, their relationship started quickly, but... She sighed. She supposed it was only fitting that it crashed quickly, too.

Was it really that quick, though? They've known each other most of their lives. They saved each other's lives—during and after a bloody war.

Hermione groaned out loud and let her head fall back onto the couch that currently served as her bed. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. A single tear rolled down her cheek, and the woman swore right then and there that it would be the last one. She couldn't keep doing this.

Hermione pulled a Draught of Peace out of her front pocket, tipped it back without another thought, and added it to the growing pile of empty ones in the bottom of her bag. None of it mattered anymore. The glow that she spied through her shirt, right there at the center of her chest, didn't matter anymore, either. She was dead anyway.

A wry smile fluttered and died on her lips when she pulled one more thing out of her pocket. How much of her bucket list did she manage to knock out before the new year? Given how hard she had to fight now to take a breath, she estimated that she would be lucky to see the end of the next week.

Hermione's Sodding Bucket List

· Create a Pre-Hogwarts education program for muggle born children (call it the Winter Lily Foundation) X

· Overcome fear of flight

· Create paintings that Madam Pince would approve of hanging in her library X

· Find Lavender and bring her back home X

· Sit in the Minister's seat—just once.

· Dance with someone I love X

· Lose my virginity X

· Get traction on gaining rights for werewolves

· Take a walk in the rain X

· Write a book

· *Amendment* Create a solution that can eliminate Curse Scars. X

Hermione eyed her list critically. While she might not have completed her list, she did get a fair amount done. She nodded to herself. She could live with this. This was good. It was hard for her to admit, even to herself, that she partially wished she hadn't been able to cross her virginity bullet point out. Even though it was her most treasured memory, that night was also her most painful one now, and that included the day she was tortured by Bellatrix.

Hermione nearly groaned out loud. If she didn't know better, she'd swear that whole family was out to get her.

When she wrote it down, it was silly, really. She didn't think it would actually happen. She'd been feeling particularly bold and assumed that when she took her last breath, that one thing would remain untouched. Frankly, she wagered that she would gain rights for werewolves before anyone other than Harry, Ron, or George noticed she was biologically a girl.

If she were being honest, she still didn't count George in that number. His jokes were part of his coping mechanism. They're what gets him through the impossible pain of losing his twin.

Merlin, how wrong she'd been about it all.

Yet, she couldn't find it in her to completely regret her mistake. It meant she was alive and capable of making them. It meant that she found a special bond with someone she loved.

Love was never a mistake, no matter how painful.

Her critical mind gave her list one more look-over.

Well, she thought, there is one more thing I can knock out before I go.

Hermione pursed her lips and eyed the back door, wondering how furious Draco... Malfoy... would be with her if she borrowed his broom. The thought didn't linger for long. Even if he did get angry with her, what did it matter? He should have thought about that before he slept with her and then essentially abandoned her the next day—and all the days after.

Who knows? Maybe she'll be able to finally breathe.

Worst case scenario, she finds she can't breathe, loses consciousness, and falls to her death.

For once, she couldn't find it in her to be afraid of that. It would truthfully be quicker that way. It might even be painless. Ironically, that was what decided it for her. Today would be the day that she got over her fear of flight.

Hermione drew upon twenty years of being one of the most stubborn witches alive to find the strength to get off the couch. She could do this. Of course, she could do this. She was Hermione Bloody Granger, war veteran and the most famous mudblood currently alive. Voldemort couldn't even kill her, and Bellatrix never lived to see her handiwork two years after the fact. She survived countless obstacles over her short life. She very well could bloody stand and walk to her back porch, and nothing was going to stop her.

Those were the thoughts that kept her going, kept her taking one shaky step after the other; kept her taking one ragged breath after another, even as trickles of sweat started to form on her brow, until she made it out the back door. It wasn't until she reached the frame that she dared stop.

She leaned heavily against the frame and forced herself to keep breathing. She could do this. She knew she could, she just had to make her body cooperate.

Hermione heard a quiet clack against the wall the instant her head fell limply to the side. Her brows furrowed. What was that? She reached back and searched blindly until she felt something smooth and cool.

Oh. That's right. Her quill's been in her hair.

Malfoy would have said that things were already nesting in it.

This one time, she supposed he wouldn't be wrong.

Hermione carefully removed it and held it up against the light. This damned Twinned Quill started it all. Idly, she wondered if she should burn it, but decided against it. Instead, she thought that maybe she ought to pen a quick note, so she fumbled in her pocket.

The only parchment she found was the back of her bucket list. She couldn't find it in her to care about that, either. It was just a list. Hermione flipped it over and began to attempt writing on it.

I'm borrowing your broom.

Hermione snorted. The ferret speaks!

Why in the fuck would you do that? You hate flying.

For a split second, Hermione thought about writing back. Merlin, she missed him more than words could say. Just his words on the parchment sent a jolt in her heart, though now she hated that he still had that effect on her. Hermione stifled a sigh, gritting her teeth against the urge to beg him to come home and talk to her. To beg him to please talk everything over with her... to even answer his bloody question. After all the hell he's put her through this past week, well, he could come to her. Of his own accord, and not because she groveled and begged.

For once, she had to think about her pride and her dignity.

That was why she tossed the quill to the side, not caring one bit where it landed, or even if it broke, and stuffed the parchment in her pocket. Let him have a taste of his own medicine.

Hermione forced another lungful of air through her nose, ignored the lightheadedness that had been lingering for several days, and reached for the doorknob. She could do this. She wouldn't allow there to be an alternative. She wouldn't be beaten.

Logically, she knew this was insanity and the chances that she would fall off the broom were extremely high, especially in the state she was in. Did she really care, though? Not so much. Was it insanity to be this careless with her life? Absolutely. Did she care about that either? Not really. At this rate, she would be lucky if she woke up tomorrow.

Currently, she was eighty percent positive that the only reason Draco would even notice her absence would be due to the lack of dinner on the counter when he got home. That's about all he does when he comes home, anyway. He stops in, grunts a bit sometimes, and takes his dinner up to his room—always making sure his dishes are clean and put away before he leaves for work in the morning. There was that, at least.

Hermione's legs were incredibly shaky when she stepped out on the back porch.

You can do this, Granger.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Great. Now she was calling herself Granger. Lovely. Just lovely.

Just go with it, Hermione. You can be Granger for a few bloody minutes.

It took Hermione every bit of the focus that she would put forth on her exams to keep the porch—and the broom—from spinning in her vision. Hermione weakly reached out toward the Firebolt that stood innocently in the corner.

I need this to work, just once. Accio Firebolt!

Hermione nearly fell over when the broom actually answered.

Holy mother of Merlin! But how? Oh, never mind, Granger. Just get on the damn broom.

It was with trembling arms and shaky legs that she mounted the piece of wood that she once swore it was insanity to use in this way.

Kick. Off. The Bloody. Ground. Take the risk and just do it!

She felt no fear as her feet left the ground. In fact, as the chilly air forced itself into her lungs, she felt elated. Hermione could finally breathe! With renewed use of air in her lungs, her vision cleared, and, Merlin, the sight before her was breathtaking.

"So this is why everyone loves to fly," Hermione whispered, awed by the liberating feeling that coursed through her veins. She could plainly see lush, green, rolling hills; vast valleys and mountains that kissed the sky in the distance. This view was the thing that famous pieces of art were made of.

Hermione was glad that she chose to do this. Even if she lived a hundred years, she didn't think it would be worth missing this. A sharp pang pierced her chest then, as she thought of one thing that would make this all so much better. She wished Draco were up here with her. He would love this view as much as he would love teasing her about finally catching up with the First Years.

A dull pinprick sparked at her lower shoulder, causing her to look behind her. "What was..." Hermione's eyes widened in alarm. A light blue, nearly clear protego shield was up, and on the other side was a man she never thought she'd see again.

"Robert," she gasped.

This time, her old study partner didn't resemble anything like the cocky, good-natured boy she knew. He was still donned in yellow, but the expression on his face was anything but friendly. In fact, it was twisted in a sneer befitting of a Malfoy.

"That's right, sweetheart," the boy goaded. "Look at you, defenseless and all alone. Did your Death Eater boyfriend finally decide that he was done using his little mudblood plaything?"

All the wind was instantly syphoned from her lungs. "How dare you!" Hermione hissed.

"Please," he scoffed. "You're supposed to be smart. How long did you think he was going to keep up playing house with someone that purebloods think are beneath them? And without a speck of their own magic at that? I'm surprised he kept it up this long."

Anger. That was a familiar emotion. She could work with that.

"What do you think you're doing, Robert? You're looking at a lifetime sentence in Azkaban at this point."

If she could physically swallow, she would have, when his sneer turned into a catlike grin.

"Looks like I've struck a nerve. I'm surprised at your naivety, Hermione. Think about it. Why would a Death Eater, a servant of Lord Voldemort, suddenly change for a woman who is essentially a muggle? Unless... that woman just so happens to be the one person who could finally get rid of Harry Potter. The one person who would gain enough traction to create the Dark Lord's vision—and all it would take is simply winning her heart. Women will do mad things for the men they love, even betray their own ideals."

Hermione felt like a bucket of iced water had been dumped on her, and it had nothing to do with the December chill. "You talk like you know something about that firsthand, Robert."

He shrugged. "Maybe I do."

Hermione's mind working in overtime, frantically trying to figure out how she could possibly send for help, when a punishing force knocked her clean off her broom.

She heard the panicked screams—where they were coming from, she wasn't sure—but as the ground quickly drew up closer to her face, the only thought that crossed her mind was a silent prayer that, this one time, Draco wouldn't come home.

Then the world went black again.