"Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil?"

Draco mounted the steps to Hermione's cottage, whistling. Happy to think that his obligations were behind him and he was now where he actually wanted to be.

Although he was glad he'd been able to help Jonnie last night. Fucking Alistair. But he thought he'd finally been able to talk some sense into his old friend. It sounded like she was truly ready to leave the cunt for good. Blaise's blatant flirting hadn't hurt either. He'd put some credit back in the bank with Draco, making Jonnie feel good again. Between the three of them they'd even managed to salvage the ball, staying up late and talking shite about the idiots in attendance.

Draco had also decided this was his last time humoring Narcissa and going to the ridiculous event. Hermione's words had rung in his ears all day. He'd felt something close to shame as he stepped into the opulent ballroom and made polite conversation with bigots and blood purists. How had he ever endured it calmly before?

His knuckles went up to the wooden door. Hermione must not have heard him apparate. He knocked once and was surprised when the heavy panel swung slightly open, revealing a dark and silent interior. A prick of worry furrowed his brow.

"Hermione?"

No answer. Draco pushed through the door and moved swiftly into the large front room then down the hall to the bedroom. All was empty. Quiet. He felt a distinct stab of panic until he noticed that the door to the garden was hanging open. Relief washed through him. She must be outside.

He walked out and saw her, letting out a long breath and feeling the tension in his body ease. Oddly, she was sitting in one of her kitchen chairs at the end of the garden, facing out to the rolling fields beyond: the last rays of the sun just gilding the tips of her hair. Beautiful.

He hurried across the grass to her, excited—and a little apprehensive. To tell her. Tell her what he'd realised this weekend. When he was talking with Theo—who had been gushing about being a 'man in love' —telling Draco about all the little ways Rafik captivated him.

And Draco realised as Theo spoke, that he felt the same way. About Hermione.

He was in love with her.

That was the emotion he had felt the other morning. The happiness and contentment, the rush of pure feeling, the thrill of being in her presence. The joy.

Love.

Well, fuck him.

Draco shook his head once and grinned as he drew closer to her. "Hello!"

She didn't respond. That was odd. A little swell of unease washed over him. "Hermione?"

No answer.

He stopped a few feet away from her. "What's wrong?"

She still didn't turn, but her hand rose, holding a newspaper. She shook it open and he took it, inhaling sharply when he saw the cover. "What the fuck?"

"Indeed." Her voice was flat. "And you'll want to turn to page six. That's where all the best bits are."

"I can explain," he muttered, still skimming the article and swearing softly when he saw the interior spread.

She laughed hollowly. "So cliché. Draco. Well I can explain too. I went against every instinct to become involved with you. I knew what you were like. And, no, we weren't exclusive—so technically you're in the clear."

"Hermione, I didn't…"

She cut him off. "And I know about what you did to Harry."

"What did I do to Potter?" His mind was reeling.

"Told Theo not to invest. Well you can feel good about that because Theo pulled out. Totally. And now no one is going to want to sign on. Harry's properly devastated."

"I only gave my friend my opinion." He could hear his voice go cold.

She snorted. "And last but not least poor Jack Wickham. You've been busy, Draco."

"Poor Jack Wickham?" He felt the blood rise up his neck. "You show a lot of concern for him."

"Well I feel a kinship with him, don't I?" Her tone was scathing and he finally saw a flash of her dark eyes over her shoulder. "We're neither of us good enough for you."

Draco stepped back as if she'd hit him. He felt ill, dizzy at how quickly he'd gone from light and joyful to bleak and angry.

"Are you going to give me a chance to explain?"

"What is there to explain? I'm more angry at myself than even you over this. I should have known. You've been keeping me as your dirty little muggle secret all along. I was never going to step out in public with you, or take a place at your side, was I?"

"What do you mean? We've been out! My aunt knows about you, us. Theo, Daphne, Astoria!"

"In muggle places. And known only to a neat, closed little group. But tell me, does your mother know?"

He couldn't answer. How could he explain that his mother was the least important person in that list?

"Because she seems to think you're engaged to this woman," Hermione continued. "And who fucking knows. Maybe you are. I've certainly seen you with her before. In the papers. At Theo's party." Her voice broke a bit here and he felt his heart do the same. "But like I said, we never discussed it, so you're in the clear. Shame on me. Fool me once and all that. But I'm not getting fooled twice."

She dashed something from her eye and he started toward her, but she held a hand up, turning to face him, her features remote. "This little thing we had? Is over. I'm going back to London tomorrow. I know you don't want be seen together there, so maybe you were planning to end it anyway."

"I wasn't planning to end it." His voice was low, the shock and urgency he felt mixed in his tone. "And I can explain these pictures—they're all taken out of context. Jonnie is a friend, that's all."

"A friend who stays over at your house and wears your clothes the next morning? How stupid do you think I am, Draco?" She stood up and walked toward him, fury radiating from her slight frame. "And even without this, stupidity, on my part. I can't live with what you did to Harry. You and Theo. Thanks to you and your little games he hasn't gotten out of bed in two days. How could you do that without talking to me first? Without warning me?"

Draco just shook his head. His mind seemed to have shut down at the weight of her accusations.

"Even if we weren't exclusive," she continued, and he shook his head again, started to speak, but she talked through him. "You and I were effectively in some sort of relationship, so it would have been the decent thing to tell me, let me in on what was happening. If you had been more open— But I'm seeing a lot more clearly now. And we were never in a relationship in your mind." She made a furious gesture, "I was just your fuck in France."

Draco felt the blood drain from his face. He staggered a little and reached out to grip the back of her chair, looking down at her averted face. "This is what you feel?"

"This is what I know," she spat. "I regret every minute of my… association with you."

"If that's how you feel, I don't think there's anything I can say." He felt numbness stealing over him.

"There isn't." Tears started down her cheeks and Draco, in spite of everything, wanted to reach out. Wipe them away. Instead, he turned to go. There seemed to be nothing he could say.

Then he stopped and turned back. He would say one more thing. From his heart.

"I don't regret one second of our association."

Before he could see her response, he walked with lead feet to the apparition point and flashed away.

~oOo~

Hermione heard the crack of his leaving and collapsed on the grass, sobbing her broken heart into the soft earth. Eventually she dragged herself back to the cottage and into bed, but sleep never came for her.

The next morning, she rose woodenly as soon as the sun lightened the sky. Her mind was bleary and her body heavy, but she knew she had to make her farewells to the herd. An almost full pot of coffee didn't help her fatigue or her mental state, and she set off in an agitated, desolate frame of mind to say goodbye.

Rounding the path to the meadow, she stopped with a sharp inhale. A tall frame stood in the path, shoulders broad, fair hair glinting in the rays of the rising sun. He turned around at the sound of her breath and she had the strongest urge to run to him, fling herself into his arms, forget and forgive everything.

But she was trying not to be a fool.

He cleared his throat and stepped toward her. He had something in his hand. An envelope, thickly stuffed. She noted that his face was white and the hollows under his bloodshot eyes a deep purple. He held the parcel out to her.

"If you would do me the courtesy of reading this." His tone was formal.

Her hand went out, but her face must have shown reluctance, because he continued. "It's not an attempt to change your mind. You've made your feelings plain. But I would like a chance to explain."

She took the letter and held it in shaking hands. He took a small step closer, his eyes roving her face, but then stopped, stiffened, went cold. "You can apply to Theo, Lucretia and Daphne to confirm any of the facts within. Even Astoria is aware of what I've written and has given her strong consent, although I'd rather you not pursue further discussion of the contents with her."

Hermione felt her eyes widen. She nodded slowly.

He took a breath. "I'm leaving this morning so you won't be burdened with my presence as you finish your work here. I wish you all the best." He nodded once. "Good bye."

On these words, he turned and walked away without a backward glance.

Hermione heard the sharp crack of apparition after he rounded the bend in the path. Her heart gave a mighty ache and she sank down against a nearby fencepost, ripping at the heavy cream envelope to reveal what was inside: many sheets of thick paper, covered in his bold, now-familiar script.

She unfolded them and began to read.

Dear Hermione,

Please don't think that this letter will try to change your mind or your feelings. That is not my intent nor, after your words yesterday, is it my hope.

My only object is to provide explanation regarding three circumstances you laid at my door as the source of your or your friends' unhappiness and/or misfortune. I do this not just to clear myself of blame, but in the hope that I may alleviate some of the pain you may be feeling.

I will address them in order of importance—least to most. Namely: 1) Potter's investment scheme. 2) My conduct surrounding the Founders Ball, and 3) Jack Wickham's plight.

First, Potter's scheme. At the risk of angering you from the start, I'm going to be very honest and blunt about my feelings and motivations here.

I have thought from the beginning that Harry's plan stood on dubious ground. And I have voiced that opinion to Theo without reservation since we first were made aware of it.

I didn't have the chance—for various reasons—to review the prospectus closely until quite recently. And once I did, I made my objections to Theo more vociferously, and showed him supporting data from the document itself. He was certainly rattled by my findings, and that may well have been the reason he decided to pull his funds. That said, Theo is his own man and I do not control his actions. The decision not to invest was his alone.

I also consider the following information fairly beside the point since I stand by the above arguments on their own merits, but Theo did give me to believe—and I think believes himself—that Potter had numerous other investors willing to step in. Neither of us were aware that Theo's withdrawal would end the project.

But it remains that there were aspects of the plan—particularly the financials—that were highly unstable. In fact, I would be surprised if you had gone through it thoroughly and not seen them. I couldn't in good conscience recommend my friend to proceed on what could be such a ruinous course.

You are loyal to your friends and I am loyal to mine.

As for your assertion that I should have warned you in advance, perhaps you are correct. I can only point to my natural reticence and habit of not seeking counsel if I believe my course of action to be correct. Right or wrong, it's an ingrained custom. Further, I didn't see my advice to Theo as necessarily determinative. And finally, you and I had already had tense words that morning and I was reluctant to add anything that might distress you more deeply. I do apologize for that. It was cowardly.

So as for me being the source of Potter's unhappiness, I do not accept responsibility. While your devotion to your friend is admirable, I think it also serves to obscure what you know to be true and reasonable in this situation.

Second, The Founders Ball. I still feel that you would have been unhappy and uncomfortable there. But I now see—and in fact came to see all throughout Friday and Saturday—that the correct course of action would have been for me not to attend an event where you weren't welcome, despite whatever my mother would have said or done. I realise it's a moot point now, but I have resolved never to attend again.

As for Jonquil (Jonnie), as I tried to explain, she is a friend. And has been nothing but a friend for a very long time—excepting one week when we were both about 15. She's been engaged to a man called Alistair, who is a lying, cheating fuck, for over four years. But she won't leave him. No one quite knows why, although I'm sure Daphne could give you some theories.

But anyway, Jonnie has fallen into a pattern of coming to me for support when Alistair has done something horrible. I think because Daphne will no longer listen to her on the subject. The other newspaper picture you mentioned and Theo's party—those were similar times.

Last night (was it just last night?) at the ball, Jonnie was in a state. She'd actually walked in on Alistair with her flatmate. And when she'd rushed out to her parent's house, her mother forced her to get dressed and go to the ball, ostensibly to 'lift her spirits'. So I danced with her and comforted her, which was what the pictures captured. Blaise was actually there too—he was the one that flirted with her, made her feel better about herself.

We three left the ball early and went back to my flat to have a takeaway. I let her sleep on my sofa because she was drunk and didn't want to face her mother again. I gave her a shirt to sleep in because she couldn't manage to transfigure her ball gown properly.

You can ask Zabini about it if you wish—he stayed over too—although I don't know why anyone would trust him. And I can't speak for my mother and her daft comments. She's delusional when it comes to my love life and always has been.

But the reality of Jonnie doesn't trouble me as much as the implications behind your words. That is, that I didn't think we were in a relationship and that I was 'hiding' you in France.

I have no way to prove the following. I can't have you apply to Theo to confirm what's in my mind and heart, so you'll just have to believe me (or not) when I stress that those things are categorically untrue. The fact that I have to write this is deeply painful to me—because I realise that you must not have trusted me all along—although I do know I bear a good bit of responsibility for this.

Finally we come to the third part of this letter. Forgive me if my penmanship becomes less neat than what you've previously admired, but it's very late now and this is the most difficult for me to write.

Jack Wickham's circumstances. You may be surprised that I rank this accusation the most important. There are a number of reasons why, as you'll see. But I think the most personal to me is that if I had acted in the way Wickham represents, it would show me to have the most weak and callous of characters. Perhaps at this point I deserve the assumption, I no longer know.

Anyway, I read the section of the Prophet that you referred to yesterday and infer from that and your comments that you are convinced that I broke up Jack Wickham's engagement because I believe he isn't fit to marry a pureblood witch of my social class.

Before I relay the details of my association with him, I would like to categorically deny that assertion. I no longer have prejudices around marriage or any other association between muggles, muggle borns, half bloods and purebloods. I believe all magical and non-magical people to be equal. I certainly do not see you as beneath me in any way, as you implied.

As for Jack Wickham, I can't be sure of what exactly he told you, but I think it's probably some variation of the story that has followed him ever since he parted ways with my family a decade ago: that my father promised him something in return for a service or favor, that I was supposed to fulfill that bargain in light of my father's death, and that I didn't—due to some combination of blood prejudice, jealousy and pure spite—which left poor Wickham in straitened circumstances and stunted his chances at happiness and success.

Here is the true story, about which, if my word is insufficient to assure you, you may apply to Theo for confirmation of all details.

To first dispose of Wickham's version of the narrative, my father—never having possessed a generous or thoughtful nature—didn't promise him anything. In reality, Lucius barely noticed that there was another boy living at the manor.

My acquaintance with Jack was similarly slim. Before we went away to school, he spent half of each year in America and our schedules and activities during the remaining half were so different that we rarely saw each other. After he chose to attend Ilvermornay, we went years without meeting at all. I had quite forgotten about him when he showed up in the months after my father's death demanding money to pay gambling debts.

This was the first point at which I heard the tale about my father stipulating a grant or some sort of living for Jack. It didn't ring true to me at the time—as I said it would have been totally out of character for Lucius—but I also couldn't find a stick of evidence for any such agreement, nor could Wickham produce any.

However I did feel some responsibility to him—I think his upbringing must have been difficult in many ways. So I agreed to discharge his outstanding debts on the condition that he choose a muggle or wizarding career training or course of study, that I would pay for, and finish it. My motivations weren't entirely altruistic here—I wanted him self-sufficient so he'd stay out of my hair. He agreed readily enough and decided on a magical law apprenticeship in the States. I paid his debts and gave him the money for the program and his expenses in a lump sum (looking back, a severe error in judgment).

And then I forgot about him again—until he appeared a year later asking for more money. He wouldn't say what had happened to the first sum—only that the law didn't suit him and he now wanted to try muggle medical school. When I suggested that the only way I would agree to something like that would be if I were to pay the school directly, he stormed out.

I didn't see him again for another year. And I don't know what he was doing or how he lived, although I did hear rumours of more gambling and other unsavoury goings-on, often involving women.

My next contact with him was infinitely more painful. And it is of the most sensitive nature. No one knows what I am next going to relate except for the principals, Daphne, Theo, Lucretia and Minerva McGonnagal. I trust that you will keep it in the strictest confidence.

Last spring, I received an almost hysterical floo call from the Headmistress, informing me that Astoria was missing from Hogwarts. Daphne and I went immediately to Scotland and—to make a long and anguished story shorter— after a few days frantic search, found Astoria in a filthy flat in Glasgow…with Jack Wickham.

From what we came to understand, he had arranged an 'accidental' meeting between them in Hogsmeade around the start of term and had exercised his considerable charm. They'd started writing to each other. He persuaded her to sneak away to visit him a handful of times, eventually convincing her to leave school and elope.

Astoria is heiress to a considerable fortune of her own, you see. Although, I can't help but think that money wasn't Wickham's sole motivation. I believe he also did it to revenge himself on me—a belief which has caused me many sleepless nights. Not all of my nightmares are about the war.

When we found them they were as yet unmarried, but only because she had gotten cold feet and put him off. She had just turned 16.

The only reason that absolute cunt walks free is that Astoria insisted she went with him willingly, and any public airing of the story would devastate her even more. Despite realizing both things were true, it was very difficult for me to accede to her wishes. I nearly killed him the day that we found them. Sometimes I wish that I had. Sometimes I imagine—in great detail—that I did.

It took many weeks for Astoria to start speaking again, months for her to go out in public and I think you've noticed that she's still fragile. Not to mention that he ruined a place she loved and looked on as home, as I'm sure you'll deeply understand.

So now you'll perceive what kind of 'man' Jack Wickham is and why I met with Gladiola Sinclair to caution her strongly against an alliance with him. I'm deeply sorry I wasn't able to relay more of this earlier, because I think it contributed to your distrust of me—but I could not. Even now, I only reveal the story at Astoria's urging.

We come to the close, finally. I am very tired now, so please forgive me if the following makes no sense. But I think even if my explanations cast me in a perfect light—which I know they do not—that something was broken yesterday, by my conduct and your lack of trust.

And as I said at the beginning of this letter, I do not expect my words to change your feelings or to fix this—for either of us. But I hope they can put your mind a small bit more at ease, even if mine will remain restless, perhaps forever.

~DLM

The letter dropped from Hermione's hand, white pages scattering on green grass. Tears trickled down her face as she stared sightlessly ahead.

So much to take in.

After a moment, she started and looked down, almost frantically gathering up the pages, making sure they were still in order, undamaged, unstained. She folded them carefully and then almost immediately unfolded them, starting to read again.

She looked up as she finished the first section, blowing out her breath and wiping her damp eyes. He was really fooling himself here, thinking he hadn't influenced Theo enough to make him pull out of Harry's scheme. She pursed her lips as she re-read the sentence about his loyalties and hers.

Where was his loyalty to her? Even if there were flaws in the plan (and her inner voice whispered that she knew there were) why hadn't he come to her with his concerns instead of blowing everything up? Because he was naturally reticent? Please. And the whole part about not realizing that Theo's withdrawal would kill the project—totally disingenuous.

No, she still didn't buy his explanation here. Even if a tiny part of her did respect how unwavering he was.

She kept reading.

The Founders Ball. "Jonnie". Hermione sighed. She wanted to trust Draco here, she did. She didn't want to feel cheated on and tucked out of sight. She wanted to believe that he had danced with another woman—the pureblood heiress—at the exclusive ball to which he wouldn't take her—the muggleborn plebe—just because he was being supportive, and a bit obtuse. She wanted to believe that this woman came to him for friendly emotional support and comfort only. She wanted to believe that Jonnie walked out of his flat the next morning wearing nothing but Draco's shirt because he was just being a nice bloke.

She wanted to believe that he'd be proud to have her by his side.

Her brow furrowed. Could she let herself trust him in this? There was just no way to get proof—unless she had faith in Blaise Zabini, which, no, she really didn't.

Hermione's finger traced lightly across his words, "confirm what's in my mind and in my heart", and she closed her eyes, tears flooding them again.

It would have to be trust. In Draco.

She mentally shook her head, then pushed herself off the ground, needing to walk, move.

Her eyes skimmed the final part of the letter as she went down the trail, although it already felt like the words were burned in her brain. Poor Astoria. Hermione's heart absolutely broke for the girl. Her fists clenched—she wanted to physically harm that fuck, Wickham. She could totally understand Draco's fantasies about killing him. What kind of morally bereft animal…? Sixteen years old! A silent wave of magic actually surged from Hermione's body, ruffling the grass and shaking a few startled birds off a tree branch. She stopped and took a deep breath.

So, she obviously believed Draco here. Believed him unreservedly. Pictures flashed through her mind—Jack stroking her palm in the pub, Astoria being comforted by the herd, Wickham's face when he saw Draco in the alleyway. It all rang true. Hermione felt sick that she'd ever welcomed Wickham into her life, that she'd laughed with him, defended him. That she'd thought Draco was the lesser man in some ways.

If she had been wrong about this, had she been wrong about everything?

Well, not everything. He was still delusional about his role in the failure of Harry's project. Hermione started moving again. She needed to finish here—wrap up with the herd, say her goodbyes to Pen and Percy, get home to London and think about this.

Although his closing words rang ominously in her head.

Something was broken...

Hermione stopped again. Her hands stole up to her mouth and she gave an involuntary, wrenching sob.

Oh god, oh god, oh god, what had she done.