Notes: Wow, the outpouring of thoughtful comments after Draco's tragic story was incredible. The amount each of you care for his character is wonderful and inspiring. Thank you for seeing that has been done to him without his permission and understanding how strong anyone must be to endure the constant pain, both physical and emotional. While Draco may not be real, there are so many humans out there with such complicated stories, who need our love and support, not our condemnation. So please be kind as you face the great sea of humanity because everyone's story is something to be respected and all deserve the space to tell their tale.

Okay moving slowly onward, so much action and heartbreak still to come.

~*~ Thirty Two ~*~

The letter arrived after a battle that had been—in the scheme of Hermione's experience—truly unremarkable. The fighting had lasted perhaps fifteen minutes and their highly organized movements and nascent formations had run over the enemy's chaos like flour through a sieve. If the majority of their troops hadn't taken to following Hermione and Draco's lead of stunning, not maiming or killing, she would have felt inordinately guilty. As it stood, it was simply underwhelming. By the time they'd returned to camp many of their younger recruits were rearing to go again, certain they could secure a permanent victory over the contested river bend. But total victory wasn't what Grindelwald wanted. He'd been very clear in his desire to hone his forces on the battlefield, but restrain them. The true strength of his army wouldn't be revealed until later, more strategic conflicts.

The owl that delivered the letter was clearly one of the many housed in the Owlery at Hogwarts; it had no distinctive markings and was an unremarkable tawny brown with wide eyes that seemed entirely bored, despite the sound of Muggle mortars in the distance. It swooped down and perched on Hermione's shoulder, its talons digging into her skin until Draco offered it a piece of his ration cooking by the makeshift stove they'd placed above the fire in their latest camp. Upon receiving the morsel, it promptly dropped the sealed parchment onto the muddy ground below and returned whence it came.

Rubbing her shoulder—the owl had caused more damaged than the battle—Hermione stared down at the letter, unsure what to think. If it came from Hogwarts, it could only be from a handful of people. She doubted Aurelia would be writing, but it was possible. In all likelihood it was from Tom. And if it was from him, she had absolutely no interest in putting her fingers on that parchment; he'd likely enchanted it to do something dastardly upon contact.

Draco settled next to her on the makeshift bench, a log they'd flattened through a combination of magic and rudimentary carpentry. "I'll open it."

She shrugged like it didn't matter either way, but was secretly thankful for his intervention. "If you want."

He gave her a look, one that communicated he knew exactly the magnitude of the favor he was doing her, but picked up the letter. She sighed, watching his lithe fingers tear the seal and unfurl the parchment. She'd been watching him more lately, less in the way one might observe a predator and more in the way one studied a friend. With her understanding of what he had survived, the cruel twist of her heart every time she acknowledged the unfathomable depths of his loss, she finally saw him without the veil of suspicion. She knew he'd still committed every brutality she had heard whispered, knew that he was objectively unforgivable, but her heart had pardoned him without a second thought, even if the depths of her soul could not. Given his situation, she had no idea what she might have done. Hermione had the feeling she'd never loved anyone, not even her parents, with the fervor that he'd loved Astoria and their child. If her role in the war had taught her anything, it was that desperation could drive anyone to anything given the right circumstances. He'd been compelled into monstrosity; she'd faded into mediocrity.

Thinking about it did nothing but turn her stomach sour and make her eyes limn with moisture. There was too much tragedy in those memories, too much lost between the two of them to warrant such reminiscence. Clearing her throat, Hermione slanted her gaze to where Draco was still reading the letter. His expression was bland, as if reading a textbook, but she could see the storms in his eyes gaining ferocity as he continued. When he finished, he wordlessly handed the parchment to her.

Taking that as a sign no hidden curses lurked within its depths, Hermione accepted it, noting the signature before starting at the beginning. It was from Dumbledore, which shouldn't have surprised her, but did.

My dear Hermione,

I can only hope that this missive finds you safe. I have debated the merits of writing this letter a number of times and I have finally decided the benefits far outweigh the risks, even if it does fall into the wrong hands. It took us all by some surprise when you, Mr. Riddle and Mr. Mallet (or shall we simply acknowledge him as Mr. Malfoy?) disappeared from school on St. Valentine's Day. Mr. Riddle returned a week later without either of you, which had me fearing the worst, especially with the news out of Little Hangleton about the tragedies at Riddle House. The local authorities are blaming the deaths on Tom Riddle, Sr. and the local Reverend is backing them up. The ministry has sent officials to investigate, but none of the family members or the maid were killed with magic, so it is impossible to tell. I fear Tom has escaped unscathed from whatever his role might have been in this tragedy. The investigation did reveal one interesting detail to me, Hermione. It seems you are legally married to Tom Riddle, Jr. I confess this surprises me greatly since I was under the impression you were here to prevent certain escalations, not join them.

I am equally surprised by the disappearance of Mr. Malfoy. While I never sensed any ill intentions from him while he was under my roof, I got the general impression of his character from your recollections of him. I worry that if he has gone after you, you may be in grave danger. I would impress upon you to remain vigilant and to be discerning in your trust of either gentleman.

Indeed, I have come by some distressing news, which is the primary reason I write to you. There are reports of new leadership within Grindelwald's ranks. One of them very closely matches the description of Mr. Malfoy you provided me. I worry that if he has joined the war effort to support Muggle oppression that his strategic knowledge will put many of us in danger. His companion is supposedly female, but I have not been able to gain an accurate description of her to provide you.

Beyond this very serious concern, I have noticed that Mr. Riddle is behaving even more impertinently than usual. Unfortunately, Headmaster Dippet still refuses to see his behavior for what it is. I fear Mr. Riddle may do something even more detrimental than he already has in the near future.

It is my profound hope this letter reaches you and that you are not among the victims of either of the aforementioned gentlemen. Please do not attempt to reply as I feel the writing of this letter is risk enough.

All my best,

Albus Dumbledore

Hermione couldn't help the amused chortle that escaped her lips as she tossed the letter into the flames fueling the camp stove. "He seems to be under the impression I'm in mortal danger from you."

Draco's lips were a flat, unimpressed line. "Up until recently, you were under the same impression."

"Yes, you don't exactly advertise that you're a hopeless romantic under that furrowed brow and sneer." Hopeless romantic wasn't exactly the most appropriate or sensitive way to describe him, but the words had come out before she could think better of them. She swallowed, mouth dry as his eyes flared.

But he didn't rise to the bait, sighing instead. "I don't have any idea what I am. I've been playing a part my entire life, Hermione. It was only with Astoria that I started to learn what I really liked, who I wanted to be. But then he stole all of that and now I don't think it's possible to go back. I can't forget what I've done. I'll never atone for it, no matter how much good I do. I am exactly who Dumbledore thinks I am, who you thought I was. It doesn't matter why I did it. The choice was made and the actions belong to no one else. I am…"

He trailed off, the pain lancing his eyes nearly more than Hermione could stomach. She knew she could never understand. It was not only the horror of what Voldemort had done to his wife, his family, but also the bitter truth of what his hands had wrought. There weren't two of him, one trying to save his family and the other destroying everyone else's. No, there was only one man, Draco Malfoy, and he had done both and in the end they had all burned, even Draco.

Since the night in the tent, he'd begun to talk about Astoria, but he'd never broached the deaths or the pain he had orchestrated. Hermione understood that was a horror even he could not acknowledge without breaking and they were not at liberty to collapse into humanity here, still in the dregs of war.

"You're not a monster," she told him, but a part of her, the part that couldn't forget the losses, the bloody stories, the part of her soul that didn't pardon him, didn't believe the words at all.

As if sensing her doubt, her conviction only so powerful, he smiled, a bitter, rueful smile that fractured her soul a hair. "I know better than to ask for forgiveness, Hermione. I do not deserve it and I will not find it."

The bitter taste in her mouth had nothing to do with the lingering scent of the battle. "You're not currently a danger to me."

"That's true," Draco allowed, peeling a hunk of meat off a skewer he'd removed from the camp fire. "If the old man is to be believed, it seems Riddle is biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to find you. Which is good, because that means when our debt to Grindelwald is paid, he will be easy enough to collect."

"If he hasn't made his way here already."

He looked at her sharply. "You haven't had any weird dreams, have you? Moments where your shields might falter?"

Her nights had been relatively peaceful actually. Occasionally Draco's nightmares woke them both, but her dreams had been calm, insignificant and unmemorable. She'd expected them to be turbulent; she'd expected time to start slipping through her grasp again. Neither had happened and she wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps it was the lack of bloodshed in most of their battles, the reassurance that she wasn't leaving a pile of bodies behind. She'd been forced to kill and maim, but at infrequent intervals and only when it was necessary to preserve her life or Draco's.

Or perhaps it was the steady presence of Draco by her side, a lethal shadow that protected her on and off the battlefield. She'd never had that before. Harry had always been more aggressive, unerringly reckless with his life as he led their forces. With Draco she'd realized leadership didn't have to come in kamikaze-style attacks, and that they were more effective from within the ranks than in front of them. Whatever it was, she could feel the fractured facets of her soul slowly knitting together with each passing day. It was an odd realization that she could still heal despite the violence of her days.

"No. No cracks in the armor that I can sense. I barely even dream anymore. At least, not memorably," she admitted.

"Lucky," he muttered, almost too softly for her to hear. Shaking his head, which caused platinum stands to fall haphazardly into his face, he added at higher volume, "Then it's likely he doesn't know where you are. Although if Dumbledore is right about the news of our command making it to Britain, it's likely Riddle will put together the pieces sooner rather than later. He always was a clever sod, at least, before he lost his mind."

"When exactly will Grindelwald consider our debt paid?" That was the question that had plagued her as the weeks became a month and then two. They'd left Hogwarts in February, arrived in Grenoble in March, but it was May now and still there was no sign Grindelwald was satisfied.

Draco's face had a haunted look that told her this wasn't the first time he'd pondered their situation. "We may have to consider Grindelwald won't seek Tom out on his own. We've become an essential part of his army; it would be foolish for him to give us up."

"And if Tom does arrive on his own?"

"Then it's likely he will honor our agreement. I can't imagine him letting the man who would kill him walk free."

That, at least, was some consolation. They needed Grindelwald's power if they had any hope of detaining Tom long enough to eliminate his Horcrux and then… she couldn't quite think it. It had been so easy to imagine him dead when she'd first emerged from his manipulations, but as time mellowed the wound, her anger had become saturated with sorrow, with the loss of a boy who had meant something profound to her even when he'd been inside her head. The horrible truth was he truly hadn't made her feel anything new, only made her doubts evaporate, her reservations disappear. She'd never had a regular boyfriend before him—she and Ron had only tried during the war, when everything was already falling apart—certainly never a husband, and as much as she wanted to deny it, beneath the deception had been a real connection, a connection that scraps of her soul still yearned to embrace.

That Draco seemed to understand the severity of her attachment to Tom and reserved judgment as often as he could manage was one of the reasons he'd come to mean so much to her. In a way both men had accepted her for who she was, only Tom had been too caught up in his lust for power to love her properly and Draco had his own burdens to bear. Before her trip to the past, she'd always hidden away, even with Harry and Ron, especially with Harry after Ron's death. It was a welcome change, to be free, to embrace the brutal honesty of her relationship with Draco, to acknowledge the demented talons of Tom's imperfect love. She would never go back to Tom, but she would always know he had seen her, had loved parts of her she never would.

Hermione accepted a skewer from Draco, forcing her thoughts in another direction. "Do you think Dumbledore will act on his suspicions about you?"

He paused mid-chew, considering. A minute or so later, he finally swallowed. "Now that you mention it, we might have accelerated the confrontation between Dumbledore and Grindelwald by a significant number of months. We'd better hope Riddle gets impatient. It would be a shame to have Dumbledore eliminate Grindelwald before he can be of any use to us."

"Fudge," Hermione lamented, numbly chewing.

"Indeed," Draco murmured, pushing his hair behind his ear. It had grown down below his shoulders now, but he refused to tie it back, muttering under his breath that there was no way he was going to resemble his spineless father. Hermione thought he looked quite rakish with it falling wildly about, the strong angles of his jaw and cheekbones highlighted by its length. He certainly looked very little like the boy she'd known in school despite the return of his natural coloring. Sensing her stare, he gave her a curious look. "What?"

"I'm thinking you'd make a marvelous pirate."

He blinked slowly, as if determining if he'd heard her correctly, and then let out a loud guffaw that had their recruits turning to stare. "I'd make a bloody fantastic pirate, Granger. Don't you doubt it for a second."

She giggled, honest to Merlin giggled, in response. It was the first time she'd laughed in a lifetime. It was the first time she'd ever heard him laugh. It wasn't the hard, scornful cackle of his reign over the Hogwarts halls, but a genuine burst of humor that simply couldn't be contained. They kept smiling until their jaws hurt, but Hermione felt alive, more settled in that moment than she had in years.