Title: The Misfortunes of Virtue
Author: Winter Ashby (rosweldrmr)
Disclaimer: Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling & Misfortunes of Virtue (title only) were written by the Marquis de Sade in 1787 (more notes about the literary allusions in the footnote of the last chapter)
Rating: M (for language and adult themes)
Summary: Draco steals away in the dead of night on orders from the Dark Lord to either kidnap or kill Hermione. But who is he really loyal to?
Timeline: Post 'The Half-Blood Prince' Some incorporated plot of 'Deathly Hallows'
Warning: Major Character Deaths! Inferi!Character, Necromancism: controlling the dead (NOT necrophilia), strong language, violence, blood, gore, & DH spoilers
Authors Note: A little peak into Hermione's mind. A short chapter this time.

Part Six
Necessity of Reliance

Draco stayed at the castle a long time.

It was completely empty, except for one room on the third floor that Hermione never slept in. She had her trunks and books and every worldly possession she still had, he suspected, but she wouldn't sleep there. Instead, he'd find her on in the morning, asleep on a tapestry she tore from the wall. Or in front of the fireplace in the den on the ground floor. Once he found her in the kitchen, slumped over the counter, her cheek pressed against the cold granite.

She didn't seem to mind that he stayed. In fact, he hardly thought she noticed. She was always on her way out, to some secret meeting. And Draco would sit in her room, read her books, and wait for her to come back so the unease in his chest could finally dissipate.

Even though, most of the time he pretended he didn't feel a thing.

He blamed the vow, mostly.

He had long since outworn his welcome at the Order, having failed to save The Chosen One's best friend, he thought it more prudent to stay in the relative safety of the secluded castle. It wasn't much different than those first few months had been, when he living in Perpetual Darkness and curled up on himself for warmth. Except now, he watched as she turned in, folded herself up over her broken heart and watched, helplessly, as she turned colder with each passing day.

She was hollow and shattered, just the way Draco felt. But instead of draw her closer as perhaps he should have done, it disgusted him to see his own weaknesses reflected in her. He hated when she was away, because then he couldn't watch her sleep, as he had become accustom to doing. But when she was back, he felt even more useless than before.

Unable to help her, unable to stop her from crying in her sleep; He held his tongue and dreamt of killing Travers and Yaxley more slowly than he had.

And when she did come back, they didn't really talk. They just let the silence grow between them, full of unspoken words. Until one morning, he woke up on a couch he'd claimed as his, and she was on the floor next to him.

"What're you doing?"

She yawned and stretched, but she still looked just as tired as she always did. "I was sleeping."

"Why don't you sleep in your own room and leave me the hell alone?" he didn't mean it, not really. He didn't really mean much of anything he said now-a-days.

"I can't sleep there." She rubbed her eyes and sat up, a black cloak draped over her knees. She'd been using it as a blanket. It wasn't hers; hers had a ridiculous SPEW button. The one she was using as a blanket was his. He recognized it because it had a Slytherin patch and a prefect badge that just never seemed right to take off.

"Why not? It's your room?" he didn't really want to be that angry. It was just easier than feeling sorry for her, and that pitiful face she was making. He didn't take his cloak back, even though he wanted to. He didn't want to touch her grief, he was afraid he might start crying again.

"You know why." She brushed her hair out of her face.

"No, I don't."

"Because, that's where Ron and I used to sleep." He knew it was coming, he knew that was the reason she was gone so often and still, he couldn't stop himself from reacting. He should have been like stone, immovable by something so devastatingly insignificant. But he wasn't. He was soft, and malleable, and bent at the edges when she spoke about the man he saw die with that soft, wistful tone.

"He's dead."

"I know that! But it doesn't mean I have to sleep there. This is my house and I can sleep wherever the bloody hell I want!" She didn't look nearly as sad as she had before. He always did like her better when she was angry.

"Suit yourself." And he stood, to leave her alone with her misery.

"Draco," the way she said his name… it was like she was dead inside, nothing but old memories that haunted her in her sleep. It was just the way he felt. "Did he… did Ron say anything, before…"

"No. He didn't have time." Draco stood, stretching out his back and looked down at her. She seemed smaller than usual this morning. "I should leave."

"You don't have to." She sounded smaller each time she spoke and it was getting harder and harder to pretend that he didn't want to touch her, slap her, tear her apart from the inside to make all those pathetic emotions disappear.

After a moment, she held up her hand, palm-side up. He looked at it strangely, unsure of what it meant, or what she wanted him to do with the appendage.

"You could stay. Harry likes knowing where you are without having to see you. And at least, the castle doesn't seem so alone." He watched her rationalize, out loud, the reasons she'd fooled herself into thinking was the purpose behind her gesture.

"I can't stay forever." He touched her hand, wrapped his own around hers, his fingers sliding over her skin. She was cold. He wanted her to be warm. Whenever he'd imagined touching her, she was always warm. The cold only made him feel more like a mockery of what she should have been.

But she smiled. It was small, and he could tell she didn't really mean it. It didn't reach her eyes and she looked away before the ghost of it was even gone from her face.

"What else does Potter say about me, these days?" He chided and made sure to sound arrogant.

"That you're a hero." She stood, still holding his cloak and turned her back to him. She moved her wand and there was a fire roaring in the hearth. The oranges and yellows of it made her brown hair glow.

He preferred to look at her by firelight. He forgot he hated her then, because she looked so ethereal no one would ever assume she wasn't a pureblood.

How will Draco react to the tentative cohabitation that begun to take root? Will this truce last long enough to get them through the war? Tune in next time for Part Seven: Collapse of Decadence.