WARNING: This chapter contains descriptions of sexual situations. If that type of content potentially bothers you, then I recommend you read the sanitized version or skip the last part of this chapter.
Draco was no stranger to guilt—that insidious visitor which lingered far too long and dug far too deep into one's psyche for his tastes. It was an emotion he'd brushed off as the baggage unique to people with consciences, an unfortunate but unavoidable consequence of accepting that one isn't some soulless and emotionless servant to depravity and fear.
This time, though, that guilt felt different.
This wasn't the guilt of having nearly killed Dumbledore, who'd been a legend and a cultural institution in his own right. This wasn't even the guilt that came with knowing he'd been singularly responsible for allowing Death Eaters entry into Hogwarts during Voldemort's reign. Nor was it matched by the guilt he felt for having bullied Hermione incessantly out of his own nasty desire to externalize his insecurities during their adolescence. That all felt like a lifetime ago now.
Of course, what he felt now was certainly surpassed by the immensity of the guilt he felt for having tortured Hermione while he'd been under the Imperius just a month or two ago, even if he couldn't remember it firsthand. Yet what he felt tonight—and every other night he continued to lie to her—moved with a wormlike insistence all the same. It burrowed into his mind with the tenacity of a secret that knows it can't remain hidden forever.
I'm lying by omission every time we interact. A little death every minute we spend together that I don't tell her the truth.
He couldn't yet tell if tonight would feel like a pyrrhic victory over the Sons of Salazar once Hermione found out what he'd been up to. And she would find out somehow—which is why he knew he had to tell her first, late as his admission would be. And it would have to be tonight, before it was too late and she found out from someone else, or from the Prophet tomorrow morning, Merlin forbid. After all, this dilapidated shack was the last of the hideouts he would be helping raid—the last known place members of the Sons of Salazar had left to slither back to.
"You alright there, Draco? They didn't get you anywhere else, did they?"
Prather's question pulled him from his pessimistic thoughts and back into the present, where he stood by the lanky Auror and his colleagues amidst a throng of unconscious wizards who lay haphazardly across the grimy floor. They stood in a dingy Unplottable cabin located deep in Wistmans Wood on Dartmoor in Devon—the farthest he'd ventured out of Hogwarts so far for this investigation. He'd helped break into the heavily warded and concealed safe house a few short minutes and a small skirmish ago.
"I'm fine," Draco muttered shortly, wiping his hands along his robes to rid them of remnants of blood and dirt.
Prather nodded, satisfied with Draco's lackluster response, and returned to helping his colleagues bind the unconscious wizards strewn about. This sorry lot were what remained of the Sons of Salazar's high-level members—most of them also former Death Eaters. They'd been incapacitated by the Aurors and Unspeakables who comprised the majority of his assault group tonight. Draco's main role had been to provide the experts entry into what appeared to be the secret society's last viable stronghold and safe house; the last of a few he'd helped them uncover.
Although his nose and mouth were smeared with blood, his broken nose and split lip had already been healed by Auror Miller, whose talents with Healing had also been useful in the Great Hall a few weeks ago. In any case, the wizards responsible for giving him those injuries had spent a minute or two reeling under the effects of the nasty hexes he'd cast as payment before they'd been rendered unconscious and bound for arrest.
I'm surprised this bunch of cockroaches didn't anticipate how much dirt I'd have on them, he thought with a smirk despite his otherwise dour mood.
He wondered if they'd known Lucius had collected such important information about some of these dark-leaning properties, especially considering the confidence with which the Sons of Salazar had been using them. Perhaps Lucius had been collecting that intel throughout the years to build his own cache of personal blackmail material for an eventual comeback in the aftermath of the war.
Draco wasn't sure what to make of it if that was indeed the case. It was better not to dwell on the idea that his father's foresight had perhaps helped him in some small way after all. Best not to think about the shell of a man who still breathed and stared ahead vacantly in one of Azkaban's many depressing cells, but who was otherwise very much dead in mind and spirit—in all the ways that counted.
It was amazing the knowledge he was privy to now that the ancestral magic surrounding the Malfoy name recognized him as the living heir to the family name instead of Lucius. Documents, vaults, and archives that had previously only been rendered visible by his father's touch had been revealed to him once Lucius had received the Kiss. It was only a matter of Prather telling him the name or suspected location of the property under investigation, and Draco could trawl his family's considerable vault of information to see if he could be of service.
Tonight, as it turned out, he'd been quite useful after all—as he'd been quite a few other nights in the past few months.
And each of those times, I've gone behind her back.
As far as Hermione was concerned, Draco had left Hogwarts tonight to meet with his mother to help resolve a last-minute legal dispute. And technically, that was all true. He had met with his mother at one point tonight while he'd been at Malfoy Manor to plumb his family's considerable archives. And if he squinted hard enough, this was a legal dispute of sorts. Certainly, each of the cretins apprehended tonight would face the full force of the Ministry's considerable legal authority in the coming weeks and months. But he knew Hermione wouldn't see it that way.
You've lied to her point blank multiple times, and you know it.
The worst part was, he wasn't sure why he continued to do it, except that he didn't want her here. As he surveyed the dark wizards sprawled about, most of them unconscious and all of them now bound, he couldn't stomach the thought of needlessly putting her in this kind of danger again. She'd suffered enough and done enough. And yet he knew it was a weak excuse. She'd understood his motivations the last time they'd spoken about her involvement in the Ministry investigation. For all he knew, she would have seen where he was coming from this time. He hadn't given her that chance, though.
If he was being completely honest with himself, he wasn't used to any of this—that's what it really came down to. He wasn't used to trusting someone enough to tell them everything he was up to, was completely unaccustomed to disclosing his activities without asking for something in return. For so long, his relationships and interactions with others had been reduced to transactional exchanges borne of necessity or utility, and almost always cloaked in secrecy. As much as he wanted to be a better person, not even what he felt for Hermione had been enough to change such deeply ingrained behavior so completely and so suddenly.
For all the improvements he'd made, old habits were a bitch to break. He couldn't imagine trying to explain it so baldly to Hermione, though.
I'll have to try, won't I? I just don't want to lose her in the process...
The moment he stepped into their common room later that night, Draco could sense something was off. Hermione sat motionless in a love seat adjacent to the hearth, the line of her shoulders tense as she gazed at the flames with a look that spoke of too many restrained emotions. She didn't turn to acknowledge his entrance, nor did she respond to him when he spoke her name as a question and a greeting, although her hand tightened in a short spasm where it rested in her lap upon hearing his voice.
Fuck.
Without having to exchange more than that single word with her—her name—Draco knew that somehow she knew he'd lied to her. He crossed the room in a few long strides and sat in the love seat across from her while trying to catch her eye, yet completely clueless as to what he would say if he did. There were a few ways he could try to handle this, but they all stank of the craftiness and insincerity he was used to peddling towards people he couldn't care less about.
She matters to me, though. So fucking much.
For a split-second Draco felt abject terror at the thought of life without her. He wondered if his deception would be enough to undo the progress they'd made, wondered if this would be enough to make Hermione decide she no longer wanted anything to do with him. He wouldn't blame her, and wouldn't force his presence upon her if she didn't want it, but the thought of it made him want to shudder.
How had this happened? When had he fallen so completely for her that even the thought of her potential absence in his life filled him with such existential dread?
"So how was that legal dispute?" she asked after what felt like an eternity, her quiet voice devoid of emotion.
Her gaze remained fixed with stolid insistence upon the dancing flames, her mouth set into a firm line. If her body language hadn't already made it obvious, it was clear she was deliberately avoiding eye contact with him. He sighed and carded his fingers through his already disheveled hair, feeling at a complete loss.
At length he said, "I'm not used to confiding in people—not at all. Not even you, yet. I'm sorry I lied to you, Hermione."
"That's all well and good," she responded softly, still staring straight ahead, "But how am I supposed to trust you again after this? A–after everything?"
Her face crumpled and her voice broke by the time she was done talking, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. She brought trembling hands up to cover her face as her body began to shake with the force of her sobs. The sight of her tears caused agony to lance through his chest because this time he knew he was their sole cause. There was no Imperius to hide behind this time, no childhood indoctrination, nothing but his own cowardice staring back at him from the depths of his psyche as he watched her collapse into herself. Much as he wanted to reach out to her, he knew that what this moment required was truth, not platitudinal acts of affection, well-intentioned as they may be.
"Hermione, I..." but he stalled, his emotions welling into a gordian knot in his throat as he struggled to find the words that would make this right.
After a few moments she regained her composure enough to lower her hands and say unsteadily, "Harry called via Floo while you were out. He wanted to know if you'd told me the good news yet. Naturally, I had no idea what he was talking about."
She swiped angrily at the tears still coursing down her face and bit out, "Imagine my surprise when he told me you were off somewhere in Dartmoor helping a Hit Squad take out the last remaining Sons of Salazar stronghold tonight. Apparently it's not even the first time you've done this, is it?"
Draco swallowed and forced himself to speak, "No, it wasn't my first time. I've helped the Ministry break into eleven properties across the British Isles since this investigation started."
She scoffed and shook her head. In a tremulous voice she muttered, "I was an idiot for having trusted you, and for having thought you wouldn't play me for a fool."
He frowned, his mind racing for any way to salvage things. However, in a striking moment of clarity he realized what this situation required wasn't the right words—just his words. Whether he said the right or wrong thing tonight, it was clear that no relationship with Hermione would be sustainable if he couldn't acknowledge and work with the aspects of his personality that more often than not got him into trouble. He couldn't lie to himself about this anymore, nor could he continue to lie to her just because he was in denial about who he was in contrast to who he wanted to be.
"What did you expect, love?" he asked caustically, "That in a few short months I'd shake off eighteen years worth of brainwashing? That I'd miraculously and instantaneously learn how to be in a healthy relationship despite the complete absence of anything resembling that in my life?! I'm not some fucking Gryffindor paragon of goodness, Hermione—I'm a godsdamned Slytherin. Did you forget that?"
Her gaze hardened behind the tears still collecting in her eyes, but in a gentler tone he cut off whatever retort she was about to give.
"The day I was released from Ministry custody, I promised myself I'd become someone worthy of your esteem despite the terrible things I've done to you, and despite knowing I'm that despicable Slytherin at heart. But for all my mistakes, you have to see that I've been trying. I fucked up in this case—I know that, and I'm so sorry for breaking your trust by lying to you. But I didn't do it to hurt you, nor because I distrust you."
He nearly choked on his next words, a well of emotion rising up to meet him with unexpected strength, "I–I did it because I'm used to being alone. I'm used to having no one to rely on. Beyond that, I was stupid enough to think you needed to be shielded from yet another dark slice of humanity. I... wanted to be your protector, but I chose the wrong way of going about it."
He saw her resolve begin to crumble despite her better judgement—saw it in the trembling of her lips, in the minute softening of her visage as she finally moved her gaze to meet his. It was as if a lick of the hearth's flames had leapt into her tawny gaze as their eyes met. Amidst the turmoil of her anger and pain, he saw her longing and desire to believe him, and he latched on to that lifeline.
In a beseeching tone he pleaded, "Don't forsake me. Give me the chance to be better—help me be better. Just be patient with me. Please, Hermione*.*"
Silence stretched between them for a small eternity as he waited for her response. In that space of infinite possibilities, his potential futures stretched out before him—those that diverged from this moment; futures in which Hermione wasn't a part of his life, and those in which she was.
Her next words pulled him from his anxious and melancholic train of thought.
"For starters, I don't need a protector—nor do I want one."
Despite her hard tone, her tearful gaze softened as her eyes held his, and his focus zeroed in on the smallest details of her expression, all of which belied her stern words. He felt a tiny spark of hope begin to grow in his chest, and smoothed his hands through his hair to release some of his growing anticipation and tension.
She let out a deep, shuddering sigh, then said more pointedly, "But an equal? A lover? A confidante? Those I welcome, Draco. The question is whether you have any of those things to give. Your actions tonight—and every other night you lied to me—would indicate that you don't."
Despite the pulsing pain her words caused deep in his chest, he could see it now. A future where he could be everything Hermione wanted in a suitor; a life where they were equals, lovers, confidantes, and so much more. Could he do it? Could he change what felt like fundamental aspects of himself after a lifetime of conditioning? For her, he was determined to do it.
"I want all of those things too, witch. And no matter how long it takes, I'm going to prove I'm capable of reciprocating them—if you'll have me. I'm not letting go of what we have without a fight."
Her lips quirked minutely, but thankfully her tears seemed to have stopped, "Well, technically this was the fight, wasn't it?"
Relief coursed through him at her attempt at levity. Perhaps there really was hope for them yet.
"A tame one, if so," he answered wryly, "In which case, now comes the part where you tell me whether you're kicking me to the curb or not because of my stupidity."
He wanted to kick himself for the way he'd phrased it, but felt relieved when her lips pulled up into a small smile. Hermione rose slowly from her seat and padded closer towards the fireplace. Wordlessly, she used her wand to levitate their largest sofa closer towards the hearth, then turned to beckon him to come to her. His heart leapt into his throat at the invitation, and relief coursed through him, so potent he couldn't bring himself to stand at first.
"There will be no kicking of anyone to the curb tonight," she said finally, "because I forgive you."
She curled onto the sofa, and after dabbing away the last remnants of her tears, patted the spot next to her, inviting him to take a seat. After a few moments he was finally able to stagger to his feet despite how jellylike his limbs felt.
When he'd settled next to her so they were facing each other sideways on the sofa, separated by only a few centimeters, she said, "Let me be crystal clear about this, Draco—you hurt me tonight, and every night you lied to me. So, short of a life or death situation, if I ever find out you've lied to me again, it's over between us. And you have a lot to make up for in the meantime."
"Understood," he responded seriously after a few beats, reaching out to grab her hand, "I promise never to conceal the truth from you again, Hermione. And as many times as I've already apologized—I'm sorry I lied to you in the first place. I know I don't deserve it, but you have no idea how much your forgiveness means to me."
Cradling her right hand in both of his, he brought it up to his lips and pressed a soft kiss against her palm. He was amazed by the strength her deceptively delicate frame belied, and for a split-second his hands tightened around hers when he thought of how close he'd come to losing this—to losing her.
With a sigh she threaded her fingers through his, pulling him closer until she'd brought him in for a chaste kiss. The worst of his anxieties alleviated, he wound his other arm around her waist to pull her closer into his chest. He insistently deepened what had started as a soft touch of their lips, and soon their tongues met in the intimate dance he'd become familiar with over the past few weeks.
You taste so good, my sweet, he mused hungrily, unwilling to break their contact to tell her as much.
As their kiss deepened, he allowed himself to fall slowly onto his back, gently bringing her down with him. She gave a little huff of laughter into his mouth once she ended up sprawled on top of him, and they reluctantly broke apart for air. Both her hands were now splayed across his chest while her legs straddled his lower abdomen, the apex of her thighs so close to the place where he was sure his hard-on would be making an appearance any minute now. As if they had a mind of their own, his hands were trailing lazily up and down her sides, almost tickling her with how lightly his fingers were dragging along her flanks.
A few errant curls had escaped from her topknot to frame her face, and although her eyes were still bloodshot from crying earlier, their lash-lined depths held the warmth of her affection towards him, and the sight only drove his hunger for her to further heights. Still, he was curious to know what she would do next—was curious to know if she'd forgiven him enough to initiate this kind of intimacy tonight, as they'd done a few other nights already. So he remained mostly motionless, content to let her set the pace—at first.
With one hand Hermione reached down to brush a few tousled platinum strands from his face, and she slowly drew her face closer to his. As she closed her eyes and tentatively allowed their lips to make contact once again, his hands stilled to grab onto her waist, holding her tightly against him as their kiss deepened once again. He was surprised and aroused when he felt her hips scooting closer towards his pelvis, grinding against the growing proof of his desire as their kiss extended into a small eternity of welcome romantic delirium, their tongues and bodies dueling playfully with each other. He pulled her closer to him, their bodies rubbing so deliciously against each other in a familiar rhythm.
Hermione's occasional mewls and moans only served to further entice him as the dance between them grew more intense. Together they worked each other into a writhing tangle of limbs, spurred onward by the heat of the hearth beside them, and by the heat of the mutual desire they held for each other. As they broke apart again for air, Draco began to kiss his away along her jawline, and then against the column of her smooth neck as they ground against each other. He felt her slender fingers dig into his chest, and then his shoulders as she sought purchase against the onslaught of his wandering lips.
When he sensed she was close, one of his hands dropped from her waist to her arse, while the other rose to the nape of her neck to tangle in her hair. Despite the layers of clothing that separated them, it only took another few seconds for them to shudder against each other in completion. They remained still for another few moments, their foreheads touching as they breathed harshly into each other's necks. At length, he felt the tension bleed from Hermione's body, replaced instead with the lingering reverberations of their mutual pleasure. When she went limp against him—presumably asleep—he was relieved to feel the physical proof that she could still relax against him despite his most recent transgressions.
I don't want to let you go, Draco mused with satisfaction, his arms tightening around her as he drifted off as well.
So I'll do everything in my power to make sure I don't have to.
A/N: I apologize to those of you who were expecting my weekly update last week. I was feeling a little burnt out on writing, and I needed a break. For some reason this chapter was really hard for me to write, not necessarily because of the content, but because I just had a lot of other stuff going on IRL. In any case, I'm sorry if I caused any of you to worry! I know the pain of following a WIP only for it to be abandoned, and I promise that's not going to happen with this story! In fact, we've only got another chapter or so left before we wrap up! Thanks for sticking around this long!