Notes: I hope you are all doing well. Thank you for your continued interest in this piece of my imagination.
WARNINGS: References to domestic/child abuse
31. Let Your Love Even with My Life Decay
The dementors may be gone, but Draco still feels the gray walls of Azkaban sucking out his soul with every step.
Waves crash against the battered rocks of the prison's foundations, their roar echoing down the corridor as loudly as his footsteps. Draco's thankful. It keeps him from thinking too hard about his destination.
Remus Lupin walks a few strides ahead of him, his head angled against the howling winds. The werewolf has said fewer than a dozen sentences to him, but Draco feels safe in his company. There are members of the Order who he knows are simply waiting for him to step out of line. For him to prove he's nothing but Malfoy scum after all.
Lupin isn't one of them. From the first moment Draco stumbled into an Order safehouse with Harry's token and Hermione and Tom in tow, Lupin has seen him. Not the scared brat Draco used to be, but the man he's trying to become.
It's a welcome surprise to have someone beyond his godfather in his corner.
Of course, technically, he and Lupin are family too. Nymphadora Tonks and Draco are cousins, which makes Lupin Draco's cousin by marriage. An odd thought, but far the strangest realization he's had in the past few weeks.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
Draco still has no idea how to process Tom's choice—he trusts Harry's final words. It was Tom's choice, not an unforeseen consequence of the ritual, which means that as much as Tom appears to be blindsided by the results of his soul rite, he understood the risk.
He chose to lose his magic. All to repair his soul and save the world from his own evil.
The darkest wizard Draco has ever known made the most selfless choice. And he did it, not the for the world, not for Draco, but for a love the boy can't even fully acknowledge.
Draco's chest aches. The pain has nothing to with jealousy, at least, not the pedantic kind. It's not that Draco wishes Tom loved him like he loves Hermione; it's that Draco wishes anyone would love him with that ferocity, with that abandon, that willingness to sacrifice for him.
No one has ever loved him so completely. Another child, one without the Malfoy name, might have found such devotion in their parents. Draco learned long ago to expect nothing of the sort.
So he realizes what Tom did and feels bereft, empty in ways he can't explain. As if he is alone on a vast sea, adrift and isolated from the world. And that isolation tears into him with cold, desolate fingers, scraping against his brittle heart.
Salazar, he wishes he could feel that strongly about someone or something.
For a time, he was sure his love for Harry was that epic. Now he knows what he felt was nothing more than a teenage crush, a longing nursed into an obsession. He barely knew Harry until the very end, until he understood just how far from love his childhood feelings truly were.
That's where no one can compete with Tom and Hermione. Draco may have held Tom as he shattered, the weight of his choices crushing the dark boy without mercy, but that intimacy pales in comparison to what lies between the two of them. Their shared experiences, before Tom had hands or breath or power, tie them together like alloyed metal. They bled into each other and now they'll never be completely separate again.
Draco can't imagine knowing that much of someone else, of having no secrets left within the dark cask of his soul. What Tom knows of Hermione is more than anyone has any right to know of the person they love.
Of course, Tom is not the immutable entity he once was, trapped within the diary pages. That he seems to understand Hermione is proof of how far he has come.
The Tom Draco first met in Hermione's cell is nothing like the boy Draco has released from their entanglement. He's been unmade by her and the transformation is glorious.
Draco knows he agreed to fall into bed with Tom because he craved completion, the ability to be seen and desired when Harry most certainly was not going to do either. He yearned for the feeling of another boy's flesh against him, as he'd always imagined, but never dared to experience.
He gave in because he was weak and Tom was handsome and available. Simple. Stupid. Shortsighted. A coward's move.
But the boy whose lips he allowed to teach him the art of pleasure is not the boy he held in his arms on the windswept moor. That boy wanted power above all else. That boy had yet to understand the ramifications of his desire to protect Hermione Granger above all else. He knew her agony, but he had yet to find his own humanity reflected within it.
Draco can't be sure how it happened. All he knows, is that slowly, like the flow of a river upon sandstone, Hermione eroded Tom, until the Dark Lord was gone and only a boy remained.
A boy he loves.
And Draco knows that unlike his feelings for Harry, the pit of nausea that grips his stomach is true, selfless love. Nothing as epic as Tom's attachment to Hermione, but no less real. He knows because he walked away. Because he held Tom's happiness above his own, no matter how much it shredded his heart.
Despite the pain he feels, joy lingers too. Sometime in this horrifying adventure, Hermione came to mean something to him. If being with Tom helps her, if it gives her a chance to reclaim even a small portion of the life that was stolen from her, then he will gladly let the other boy go.
It is a scar that will never heal, but perhaps that's a good thing. He's found there's more to life than simple desire. To love them both despite it all seems powerful indeed.
Maybe he does know something of grand gestures and sacrifice after all.
And, perhaps, it's time for Draco to face the world alone, to stand on his own two feet and learn to roll with the punches instead of ducking them.
Draco's world is evolving at lightning speed and he needs to find his own path to survival. He's never been something beyond a Malfoy before. He has no idea how it's going to work, but he's keen to discover a life that doesn't rest in the shadow of impossible expectation.
Which brings him to this hellscape of a prison and the only piece of his old life that coils hot and sharp like barbed wire around his heart.
"Shall I leave you?"
They're at the cell and Lupin is looking at him with too much softness in his expression. Draco fights the urge to snap at him. It's not Lupin's fault he's a decent human being and Draco is unaccustomed to any degree of empathy in his familial interactions.
"No," Draco manages in a neutral tone. "I'll take it from here."
The professor nods and swishes his wand. The door in front of them melts away and Draco steps through. It materializes a moment later, but Draco knows it will not hold him. This cell is designed for only one prisoner.
Narcissa Malfoy lifts her head, her platinum hair dirty brown with filth.
Draco swallows. "Hello, mother."
She makes a noise halfway between a wail and a moan and flings herself at him. Draco catches her. He can count the number of times he's hugged his mother in the last decade on one hand.
Once… once it was different. He pushes the thought away and draws her frail frame into him. She's too thin, but he knows it has nothing to do with her treatment in Azkaban. She's been slipping away for months—years—ever since his father wedded himself to Voldemort instead of his wife.
His mother presses a kiss to Draco's cheek. Her lips are cold and trembling. Draco attempts to rub warmth into her quivering flesh.
"I thought you were dead."
Draco grimaces. She and Astoria are the only ones Draco worried would suffer from the news of his demise.
"I needed you to believe it."
His mother's hands trace the lines of his back and arms, as if she still cannot believe he stands before her. "To lose you… and then your father."
His jaw tightens and his mother leans back, her pale blue eyes examining the tension spreading through him.
"What did they tell you about Lucius?"
She blinks up at him, eyes wide, pale brows drawn together. "Nothing much. No matter what I asked, they would only say my husband had passed."
Draco releases a slow breath. She doesn't know yet. It would be easier if she did, but this is his burden to bear and it is not meant to be easy.
He clasps her hands in his. "Lucius is dead, that is true. He is dead because he threatened to kill the people I love."
"The people you love? What does that have to do with your father?" She shakes her head, "what are you saying, Draco?"
There's no good way to say this, no way to prepare her, so he just blurts it out.
"I killed father."
There's moment of silent incomprehension. A moment where she doesn't understand what Draco has done and the world is still whole. Then she screams, a wretched noise that sends them both to their knees, and the world shatters.
Her dainty fists beat against his chest as she shakes her head frantically. "No, no, no, no…"
The litany of denial that crosses her tongue is almost enough to make Draco regret his father's death. But only almost. He remembers those same fists coated in blood, Lucius' eyes glinting fragments of metal.
A door he's kept locked shatters open. He knows this won't help his mother, but the words trip over his lips before he can grasp hold of them. And when they do, he's not sure he wants to stop them.
"Why, mother? Why did you stay with him? Why do you love him still?"
Sobs consume her wails and she looks at him from a face that's collapsed upon itself, that is nothing like the woman he remembers loving him so very long ago.
She doesn't answer. She won't. There's a reason he's never asked these questions. Whatever choice she made the night Lucius made his wife pay for his son's mistake, it was written in blood. Her blood.
She was never the same after that. They never lay in the rose garden again. They never laughed together. She became a beautiful ornament in his life, to be observed and admired, but never needed. Never a mother again.
And where Lucius had been hard, he became cruel.
In an instant, Draco lost them both.
Looking at her heaving shoulders and red-rimmed eyes, he knows he will never know why.
Lucius broke her and in doing so, he broke himself as well.
This is the cost of expectation. Of believing in family name before family. In believing in blood purity before blood.
Draco gathers his mother in his arms and lets her sob into his dark jumper. Her tears are hot as they absorb into the material, but the cruel winds of Azkaban steal the warmth away.
He blamed himself for so long. For the choice he made. For the price she paid.
But it wasn't his fault.
Draco Malfoy chose to befriend a Muggle boy, to bring him into his house despite the words of his parents. Why? Because Draco was lonely. Because the other boy looked lonely too. Because he didn't quite believe that anyone's blood could truly be mud.
Draco chose kindness.
Lucius Malfoy chose ruin for them all.
His father chose to take his rage out on his wife instead of his son. He said Draco would never make such a mistake again. That Draco would be the perfect son or his mother would stain more than the divan scarlet.
So Draco became small, terrified of the slightest error. Unwilling to look beyond his father's will. He learned to obey first, ask questions never. To be the instrument his father so deeply desired. Whatever doubts he harbored, they were cast away, his mind unable to believe in anything beyond Lucius' wrath.
When he fell for Harry, he scraped the feeling away, until he was raw with the want of it. When he knew he desired no girl, would produce no heir, he forced his desires down until they bent to his father's will.
If Astoria hadn't realized. If he had found enough alcohol to make himself follow through on her desire, he would never have agreed to tell his father.
Even now, he knows the only reason he was spared the proper punishment—that his mother was spared—was Astoria's family. No ability to save face if someone else already knows.
They'll never know what Lucius Malfoy would have done to change his son.
Draco is not sorry.
His mother may be a quivering, broken lump, but she is alive. And no matter what punishment the Order confers upon her, Lucius Malfoy will never touch her again.
He holds her until his hands are numb with bitter cold and the crescent moon coats Azkaban in silver light.
Lupin never asks him to leave.
*Break*
Hermione doesn't want to be here.
She also wouldn't be anywhere else.
The contradiction leaves her entire body an odd confluence of tension and relief. She tightens her grip on Tom's arm, drawing him closer to her. It's going to be hard enough with so many familiar faces watching her. She doesn't need them trying to talk to her and Tom is the perfect buffer. No one has a clue who he is. She hopes they'll think twice about going through the painfully handsome, leather jacket clad young man with hard sapphire eyes.
The set of Tom's jaw is a hair away from cruel, his lips turned town in a cold sneer, as he surveys the gathering crowd.
She doesn't begrudge him the outward hostility. The atrium teems with witches and wizards, spells thrown casually between them. He must be keenly aware of his magical deficiency.
Her grip tightens on the soft leather of his jacket as she takes another step toward the chaos.
Draco trails behind them, a significantly softer expression shaping his angular features. She casts a look at him and he gives her the barest hint of a smile. She nods back.
The blond boy has been entirely too accommodating of the shift in the dynamic between the three of them. She's sure he must harbor some negative emotions, but he's allowed neither Tom nor Hermione to see them. Whenever Hermione asks, he gives her a wistful smile and says something about turning over a new leaf.
His grace fills her with awe. She cannot reconcile the compassionate young man he's become with the boy she once punched in the face. Nor can she see the boy who gave her books because he was too frightened to fight for her life in him anymore. He faces the Order with an open mind and a resilient heart, enduring their doubt without complaint.
Of all of them, Hermione thinks Draco has made the most progress. Whatever demons lurk beneath his skin no longer gnaw so fervently at his soul. He gives her a modicum of hope—that perilous feeling—that maybe she and Tom can find their own catharsis too.
They slip into the front row, the seats reserved for speakers. Molly Weasley nods at Hermione, a sheen of moisture just held at bay in her honey eyes. Hermione freezes halfway down the row when she locks eyes with the figure seated beside Mrs. Weasley.
Her fingers become talons on Tom's arm and he follows her wide stare, confusion pulling at the grim lines of his chiseled features.
Hermione tugs them both abruptly into chairs, but the boy rises from his chair and closes the distance.
Tom's nose brushes her cheek as he murmurs, "what do you want me to do?"
She wants him to punch Ron Weasley in the face. But this is Harry's funeral and she's not about to make that sort of scene. She tries to channel her inner Draco Malfoy, as she lifts her chin to meet Ron's penetrating gaze. This is her chance to let go of at least one demon. She'd be a fool not to take it, no matter how strongly she wants to flee from the hall and never look back.
"Ron," she murmurs, wishing her voice were stronger.
His eyes flicker to Tom on her right and Draco on her left. "Hermione. Malfoy." He chokes out the name, but manages not to appear entirely ill as he acknowledges the blond. "And you are?"
"Thomas," Tom replies shortly. Ron doesn't extend his hand and Tom makes no move to acknowledge their introduction.
Ron chews on his lip, pale eyes narrowing. "I haven't heard of you. What're you doing here?"
Tom's gaze cuts down to the place where Hermione's boring holes in his forearm. "I would think that's rather obvious, Weasley."
The redhead's jaw clenches and Hermione speaks before Tom can be any more inflammatory. "Ron Weasley, Thomas Devereux. Tom's my…" she pauses, uncertain of what to call him. Boyfriend seems too pedestrian a word, but it's likely the only one Ron will accept without question. "Boyfriend."
Tom catches her eye and for a moment she sees only the ghost of desire transforming his stare from edged crystalline to molten heat. Her breath hitches and his full lips twitch in acknowledgement.
This is what it feels like to publicly stake a claim. A shot of adrenaline mixed unbridled joy.
She and Harry were too frightened of the boy standing above her to ever take this step. She is just beginning to realize how much they missed. How much the urge to hide, to protect others cost them both.
Hermione clenches her jaw and tries to hold these demons at bay. Their teeth are sharper than she realized, their bite bitter and true.
Ron glares down at Tom now, a childish reaction that makes Hermione want to roll her eyes. The days of Ron having a chance with her are long over.
"I've never heard of you."
Tom's lips twitch, but he maintains a neutral expression. "Unfortunately, I've heard of you."
Hermione cuts a look at Tom. He raises a dark brow. She wants to chastise him, but for Tom, he's being downright tame. She sighs instead.
"Today is about Harry," she tells Ron. "Let's not dredge up any of the past that we don't need to."
His blue eyes flicker and his lips relax from their hard line. "You're right, 'Mione." He clears his throat and takes a half step closer. "I heard from Ginny about… about what happened to you. I wanted to apologize for the part I played in your capture. I know neither you nor Harry would have been there if I'd been able to keep my head when I found out about the two of you. So I'm sorry. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know I understand what I cost you."
It's everything she could ask for from him. It's not nearly enough.
Tom squeezes her thigh gently and she realizes she's trembling. It takes her another moment to understand it's rage rattling through her.
"Apology not accepted," she bites out.
Ron's jaw drops. "'Mione…"
"Leave, Ron," she hisses.
Today is not the day she slays this particular demon.
"But—"
Tom is on his feet, Draco rising in his wake. Ron is tall, but he finds his neck craning as Tom invades his space. Draco slips between Tom and Hermione, providing another layer of protection from the protests spilling from Ron's lips.
She doesn't particularly enjoy other people fighting her battles, but she'll make an exception this once.
Ron bends back as Tom leans into him, index finger digging into the redhead's chest. "I know exactly what you cost Hermione too, you feckless coward. You've apologized. Good. Now it's up to her and you don't have a bloody say in that, mate."
"Leave, Weasley, before we make a bloody scene," Draco urges, voice soft, but tone firm.
Hermione can only see a sliver of Ron's face between Tom and Draco's broad shoulders. He deflates, not even trying to catch Hermione's eye as he turns tail and sulks back to his mother.
The relief makes her boneless as Tom and Draco drop back into their chairs. Tom runs a hand through his ebony hair. "I sincerely hope you never entertained the thought of dating that disaster of a wizard."
She can't help the dark chuckle that trips over her tongue. "I thought I was in bloody love with that git for way too long. But you don't need to worry, Harry steered me right before my crush became anything substantial."
"Good, because if he'd ever touched you, I was going to have to castrate him."
Hermione chokes. Tom is looking down at her, expression deathly serious. "You'd… castrate him?" she sputters.
He lets his dark gaze slide to where Ron speaks softly with Mrs. Weasley. "Well, I could just kill him if you'd prefer."
"He's joking," Draco murmurs.
Hermione glances between the two of them. Tom casts a baleful look Draco's way. "I am not."
Draco ignores him. "While Tom is very proud of his homicidal skillsets, he no longer practices those particular arts."
The darker boy crosses his arms, leather jacket pulling tightly across his broad shoulders. "I have a reputation to maintain, you ass."
"I'm fairly certain Thomas Devereux isn't supposed to be a closet serial killer, you git," Draco replies, smile tugging at his lips.
Hermione blinks. Draco was right. The entire murder speech was entirely for show. She forgets that Draco knows Tom better than anyone, herself included.
"I'll be happy if I simply never have to speak to Ron again."
Perhaps one day she'll be ready to find a way through those particular brambles to forgiveness, but Hermione knows it's not happening anytime soon. Her scars are too deep and too fresh.
Tom's lips brush across her brow before he whispers, "just say the word and he's gone."
Hermione shakes her head. "No killing. Seriously. There's been enough of that."
She feels the shift in his frame, sees the lines of his face sharpen. Tom catches her chin with his index finger, directing her face up to his. "No more death, I promise."
She doesn't care who's watching when she pulls his lips to hers. His mouth tastes like peace and she surrenders to it.
The funeral proceeds as expected, just like every other gathering she's ever attended to mourn a fallen Order member. Except now the entire wizarding world is here to watch.
She's reminded again that Harry was never truly hers, despite his feelings. He belongs to all of them. The Boy Who Lived. The Boy Who Died. In life or in death, he is superhuman. His sacrifice is salvation for all who sit here, mist gathering in their eyes.
That's not the full truth, of course. Not even the Order knows that Harry acted with a partner. That his sacrifice was not the only one made that day.
But no one will give speeches in Tom's honor. No one will thank him for what he's surrendered. Nor should they. He is both the poison and the antidote.
So they let the world believe Harry alone bears responsibility for Voldemort's death. That Hermione and Draco were mere instruments in Harry's destruction of the Horcruxes and the monster behind them.
When she gives her speech, the words are the bitter fusion of truth and fiction. She tells the crowd about Harry's bravery—truth, at least by the end. She tells them of Harry's plan—false, the credit lies with Draco and Tom. She tells them about Harry's infinite compassion—true, but also the reason she has more scars than stars in the sky. She tells them about his dedication to their salvation—true.
Her words ring like soft bells across the Ministry of Magic atrium. She searches the faces, finding more familiar ones than she expects. No matter how far apart she feels, these are still her people and this is still her world.
Tears drip down her cheeks, hot and heavy with what she cannot say. She does not wipe them away. Let them see her grief. She is not ashamed to have loved the boy they mourn.
As she speaks, forgiveness bubbles in the depths of her chest, rising like warm air on a winter's night. She cannot cling to this particular pain any longer. Harry paid the ultimate price for his choices and she can no longer hold her suffering against him. He died knowing how badly he'd miscalculated, yearning for her to love him as she once had.
Hermione blinks out over the sea of faces. "Harry was not perfect, no matter what some of you might think. He made wrong decisions, he allowed those he cared for to be hurt because of his choices, because of his fight. If he were here, he would remind you he's only a boy trying to make it in this world, the same as any of you. But he's not here."
She pauses, forgiveness like sugar on her tongue. "He's not here because he loved each and every one of us more than he cared for his own life. He died to save our world." She squeezes her eyes shut. Salty brine floods her mouth. She swallows. "He died to save me. And I will never be able to properly thank him for it."
The sea of faces becomes a watercolor. "I love you, Harry. I will always love you. And I forgive you."
Hermione's shoulders shake and she grips the podium to keep from stumbling. She forces her final words out. Her voice trembles, but does not give way to her sorrow. "So I challenge each and every one of you to do as Harry strove to do. Live the best life you can in service to your fellow wizards and witches and your fellow Muggles. Live the life Harry so desperately wished for all of us when he sacrificed everything."
She sways. A figure in the front row surges upward and she squints through her grief to find steady sapphire eyes locked on her. She holds on to his stare as if it is her only tether to life. She lets the strength of his conviction guide her down from the dais and into his arms. She only looks away when he dips his head to brush silken lips across her brow and then her damp cheeks.
She leans against him when they sit and teaches herself how to breathe once more. The pressure in her chest, still too much for her to bear, is just the slightest bit less. She closes her eyes and lets the truth of her forgiveness cleanse her broken soul. It is not nearly enough, but it is something marvelous.
Hermione sighs and lets go for the briefest moment.
*Break*
It's raining.
Even the bloody sky is mourning Harry.
Draco presses his back against the marble columns of the Ministry of Magic courtyard. The cool rock is a balm to his flushed skin.
Tom and Hermione disappeared sometime after her speech, but before the reception, her face streaked with grief and his eyes hard as diamond. Draco could have followed, spared himself the inevitable interaction with the hostile crowd, but watching Tom with Hermione still makes thorns press into the tender flesh of his heart.
He doesn't regret his decision, but that doesn't mean he needs a front row seat to the consequences.
He takes a steadying breath and turns his face up to the grey oblivion. He craves one of Tom's clove cigarettes. It's an unfortunate habit the three of them have fallen into together. No matter which safehouse they wind up at, Tom returns from the nearest Muggle village with the necessary supplies.
Draco managed to abstain right up until he no longer had access to the taste of Tom's lips beneath his own. Now he tastes Tom every time he closes his lips over the crisp paper of a cigarette.
His pulse hammers frantically at his throat and he gives in to temptation. A flick of his wand and the cigarette—he always has a handful in his breast pocket—flares to life. Draco inhales deeply, letting the smoke caress every facet of him before he exhales.
What would Harry think of him now?
He likes to think Harry would be proud of what they've accomplished. He doesn't think Harry would be particularly happy with Draco smoking at his funeral, but he imagines the other boy would understand.
Draco squints across the courtyard to the polished granite mausoleum. The service and reception may be inside, but Harry lies out here. He closes his eyes and pictures Harry as he last remembers him, ashen skin and blue lips.
He chokes on his latest drag. The smoke lingers around him a heartbeat before the rain washes it away. He ashes the cigarette against the Ministry's wall before taking a step forward. He's immediately inundated by the deluge from above. There are a handful of spells he could use to protect his black button down and charcoal slacks. He utters none.
His hair plasters to his face, water dripping like waterfalls from the platinum strands. Draco sweeps the hair of out of his face as he crosses to Harry's tomb. He places a hand on the slick granite. Pink and metallic grey glint from the rain-slicked surface. He watches his pale fingers cover ribbons of glittering quartz and feldspar.
It's just a rock.
But it's not and the knowledge is like daggers through his battered chest.
He's suddenly immensely glad that Harry knew how Draco felt before he was ripped away. Before he made a choice even more impossible than Tom's.
He may no longer have been in love with Harry, but perhaps Draco finally knew the other boy well enough to love him truly, not through the lens of obsession or desire, but as a friend.
A friend Draco guided to his death.
There's no denying Harry would not have met this end without Draco's meddling ways. Of course, without Tom and Harry uniting, Voldemort would still lurk just beyond their reach, the shadow of his cruelty hanging over everything.
As much as Draco wishes his friend returned, he knows Harry would prefer it this way. Better to have sacrificed and won than survived and lived in a world without hope.
Or something inane like that.
Draco is very sure they haven't won. They've simply taken another step forward. It's all anyone can ever do. It's not where they're going, but how they get there that matters. He's still learning how to navigate in a world of how not where.
His clothes are soaked through. They cling to him like desperate hope. He pulls another cigarette from his pocket. It fizzles out immediately.
Groaning, Draco relents and cast a small protective bubble around himself. He misses the cold assault of the rain, but the heady smoke and familiar scent of cloves settle him.
"You're certainly not what I remember."
He spins and Ginny Weasley steps out of the shadow of the tomb. Has she been here the entire time? He's too scattered to say for sure.
Draco watches her with wary eyes as he takes another drag. Her warm honey eyes follow the motion.
She scrunches her nose, freckles bunching. "That's a disgusting Muggle habit."
A low chuckle escapes him. "Did a Weasley just say disgusting and Muggle in the same sentence? It must truly be the end of the world."
To his surprise she laughs, low and dark. "It's past the end of the world, Malfoy."
He knows. He inhales deeply and exhales slowly. The smoke twists within the confines of his protective bubble, coiling skyward before disappearing the instant it crosses the barrier into the pounding rain.
The youngest Weasley chews on her lip, arms crossed as she studies him. She's cast a protective charm since her entire appearance remains pristine, her black satin dress twisting elegantly around her lithe frame. Nothing like the mess Draco has made of himself.
"You were with her?"
It takes him a moment to understand she's referring to Hermione. He takes the longest drag yet. This isn't a conversation he wants to have.
"Sometimes, yes."
"Is it true?"
That the other girl doubts Hermione's word speaks to just how far the rift between the girls must stretch.
"Why are you asking me?"
Ginny shifts, uncomfortable under the weight of his stare. "You never had much love for her."
Draco does his best to smother his amused laugh. The firecracker of a Weasley likely won't appreciate him laughing at her. "Things change, little Weasley. You'd do well to cease making assumptions. They don't serve you. In fact, they only show how ignorant you truly are."
Maybe laughing at her would have been kinder. But Draco's not particularly interested in kindness. What he aims for is deeper, truer.
He watches her bristle, can see the beginnings of storm brewing in her deep eyes. He holds up a hand, forestalling the comeback on tip of her tongue. "I'm not saying this to be cruel, Ginny. I'm saying this because you're being cruel."
She deflates in an instant, the fire in her eyes snuffed as quickly as the cigarette smoke in the rain. She turns toward the granite, running her hand over the engraved letters of Harry's name.
Her voice is a whisper, barely audible above the hissing rain. "I loved him. For so bloody long."
Draco starts, cigarette missing his mouth. He fumbles until his lips find purchase. Her shoulders round forward and her head bows toward the cold stone. Grief fractures her indignation, sapping her strength and leaving a shivering husk behind.
He wonders if Harry ever knew. He fears the answer is yes.
Hermione is right. Harry was far from perfect.
Draco grinds his cigarette beneath a black loafer.
He swallows twice before he says, "then you and I have something in common."
Ginny's head snaps up, eyes sharp despite the grief. "You and Harry Potter?"
"Oh, I know how it sounds," he sighs. He cards a hand through his hair. It's only damp now, nothing like the sodden mess it was before. "I spent most of my childhood lying. Doing whatever my father bade me to. Except when it came to Harry Potter. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't eliminate that particular desire."
Ginny leans back against Harry's tomb. Unlike before, her gaze is open, curiosity filling her wide eyes. "Why didn't you move on? It must have been obvious nothing would come of it."
His eyes squeeze shut, but he sees bright azure everywhere. "Who's to say I didn't?"
She shifts and he peels his lids apart. Her gaze slips to the stone beside them. "You're here."
Draco can understand how it appears that way. He shakes his head, rueful smile twisting his lips. "It didn't end up like that. Harry and I, we reached an understanding. A friendship, I guess you could call it."
"Did he ever know?"
"Yes," he murmurs softly. "I told him."
Ginny's eyes widen, her lips parting in soft surprise. "You told him?"
Draco shrugs. "I told you, we became friends."
"We were always friends and I never once worked up the courage to tell him," she admits. "How did you do it?"
"He needed courage to face what was necessary. I figured telling him I'd loved him wouldn't hurt." It was truly that simple and Draco will never regret it.
Ginny turns back to the carved granite. He watches her fingers retrace the letters. "But you're no longer in love with him."
Draco reaches out, catching her trembling hand within his. She doesn't flinch or pull away. He laces their fingers together and presses them against the damp stone.
"No. Not for some time. But love is funny. I was in love with the idea of him, the idea of a relationship between us. I don't think I ever truly loved him until he was simply my friend and I wanted nothing more from him than what he could give."
Her hand twitches beneath his and she slants her gaze toward him. "When did you get so wise, Draco Malfoy?"
"You don't want to know."
She sighs, long and deep and full of loss. Draco draws her into him until her fiery curls rest just beneath his chin. At first her arms are slack, but then they wind around his waist and crush him to her. His shirt grows damp, her sobs muffled against his chest.
When she has breath enough to speak again, she murmurs, "it truly must be the end of the world. A Weasley and Malfoy finding common ground."
He runs a gentle hand over her silken hair. "Just don't let your brother see us."
"Which one?"
He forgot about the hoard of Weasley boys. He shudders. "Any. Don't let any of them see us."
She extracts herself from their embrace. "In that case, we'd better go our separate ways. All of my brothers are here."
"Sweet Merlin," Draco mutters as he takes a step away from her.
The ghost of a smile haunts her lips. "Thank you, Draco Malfoy. You've been surprisingly decent."
He dips his head. "You're welcome. You're not nearly as foul as Ronald."
"No, I'm not."
He arches a pale brow. "What, no defense of your brother?"
"You and I managed to live with unrequited love for Harry for years. The first moment Ron realized he couldn't have Hermione, he blew his cauldron and fell into a Death Eater trap. There's really nothing to defend."
"Well, when you put it that way," he replies, fighting a smile.
Ginny steps back to the tomb, fingers skating over the stone. "If you don't mind, I'd like a few moments alone."
"Of course," he allows. "I have to find Tom and Hermione anyway."
The redhead cocks her head, interest sparking in her eyes. "Is he good to her?"
"The best."
"Then tell her I'm happy for her."
"Tell her yourself," Draco counters.
"Touché," Ginny mutters, but her face is no longer hard stone as she turns away.
Draco runs his hand through his hair, relieved to find his protection charm allowed it to dry. He casts one last glance at the girl beside the granite tomb. She huddles against the stone, her cheek resting against the carved inscription.
His chest aches as he leaves.