A/N: Deeply sorry for the lengthy wait on this one, guys! Life happened, as it has the tendency to do. Luckily, I have such devoted readers to spam my tumblr inbox to remind me that it's cruel to leave people hanging. Thanks for being patient, and I hope this chapter makes up for the wait!


Chapter 11

"Hermione… you know you don't have to keep doing this, right? Everyone would understand. You don't have to do anything you don't want to, anymore."

Harry fidgeted on the grass beside her, sliding his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. Across from them, two Ravenclaws passed, pausing their hushed conversation to give Hermione a quick look of pity, before continuing on their way, huddled closer than before.

"It's just…" Harry trailed off, quietly. "Nobody would blame you if you stepped down for awhile."

Hermione didn't look at him. She kept her eyes straight ahead, concentrating on a dark and looming cloud in the distance. Despite the chill, there had been a smattering of sunshine today, which explained why everyone had gathered in the grass and courtyards.

It was her first time stepping outside of the castle since the incident, so the looks and murmurs of surprise that erupted amongst her peers at the sight of her were unsurprising. If her scandal before hadn't labeled her a victim, the visceral announcement of her new status as an orphan during the Welcome Back Ball had certainly done the trick.

"There is no stepping down for 'awhile,' Harry," she said curtly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Harry's fingers freeze on the blade of grass he had absentmindedly been playing with. She spoke on, a little bit gentler this time. "McGonagall talked to me about it. I've considered it, and… I know what I'm doing. At the beginning of the year, I made a commitment to my Head duties, and I intend to keep it." She turned to him and laid her hand on top of his, briefly. "But thank you for your concern."

Harry nodded, unconvinced. A mere month ago, this would have caused her to worry. In the past, one of the main characteristics of her life had been worrying over the lives of others – Draco, then Harry and Ron, then her parents. Now she felt nothing. Even her attempts at trying to cover up the nothingness, trying to feign some kind of echo of who she used to be, were skeletal and pathetic. She saw it in the faces of everyone around her – the sorry looks, the constant observing stares of those who were all waiting for her to crack, to violently lose her cool in the middle of class, or even mid-step in the halls. She didn't want to give them the satisfaction, the horror, another spectacle to tack onto her circus show.

These days she tried to remember the meaning of strength – or, at least, the shadow it had imprinted on her past life. She had always prided herself in her ability to keep her sights on the things that mattered, in her eagerness to fight on, to hope against all odds.

But that had been before loss, before her life had been gutted in front of the entire world. An entire lifetime before she realized that she knew so much less than she had ever feared.

ooo

It was McGonagall who talked to her about her options, with a watchful Madam Pomfrey alongside her. They were worried about trauma. They even suggested stepping down from her position as Head Girl, although were unsurprised when she told them she didn't want to change a thing. McGonagall understood without having to be told that if Hermione lost every bit of routine and normalcy in her life, even the most unprofound parts, there was no knowing what would happen to her. She needed the distraction. She needed every semblance of motivation and purpose she could possibly salvage from the rubble. She needed a reason, any reason, not to fall apart.

Hogwarts was under heightened security now. Specialized investigators from the Ministry had lingered around the corridors for a few days after the incident, trying to dig up what they could about the case – who the culprits were, whether there was an accomplice within the school, how they could have passed through Hogwarts' security, and whether the Death Eaters were involved. They found out very little, aside from two things: there hadn't been a Dark mark present at the scene, which made Death Eater involvement unlikely; and secondly: that Draco Malfoy had tentatively been cleared as having anything to do with the death of her parents.

There had been no real funeral for her parents. Because of safety precautions, she hadn't been allowed to attend. Cowardliness and the sheer lack of any genuine humanity made the attendance of the members of Pureblood High Society scarce, if any. The scandal of their Muggleborn daughter had black-marked them. That was one thing Hermione had never had any illusions about, concerning the people her parents invited to their parties: how easy it was for them to throw people away once they had used up all they could from them.

It was on a Wednesday, after her classes, that she had snuck out of Hogwarts to her parents' grave. She did this against the strong advisement of her Head of House and all upper tier of faculty – but due to her situation, she was allowed a few passes. She had a time limit outside of Hogwarts and McGonagall tracked all of her visits. Still, they were being graciously lax with her, and she appreciated that.

She sat down by their marble tombstones and closed her eyes. The grass was damp against her legs, soaking through her robes. She knew from the bite in the air that it would start snowing soon.

The truth was that it still didn't feel real. Even though she had seen the bodies of her parents, sat through the meetings discussing her parents' will and accumulated assets, worn her hand raw from signing parchment after parchment… It still felt like it was just one very long nightmare that she was waiting to wake up from. Perhaps this was just how it was with tragedies: they always felt too sad to be real.

"You shouldn't be here."

She opened her eyes to see him standing a few feet away from her. Despite the mind-reeling influx of information she had received about him after the incident, she was still shocked to see him here. Perhaps because even after everything had changed, he had still acted like nothing had. Even now, he was a master at pretending, and it sickened her.

She fought the urge to both bury his face in the ground and force him to hold her while she cried her brains out. "Fuck off," she said.

His face stayed completely neutral. Uninvested. Sometimes she wondered when he'd stopped being a human being and started being nothing but a wall.

She missed him. She hated him. She envied him. How glorious it must be, not to feel.

"It isn't safe. They'll be expecting you to visit your parents' graves. It's beyond likely they'll set up a trap for you here."

She glared at him. "Well, I'm still here, aren't I?"

For the first time since the night of the ball, she saw something: a rare ripple of emotion across his face. He clenched his jaw. "I don't think your parents would approve of your complete disregard of life after what they've done for you, Blackwell."

She blinked at him. Then she stood up, taking a step to steady her wobbly knees. "What they've done for me? You mean died for me? You mean kidnapped, tortured for hours on end, then finally killed – only to have their mangled bodies strung up in the Great Hall to traumatize an entire generation of unwitting children? Is that what you mean?" She took one step closer to him, one hand clamped around her wand. "Or do you mean what you've done for me?"

He just stared at her, his entire being rigid. Like stone.

She actually wanted to toss her head back and laugh. Revel in the power she had now, because she rarely ever had it – an advantage. Especially around him. It was her turn now. To twist his guts, to be the tumor in his brain. It felt good not to be the victim – even if just for a moment.

She smirked at him. And then, without another word, she Apparated out.

She had just crossed the common room when she heard the portrait door swing open behind her, and before she knew it, he had grabbed her arms and spun her around. Her hands were shaking down at her sides. She silently prayed that he wouldn't look down and notice.

"Don't touch me," she hissed. But her voice was full of water, and when he touched her, it pulled her back into a place she had tried for so long to banish from her mind. That place doesn't exist anymore. Vow or not, he made sure of that. He destroyed it.

She caught an image of him in that dark, abandoned building. I wouldn't have called you here if I wasn't sure.

"What do you know?" he breathed. His face was flushed and his eyes were searching her.

She hoped her face was a locked door. "Everything."

He let her go with such force that she stumbled backwards. She could already feel the bruises forming on her arms where he had held her, and while he cursed at everything in the room, she furiously took those steps back to him and swung her hand against his face.

The crack of her palm making contact with his skin was enough to make her ears ring. But as she stood there, watching him, the side of his face already glowing from her hit and his eyes dark from rage, she knew that he had seen this coming. He could have stopped her, easily. His reflexes were far more advanced than hers could ever be. But he hadn't.

Perhaps this was his way of atoning. She imagined he was used to it, after having had Lucius for a father.

"Why'd you do it?" she asked him. She tasted salt in her mouth, and it was only then she realized that she had begun to cry. The scene before her shook from where she stood. "Why, Draco?"

It was the only why out of the million raging multitude of whys that she could iterate outside of her head. She could hear one in particular, booming above the rest: Why me?

"Because," he said.

She heard it this time, underneath the splitting ice: pain. She recognized it because she had once heard it in her own voice when she talked to him; it was the kind of pain that weeded its way through every word, every gesture.

"It's the only thing I can give to you. Do you understand that?"

Something inside her crumbled. How could it be so much, yet still so little?

She blurrily glanced down at his forearm, obscured by his sleeve. "So it's true, then. Everything they've said about you."

He kept his eyes on her. He looked so much older than the Draco she knew. Haunted. Heavy.

"No," he said to her. "Not yet."

She knew what he was telling her. This was his path. He was not going to apologize for the torment he had inflicted on her in order to protect her, in order to make sure he would save her life. And nothing – nothing was going to change. Not now. Not in the way that she hoped. We play, or we die.

She wiped her eyes against her sleeve. "You're wrong, you know," she said to him. "You've got it all wrong. I'm not the one who needs saving. I never was."

This time, it was her. She got what she wanted.

She left him standing in the common room, alone.

ooo

It was six minutes until her sixteenth birthday, and she was worried he wasn't going to show up.

She sat by the lake, watching the moon, trying her hardest not to picture him snogging some girl in his room, unaware of the time. She knew it was silly to still hold onto these traditions as they were getting older – not to mention they were getting increasingly inconvenient to uphold – and was already trying not to hold it against him so much, in case he really didn't show up. But sixteen was a big year, wasn't it? He could at least show up, this one last time.

It was two minutes to midnight when she saw him: a tall figure running towards her, sprinting across the grass.

He was breathing hard when he reached her. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Blackwell, I made it," he said, in between deep breaths. He took the seat next to her. In the light of the moon, his smile dazzled her. "I always bloody do."

On her seventeenth birthday, she waited, like she always did, by the lake. She waited on the miniscule hope that despite it all, he would still come. Even if it was just for a few minutes. Even if it was just for one tradition. Even if, afterwards, they had to pretend it never happened.

But he didn't, just like that night in the Astronomy Tower – the day her true birth had been leaked to the press. He didn't show up. And it was then she realized the power of expectations. Of hope. How they carried you up so high that when you fell – and you always did – you fell so hard, you shattered.

ooo

"They've found another body," Harry said grimly, putting down the paper as they sat together in the Great Hall. All around them, faces were ducked behind copies of today's Daily Prophet, platefuls of food hardly touched. "That makes six bodies in two weeks."

Hermione skimmed the details of the paper. Since her parents' murder, more bodies had been discovered – killed, tortured, and publicly hung in the same grotesque manner. It turned out that her parents were not special; no, they were just the beginning. The latest victims had also been known to be so-called "Muggleborn sympathizers." Other than that, however, connections between the victims were yet to be found, according to the Ministry.

"Do you really think it's got nothing to do with Death Eaters?" Ron asked.

Hermione shook her head. "Death Eaters brand their killings. They're proud of it; they want people to know it's them. It's basic fear mongering. But these killings have never had a Dark Mark anywhere near them."

She turned the paper over and pretended to be hungry to distract herself from the looks people still gave her. From strangers they were tolerable, but from her friends? They were practically unbearable.

"A sister club, then?" Seamus suggested.

Before they were excused from the Great Hall, Dumbledore made another announcement reminding students about the recent security measures and enforced curfews. For safety, Hogsmeade trips were canceled until further notice. She could feel the tension in the air as everyone emptied out into the halls afterwards, whispering among themselves; as if the nightmare hadn't already been too real, having breached Hogwarts' security during the ball, it seemed as if it was getting more and more apparent that no one was safe. She could feel the growing fear all around, and even worse: could sense the rift it was starting to cause within her peers. If mere affiliation with Muggleborns was what was getting these people killed, what did it mean for the rest of them?

If the Ministry didn't find the culprit soon, they would all be in danger of eating each other alive.

"Better watch your back, Blackwell," Pansy called out from behind her, as she weaved through the other students in the hall. "I hear this is all your fault. Made a mockery of us pure bloods and now you've gone and made someone very angry. You might as well have just killed your own parents, from the looks of it."

Her words rebounded off the walls, and she could feel every single body surrounding them still, watching. Waiting. When she looked up, Pansy had wormed her way to her, arms crossed with her wand peeking out of her right hand. Millicent and another Slytherin girl flanked behind her, mirroring her look of smugness and disgust.

"I, personally, can't wait until they eradicate your filth," Pansy was saying, when Hermione drew her wand, pointing it straight at her throat.

She could feel the temptation raging in her pulse. Go ahead. Hex her back to hell where she belongs. She could feel the blackness starting to ooze in from around her. Her parents. Dead. Tortured. Pansy, laughing.

"Go ahead, Head Girl," Pansy taunted, smiling. "I'd love to see what they'd do to you once you've been expelled from this school. Not that we're safe in here, anyway, but I can take one guess at whose body they'll find next." She giggled. "Oh, what a tickling little thought."

Suddenly, somebody stepped in between them. It was the glint of his badge that brought her back, and caused her to slowly lower her wand. With her rage barely webbing away, she couldn't even muster up any shame for her conduct, but she knew what Pansy was trying to do. It was such a petty way to win, and she couldn't play into her hand.

"Parkinson, get to class," he snapped. "The same goes to all of you bystanding Neanderthals. You have three seconds to empty this hall before I give each and every one of you cockroaches detention."

That did the trick. Everyone, including a sneering Pansy, fled the hall like spilled marbles on the floor. Hermione didn't stay to bask in the light of his convenient Head Boy behavior.

"Blackwell—"

She was already halfway down the corridor. "You can both go straight to hell."

ooo

The truth was that she hardly knew how to negotiate what she knew about Draco now and the Draco that had made her life a living hell for the past two years. She could barely bring herself to think about what it all meant. Every night, she replayed that memory she'd found in his pensieve in her mind, watched him bind himself to her life with a single spell, over and over again. To think that his cruelty to her had been a necessity and she had torn herself apart over it. Had it tortured him to treat her that way? Or had some part of it – the anger, the betrayal – been real, too?

She avoided him now even more than ever before. Every time she looked at him, she felt an unsettling jumble of anger, guilt, confusion, and pain. He looked at her with less feigned disdain, just more distance. That only made it worse.

He was waiting for her in the common room.

"Pansy was right, you know."

She stopped in her step as the portrait shut behind her. "Oh yeah? Which part? The part where I might as well have killed my own parents myself? Or the part where she said my filth should be eradicated?"

He ignored her. "You're a target and it'd bode well for you not to pull tricks that'll get you expelled from the one place that could possibly protect you."

"Protect me?" she scoffed. "As far as I know, what's a few more enchantments and walls? It'll slow them down, sure, but the ending scene's the same. I might as well tack a bow on my head and tattoo Congratulations on my face."

He sneered at her. "You can't possibly be this idiotic and careless."

"Right, because out of everyone, you'd be the expert on my personal development."

Suddenly, he stood up and made his way to her. Up close, she could see the signs. His collar was crumpled at the tips, his tie was loose, and his hair was slightly disheveled from running his fingers through it, over and over again.

"Lick your wounds sometime else," he snarled. "There's a reason all of this is happening, and the minute you're distracted by your paltry emotions is going to be the last minute of your life."

"Newsflash, Malfoy," she said, her voice low, "we're not all like you. We can't just pretend we don't feel anything. We can't just make our emotions disappear when we want them to."

He shook his head, laughing bitterly to himself. "Un-fucking-believable. You're missing it. Danger's all around you, and all you can think about are feelings. I thought you were smarter than this, Blackwell. Or at least that your brains – that you so pride yourself on – would trump your overbearing sentimentality."

"Fuck you," she spat. "You heartless piece of shit."

"Heartless?" he bellowed. He grabbed her, hissing through his teeth. "Let me tell you something, Blackwell – drag you out of that little dream world of yours, where apparently mere feelings can convince evil to slither back into its dark little corner. My world tells me that my feelings don't matter, and they never will. Because feelings don't change history, Blackwell. Feelings don't end wars. But blood? Bodies stacked upon bodies upon bodies? Those end them. So I can't think about my feelings for you, no matter how much they fucking plague my every thought," he spat at her. "Because thinking about them won't keep either of us alive."

And then he let her go, as if it hurt him to touch her. As if it hurt to be that close.

Except this time, she knew better.

Maybe it actually did.


Please review! (Unless your fingers have been blown off due to internally combusting from all the angst. I totally understand.)