I don't own Harry Potter, blah, blah. Blah.

AN: OMG. *squees like a fangirl* This thing is ridiculously long, but it effing delivers. Oh, man, does it deliver. And no, Ginger love, Mella Potter is not replacing you. *sigh* But I have to have some back-up muses, don't I? ;)

When Draco was all done at the barn, he paused by the side doors and watched his father's sentry-like figure for a few quiet moments. Then, as the pails grew heavy in his hands, he hefted them up again and called out.

"Dad? I'm heading back. Coming?"

Lucius didn't respond and Draco knew that he was lost in his thoughts and, most likely, his guilt. Not that he truly believed his father had anything to feel guilty over, except perhaps those first early years under Voldemort. When he could have, and should have made different choices. But it was very difficult to shake one's upbringing. Nature versus nurture. Or perhaps what he and his family had gone through was closer to threat of death versus honorable intentions. He snorted and turned away, shaking his head slightly. There was nothing he could do for his father's twisted thoughts except continue to love him and be there for him; to make sure he knew that Draco would rather be dead than lose him again.

With a small, weary sigh, he started out of the barn, leaving Lucius behind him, still waiting and watching for someone who would never come back to either of them.

Out on the trail that wound its gentle way about her fields and hills, Hermione felt like she could think clearly for the first time in weeks. Her mind had been clouded by false scents, by the press of men's arms about her shoulders, by the weight of how much others were depending on her when she could barely depend on herself. In the last two weeks, her whole life had been upended and she'd taken it all without a word, and perhaps a bit more crying than normal. That wasn't entirely healthy, when it came down to it, she thought. She should have been having fits and throwing more dishes and putting her foot down when it came to her privacy and her knowledge. And instead she'd let herself be swayed from the very beginning. First, by Ginny and her therapist into signing on for the program in the first place; second, by Harry into allowing more spells into her home, filling her senses and pulling at her heart strings; third, by Lucius and Draco both by, well. Whatever it was they were doing. Worming their way into her heart and mind like the poor, pathetic strays they were. It made her angry, now that she thought about it all properly. She didn't need this, damn it! She didn't need the burden of their recovery on her head, or Ginny's issues, or Zabini's guilt. She didn't care about any of those things-

Echo began to prance nervously under her and Hermione sighed and forced the tension from her fingers and the reins.

"I'm sorry, girl," she murmured. "You've been so good this morning. I promised a ride, not a therapy session. You're right. Shh, easy, easy…"

Echo slowed and finally stopped, allowing Hermione to lean over her neck and stroke her skin, her mane. She whinnied a question and Hermione smiled.

"Of course. You're hungry now, aren't you? Come on, then. Let's head back. Thanks for putting up with me." Echo snorted and Hermione laughed. "Is that so? You want a run? Come on, faster, girl-"

And bunching herself up over the mare's neck, she said the word and Echo's haunches gathered and then propelled her forward like a flash.

Hermione felt the wind rushing past her face as she urged her horse forward, over the green hills and through the small stands of trees lining the trail. The sun flashed between the branches and she suddenly felt very alive and free. This is best, she told herself. This is always best…

Back in London, Ginny wandered out of her bedroom, her hair mussed and her eyes still squinting with weariness. But she hadn't been able to sleep any longer. Not with those dreams she'd been having of Harry, after their date the other night. He'd kissed her- they'd only kissed- and then…humph. Then she'd pushed him away and told him she needed to go home. But not because she still wanted a cigarette. No, his lips had stung hers and left her wanting more and that's why she'd had to go. Because no matter what her heart was telling her with its frantic beating; or her body was telling her with its slow heat; she wasn't ready to move on. Not all the way, not yet. And that's what her head had told her quite firmly, although his kisses had killed any desire for a cigarette. She couldn't smoke after that. Not when his earthy, spicy smell was all over her from his arms around her; and her mouth tasted like the mousse, ale and the cinnamon she would forever associate with him.

Of course, neither could she tell him about Zabini like Hermione wanted her to. Not when he'd held her so tenderly and clearly loved her so…what would it do to that new, fragile trust, to let him know that she'd been holding back important information? Would the mistrust fall back into place? Or would he understand her reasons? She somehow doubted it. So, it was much easier to ignore that little part of her conscience and just let him kiss her pleasantly, wiping her fears away until the morning when he was no longer there…

The last vestiges of her peace vanished, however, when she opened the kitchen door to find Zabini standing there, cooking something and looking quite upset.

"What's got you so pissed?" she grumbled and reached for the tea. She eyes it warily, wishing Zabini would make coffee, for once. Hermione knew how to make a good cup of coffee. Hermione…she sighed and set the mug back down and crossed her arms. Merlin, how she wanted to talk to her.

Zabini eyed her. "I'm hardly pissed," he remarked. "I heard you moving about and got up as well. I imagine it's just my natural morning face you're seeing right now."

Ginny tried not to gape at him. "Was that your attempt at a joke?"

He shrugged and then turned and dumped some ham and eggs onto a plate on the counter. "Those are for you," he said. "If you want them."

"You're learning to cook," she replied and picked at a piece of ham, sniffing at it carefully before taking a small bite.

"I got tired of your endless cold salads," he responded.

"I do make those an awful lot, don't I?" she said wryly. "Sorry."

"And I hate seafood," he went on. "So it was learn to cook some basics or go hungry."

"I didn't know you hated shellfish," she replied.

"Not just shellfish. Any kind of fish. Blech," he said and turned back to the stove. Ginny stifled a grin.

"So you're coming to terms with being here?"

"I hardly have a choice, do I?"

"That's true enough," she allowed. They were both quiet for a minute while Ginny ate and Blaise cooked. But his shoulders remained tense and after a few seconds he spoke again.

"That doesn't mean I like it here, or want to stay," he said. "I still plan on leaving as soon as I can."

"That's up to the Wizengamot," Ginny replied. "Not me."

"I know that," he said sharply. "But if…" His voice trailed off. Ginny decided to prod him.

"If what, Zabini?"

"If the Malfoys can do so well for themselves, why shouldn't I? That's what this system is in place for, right?"

Ginny raised her brows. "They're both recovering, but I never said they were doing well. Hermione hasn't any more idea what will happen to them than I do with you." She paused. "Or was that just your way of fishing for more information?"

He snorted. "Like I care what the Malfoys do."

"Oh, come off it. Of course you care. You prowl about my flat, listening in on every conversation, dropping mysterious hints about something you know- something to do with me and Hermione- and then you go asking about the Malfoys every chance you get. What is it, Zabini? What do they know about you that you don't want me to know about?"

"I have no idea-"

"Oh yes, you do," Ginny replied. "Don't think I didn't see they way you tensed up last week when I told you where I was going. The last thing you wanted me to do was spend time at Hermione's, chatting with the Malfoys. You're afraid of something, something they know that could hurt you. Well let me tell you this much," she hissed, shoving her plate out of the way and leaning over the counter, her brow dark with anger. "Whatever you know, I will find out, and I won't stop until I've dragged every last shard of truth from your broken body. Because you may think let bygones be bygones, and that your good behavior now pardons whatever your past sins may have been, but you're wrong. We deserve the truth. It's our right, damn you! Hermione and I have lived every day of the last eight years looking over our shoulders, scared out of our minds and with scars on our bodies that won't let us forget a single bloody thing. My own brother died because of what happened under the hands of those Death Eaters and so help me, if you had anything to do with it, anything at all, you're a fucking dead man, Blaise Zabini." She crowded his space and put her face inches from his. Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "A dead man," she hissed again.

Then, her body trembling with emotion, she turned and left the room. Blaise watched her go with wide eyes, his face contorted with something between anger and fear, himself. Only the smell of his breakfast burning to the bottom of the pan pulled him from his stunned position and he turned to attack it savagely with the spatula. The sound of a door slamming minutes later made him jump, and he looked to the kitchen door again, but the rest of the apartment remained quiet and quite empty for the better part of the day.

Somehow, he wasn't sure any longer if that was a good thing, or not.

Lucius leaned against the outside of the barn, wishing for the first time that rather than sulking about his wife he'd followed his son back to the house. The sun was fully risen by now and it was beating down upon his head and his legs, though much stronger than they'd been, were starting to feel stiff from all the standing. Still, he stayed where he was, waiting for…what?

Hermione crested the hill and he let out a small sigh. So. That was what he'd been waiting for. Proof she was alright, after all. He'd feel ashamed at his concern for her, except now he was quite aware that his son crept down the stairs every night to stand outside her door and listen for signs of life. If such dependence on her was good enough for his son, it was good enough for him, too. Besides, he owed her his life, such as it was, and his son's happiness. If that's what Draco's tentative smiles and sidelong glances at her meant.

Hermione pulled Echo up short of the doors and was about to dismount when she saw Lucius standing there, still leaning on his cane.

"Oh," she said. "Hello."

"Hello," he replied.

"Er…" She dismounted and gathered the reins, patting Echo's neck as she did. "That a good run, girl? Yes, you were wonderful. Oh, you're a beauty. Look at you."

She continued to croon at her as she led her just inside the doors and Lucius followed, leaning in the open doorway. He watched as she removed the bridle and slid a halter and lead on in its place, then began taking off the saddle and other accoutrements. She took a towel and wiped the mare down, then brushed her again, and checked her tail for burs. Lucius imagined it was very soothing work to the horse. He also could see why Hermione had taken to his condition so readily.

"I'm not much different from them, am I?" he asked and she turned, brush still in hand.

"Pardon?"

He smiled gently. "I said-"

"I heard you."

"Yes, I rather suspected you had."

She scoffed and then turned back to Echo, who started to toss her head and push against Hermione in impatience.

"Fine, you want to go out now? Alright, come on." Hermione led the cream colored horse back out of the barn and headed for the paddock. She didn't have to look behind her to know that Lucius had decided to follow and was struggling to keep up, despite his legs being longer than hers. The cane was slowing him down, she knew. With a small effort, she pulled the gate open, called to the other horses to stay put, and then led Echo inside. Then she walked back out and pushed the gate back into place. Lucius gave her a thoughtful look and she stared back at him.

"What?"

"You still have your helmet on," he said as he made his way to stand at the gate beside her.

"Oh-" She put her hand up, felt the headgear still sitting there and flushed. She started to reach up her other hand and deal with the chin strap, but Lucius stopped her.

Shocked her, really.

"Let me," he murmured, leaning his cane against the fence and reaching his own hands up. His fingers beneath her jaw were gentle; and if she felt her nerve endings alight where those long digits brushed her skin, she chalked it up to the adrenaline left over from the morning's ride. It had nothing to do with his proximity or the fact that she'd seen him nearly naked twice now, or run her own hands along his body.

Her breath came shorter and Lucius lifted the helmet away, sending her a strange glance as he did so. But instead of leaving it at that; he turned and balanced the helmet on a fencepost; then turned his hands back to her; smoothing out her hair where it had gotten stuck to the inside of the headgear and pulled free from her braid.

She couldn't tell if she was breathing at all, by that point, and her cheeks felt incredibly hot. Lucius was looking at her so seriously; really looking at her, and she suddenly felt as small and insignificant as she had that time second year, in the bookstore, when he'd turned that icy gaze on her…

Lucius tucked the last strand of wayward hair back down and behind her ear and he was just bringing his hand forward when his fingertips brushed that scarred half of her face. Her eyes fluttered shut at the touch and he hesitated.

He barely knew what he was doing- just that she'd looked so vulnerable as she'd stood there, fussing with her helmet; and he'd suddenly seen her as she'd been that night when he'd forced Zabini to lead him- himself and his wife- to that dark, abandoned cottage not far from their estate. He wanted to help her now as badly as he'd wanted to help her then. But how could he? He was a middle-aged man with a terrible past and even his attempt at helping her the first time had blown up so badly in his face.

He started to pull his hand away and Hermione's eyes flashed open as she reached up a hand and grabbed his, then held it to her face. There was a question in her eyes, but he had no idea what it was, or how to answer it. And then the light he'd seen in those brown orbs disappeared and she dropped his hand like it burned her.

She opened her mouth as if she wanted to speak, found she couldn't, and turned and started to walk away. But she stopped again, turned back and grabbed her helmet- ducking her head to hide her face from him- and finally walked off quickly, back to the barn.

Lucius looked down at his hands for a full second, momentarily lost. Echo stuck her head over the fence and nickered at him. He looked up at the horse and frowned. Echo bared her teeth. He stumbled some, then reached for his cane and started away before the mare could let him know what she really thought of him.

Echo looked after him, wondered why he hadn't offered her any carrots, and then, with a toss of her head, pranced off to join the other mares.

Hermione paused just inside the door of the barn, then stumbled further forward when she heard the clunk-thump rhythm of Lucius' steps behind her. She rounded the corner and rested for a minute against the nearest stall, feeling the comforting nudge of another horse's nose against her neck and the solid wood beneath her fingers as she let the helmet thunk to the floor. She turned and stepped into the stall, wrapping her arms about the filly's neck and burying her face in the hay-scented mane.

"Oh, god," she muttered. "I'm such an idiot. What is wrong with me?"

The horse didn't have any answers, but neither did Hermione. If she wasn't having inappropriate feelings for Draco, then she was having them for his father. Was it just that she missed human contact? Was that it? Or was it that she specifically missed having a man to hold, to bury her face in his neck and let him run his fingers through her hair? She'd thought that part of her was long dead. After all, she'd never been able to let Ron hold her that way again- not that he'd been able to bring himself to want to, either. And those few times with Harry had been more accidents born of necessity than anything else, like real attraction, or chemistry. And yet just now, with such an innocent touch, she felt like her whole face was aflame and that she'd been this close to his touch igniting the rest of her.

She felt like a wanton, disgusting slag of a woman. She nuzzled the filly, who nuzzled her in return, and inhaled more deeply. Anything to get the smell of that aftershave out of her nostrils. She was so lost in her thoughts and shame that she didn't notice the sound of approaching footsteps, or their corresponding taps of a cane.

The hand fell on her shoulder with great gentleness, but it scared the living daylight out of her anyway; in turn frightening the horse, who whinnied and pranced away; leaving her sprawled in the hay and scrambling away from whatever beast it was who was after her.

"Miss Granger," Lucius said, leaning heavily on his cane and stretching out a hand. "I apologize. It's only me."

Her breath caught and she started to take his hand, only to remember what his touch had done to her before. Color flooded her face and she pulled her hand back, then covered her face and leaned against the wall of the stall, still sitting there in the straw. The filly sniffed at Lucius, who reared back some, but gingerly let the horse inspect him anyway. Then she leaned over and sniffed at Hermione, nudging her again. Hermione reached her hand up to the horse's mane and pet her a few times, one hand still covering her eyes.

Finally, after several seconds of silence, and once her breathing had evened again, she put a hand to the wall and stood up. She pet the horse again, but didn't look to Lucius.

"Miss Granger-"

"I rather think we've moved past that, haven't we?" she said quietly.

"Hermione, then."

She dared look at him, give him a timid smile. His grey eyes- just like his son's, only far more sad- peered at her steadily in the dim light of the stall.

"I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Are you looking for my forgiveness? For such a mundane act?" she asked snidely and he inclined his head.

"I suppose not. But for all my other sins, yes. I dare ask your forgiveness."

"Other sins? You mean trying to kill me and my friends time after time? Defecting like cowards, only when it was clear your side was losing?"

Lucius looked pained, but he tried to straighten his shoulders. "Yes."

Hermione favored him with a long look before she spoke.

"I don't care about those things."

"Then what do you care about?"

She pursed her lips, looked away again.

"What do you know about me?"

It was his turn to stand silently and he leaned his head back against the wall, casting it into shadow. She prompted him again and he only lowered his eyes to hers, then looked away again.

"Is it important?"

"You thought it was important enough to tell me to stay away from Zabini. It was important enough to pull you out of your coma and force you to deal with your pain."

"You're the one who's making me deal with that," he corrected her quietly and she dared take a step towards him.

"That's right. And now it's your turn. If you really want to pay me back, to make up for everything, you'll tell me what you know. I haven't wanted to push you, but you seem well enough, in all honesty. So what is it? Tell me. I deserve to know."

"Yes, you do," he murmured. "But I'm not sure you really want to know…Hermione."

"I do," she replied, taking another step. "I'm a grown woman. And yes, it's going to be painful, and messy, the truth coming out after all this time, but it's better than this half life we're all living. Isn't it? Isn't the truth always better?"

"No," he replied quite simply. "It isn't. But I suppose if you want to know it, then I've no right to keep it from you."

"No," she shot back, "you don't. You don't have any rights."

Another pained look crossed his face and he grimaced. Hermione immediately felt bad.

"That came out wrong," she said. "I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant," he responded, gritting his teeth. A wave of pain overtook him and his knees gave out, leaving him staggering; trying to gain his footing with his cane, that slipped and slid on the straw of the stall floor. Hermione moved forward and caught him under his arms and he sagged against her for a moment as the pain passed, leaving a dull ache behind.

"I thought that was getting better," she muttered, struggling to keep him upright. "You've been on your feet half the morning though, haven't you? Damn it, Lucius-"

"I'm fine-" he tried to rasp out, but winced even as she propped him up against the wall, holding him there with her body; while she grasped at the hand holding his cane, tightening his fingers about it.

"You're not bloody fine, you big ninny," she responded and felt him give a gasping laugh. The motion of his chest heaving against hers, his stomach muscles rippling with laughter, sent all sorts of strange feelings sparking down her body. But he still wasn't standing and she couldn't back away-

His hand came up to her face again, brushing the ruined skin there.

"You didn't have these, before," he breathed and she frowned, tried to pull her face away, but realized that she couldn't without also letting him slide to the ground. And it was best to wait out the damned cramps.

Fuck.

"No," she replied. Might as well make some bloody conversation. Maybe then he'd be more willing to talk. And it wasn't exactly a secret that she had those facial scars, was it? "Gave them to myself," she grunted, wedging a leg between his to better support him. "Do you think you could make it out to a bench?" she asked.

He groaned in pain again and tried to move. He shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. Just let me-"

"Damn it, there's a young horse in here with us, Lucius, and she's very sweet tempered, but it's a bad idea to just let you lie here where she could trample you."

"Not such a bad idea, surely?" he managed to ask and she frowned and would've smacked him if she'd had an extra hand. He saw her face and looked away, rolling his eyes upwards before squeezing them shut again. "Why?" he asked and it took her a minute to realize what he meant.

She wanted to drop him and leave him there to rot with that question. More than she'd ever wanted to murder her therapist for dragging the truth from her. But it's healthy, her therapist's voice said mockingly in her head. It's healthy to tell the truth.

The truth could go to hell in a hand basket right then.

"Does it matter?" she retorted as another cramp passed.

"It- matters-" he gasped in return and when she met his eyes, she knew he meant it. Whatever else he'd done or seen, he meant that much.

She made sure she stared him straight in the eye when she told him. It was the only way to make sure they believed you.

"Because every day and every night for five and a half months, Death Eaters tortured Ron until he was too weak to resist the Imperious curse; and then sent him in to torture me, because they didn't want to dirty their own hands by touching my filthy, mudblood flesh. And after it was over, he'd come to himself and hate himself and beg me to forgive him and say that he was glad that at least he'd known me enough not to touch my face. At least he could still see me, looking out at him from the beautiful face he loved," she said, so intent that she didn't notice that the cramping had finally passed; and that Lucius lay against the wall, body inert beneath hers as she pressed against him.

"And so I endured," she went on, her voice breaking. "Because I loved him and I thought, if we can get through this, if we can just get through this, then we'll make it. We'll be able to make it anywhere. And it was better, wasn't it, that it was him doing those things to me, than the two strangers who pet Ginny and pretended she was their personal, pureblood toy. And I thought we had made it, you see," she said. Tears gathered in her eyes, even as her face was set and hard. "We escaped and we received treatment and we even moved in together. But he never touched me again. Not that way. Not the way I wanted him to. And finally I woke up one morning and found that he'd hung himself during the night." Her face crumpled and she finally broke eye contact with him, lowering her head and laying it against his chest. He dared to move and reached one hand up to rest it gently on her back.

"He killed himself!" she said again, her voice muffled, but no less heartbreaking. "And what did I have left, but mindless days of wondering why, until Harry finally decided I deserved to see the note he'd left, that I'd missed in my panic, in my grief, and the aurors had collected…" Her voice trailed off and sobs took its place.

"And what did it say?" Lucius asked, not looking at her, his voice quiet, his hand warm and reassuring.

"It said that he couldn't live with it all anymore, knowing that even though I looked the same, I wasn't, not really. And that he'd given me those scars that he couldn't see, but knew were there just the same. And he said he hoped that with him gone, that one day my insides would heal to match my face, because he thought I was still beautiful, despite it all, and he loved me, so he had to leave in order to save me."

There was a long silence, punctuated by a few shuddering sobs. Lucius laid his head back against the stall's wall and wasn't surprised to feel the tears streaming down his cheeks.

Hermione spoke once more. "I had a few weeks of peace after that," she admitted. "Where I planned out quite calmly what I ought to do. I was going to kill myself, too, you see. But I missed Ginny's owl telling me she was planning on coming over that night. So she found me, marking myself up in the bathroom, blood all over the tiles. It really felt quite lovely," she finished in a whisper. "Before the reality and the pain set in. It was like…I'd finally let something go."

Her sobs wore into quiet gasps and Lucius felt her shift against him, no doubt trying to wipe her face, her nose. His fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt.

He rather thought Ron sounded like a bloody ponce. But then again, he'd seen him, too, that night. Knew he was just as defeated as the others. Not even Draco had known that kind of desperation under the tutelage of Voldemort. Not even he, himself had known it. And yet, to leave Hermione, a woman he claimed to love, to deal with those sorts of memories by herself and the added guilt of Weasley's suicide…

His hand jerked on her shirt and she lifted her head.

"What can I do?" he asked.

She froze, her eyes full of pain and he inclined his head towards her, as if getting closer to her lips would let him hear her thoughts.

"Tell me," he said. "Please."

She came back to herself and realized the episode was past; and that they were firmly entangled with one another; pressed to the wall of a stall in which a filly was watching them with great interest. She shook her head slightly.

"Nothing. Except tell me the truth."

"And that will make things better?" he asked searchingly, his eyes boring into hers.

"No," she admitted, her voice hoarse from the tears. "Probably not. But at least we'll know."

Things besides the smell of horses and hay and sweat began to creep past both their noses- his aftershave, her shampoo and body wash. His hand tightened on the roll of fabric at her back and they stared at each other for a very long second.

"Lucius-" she began, meaning it to be a warning, but it came out more breathy than she'd intended; and she only had a split second of seeing his pupils dilate and his eyes narrow; before she realized what was about to happen.

AN: Evil Margot is evil. *rubs hands together*