Chapter Two - ''What makes resisting temptation difficult for many people is that they don't want to discourage it completely.'' Franklin P Jones.

Hermione sighed and tossed her bag onto the sofa. Reaching up, she pulled the clip out from her hair and let her curls cascade down around her shoulders. She felt so drained. It was two days since she had stormed away from Draco, and she was hoping that tonight would be the night that she would be able to get a full night's sleep. Sobbing the nights away had left her feeling wrung out; as though she wasn't a person any more, just a dried-up little husk. Every time that she thought she had managed to cry out every poisonous emotion that was dragging her down, a new wave would rush at her and sweep her under again. Daisy had tried to get her to talk about what had happened but she had just shaken her head tersely and said that it hadn't gone as planned.

She breathed in deeply, refusing to give in so early in the evening. She would hold out until she was in bed, she told herself, when the dark enveloped her and muffled her tears. Just as she was moving over to her small kitchen and wondering whether she wanted a proper meal or whether toast would be enough, there was a tapping at the window and Pigwidgeon was there.

Letting him in, Hermione sighed at the scroll he was carrying. It would mean an invitation that would drag her away from a night spent crying in her little flat, which suddenly seemed a very pleasant option. Unrolling the parchment, she scanned her eyes over the blocky scrawl.

Hermione, come over to Harry and Ginny's tonight – they've promised to order in pizza.

Ron

Hermione rolled her eyes. Pizza? That was his winning gambit? Food? Unbidden, an image sprang to mind of Draco feeding her pieces of Chocolate Frog.

Stop it, she told herself. You can't get all weird and start thinking about Draco every time someone offers you food. Putting a pair of ballet pumps on, she flicked her hair over her shoulders and turned on the spot, promptly reappearing outside Harry and Ginny's front door.

Ginny hurried to the door in response to Hermione's soft knock, and stood clear, allowing Hermione to move past her sixth month-pregnant bump. ''Hermione! I haven't seen you for ages!''

''Sorry…I've been really busy at work. Has it really been that long?'

''Well, maybe two weeks. It seems like ages, I haven't been out too much. I'm beginning to get unwieldy. Difficult to move around shops in my condition.'' She stroked the bump affectionately, and laughed.

Hermione smiled back at her. Ginny was glowing, and Hermione couldn't help but feel slightly jealous. Her own existence seemed so enormously sterile now, but what could she do about that? She would only be content with a man of Draco's calibre, and unfortunately the only man she had met of Draco's calibre had been Draco himself and came complete with a whole host of other characteristics that she had no interest in.

But then, thought Hermione, were those other characteristics really so undesirable? It was lovely to be shown how to appreciate the small pleasures in life, even if it had involved being lazy, lustful, and greedy. And now that her life seemed so utterly barren, as she lay in a cold, empty bed every night, hugging a pillow, the idea of being so passionately coveted was a lovely idea.

It was not, she admonished herself firmly as she walked towards the living room where she could hear Harry and Ron loudly debating as to whether or not the Chudley Cannons had a chance in the upcoming season.

They looked up as she came in and Ron beamed. ''You came!''

''Why does everyone seem so perennially surprised to see me?'' Hermione flopped onto the sofa. ''I see you more than most other people, but you always seem so pleased to see me, like I've been away for ages.''

Ron moved away from Harry and sat next to Hermione. ''Don't pretend you aren't thrilled by my joy. Now, these tightwads promised me pizza, but it has yet to appear.''

Harry rolled his eyes. ''I'll get on to it your majesty.''

Ron grinned and turned to ask Hermione what she'd been up to at work. Ten minutes later, she paused to draw breath and realised how comfortable she felt around Ron. She was able to tell him anything, she could listen to him talk for ages. She could feel the warmth of his arm across the back of the sofa where he had absentmindedly slung it, and her feet were in his lap as she picked at a slice of pizza. To the casual observer, there were two happy couples in the room.

But is comfort a substitute for passion? For the kind of love that can burn brightly through even the darkest situations? But as she nudged Ron with her foot for something he had said, Hermione couldn't help wondering if she had been consumed by an unrequited love for too long. Maybe it was time to make a proper, concerted effort to move on; to stop holding on to desperate day-dreams. The man that she was dreaming about was sitting in a cell, claiming his innocence despite the Dark Mark branded on him.

She looked appraisingly at Ron from beneath lowered eyelashes. He was her best friend. They had been through the worst times and the best times together. They could have no secrets from one another. They would be happy. It would be a grown-up love, not a childish one. It would be a love anchored in friendship, not in an unpredictable passion. It would be mutual love, not an unbalanced adoration marred by base instincts and selfishness.

Ron saw her glance and smiled at her. Hermione's eyelashes brushed her cheek as she looked down and then shot another glance back at Ron. It would be easy, she knew that: Ron wanted her and had made his feelings perfectly clear on the matter. She would move on, she decided, she would make herself feel the same way about Ron as he did about her. She smiled sweetly at him.

Draco lay back on his bed and stared at the uniform white ceiling of his prison cell, wondering what Hermione was doing. He had thought of her every day for the past two years, and now that he had actually seen her, she was no longer a memory but a lovely ghost who floated to him and wrapped herself around him, entwining herself in his every thought.

How was he supposed to explain that things weren't quite as hideously bad as they looked? Yes, he had the Dark Mark. He looked at it, a blemish on his pale skin, and thought about how everything had gone wrong since he got it. It was the day that he stopped being bullied by his father and started being bullied by all the Death Eaters. It was the day that his classmates began avoiding him and anxiously looking at his left arm. And ironically enough, the day that he should have felt drunk with illegitimate power was the day that he felt the control of his life slipping away from him.

Picking at the skin on his arm, he wondered how deep he would have to gouge in order to get the charm out of his arm. If he did go deep enough to clean the mark off his arm, would the mess that was his life magically disentangle itself?

He was a Death Eater, technically speaking. He wore the mark, he had gone to the meetings, he had grovelled over the mad man who promised an elitist peace born out of bloodshed, he had terrorised innocent people. But he had never killed. He had always known that he didn't have it in him to kill anyone, but Voldemort had only smiled scornfully as he gave Draco orders. So rather than nobly make a stand, Draco had taken the coward's choice and disappeared into the black night. Evading capture by the skin of his teeth, he had been furious to eventually have been caught by goons from the Ministry of Magic, and more so to have been accused of several murders. And now no one would believe him, no one would plead his case.

Rolling over on the tiny bed, he closed his eyes and thought of Hermione. She would never believe him. She would place all her trust in a system of democracy that would surely be biased against him, and carry on with her life while he languished in a cell. He would die alone and forgotten, she would be surrounded by family and friends. He sat up. She probably was already surrounded by family and friends. It had been two years, why would she have stayed single? She would have found someone who fitted her ideal of perfect. Probably Weasley. His fists clenched a little as he thought of the way Weasley had always looked at her.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the ribbon that she had left behind when she left him. It was slightly frayed now, worn from being pulled round his fingers so many times. He ran it across his hands, comforted by the silky feel of the material, and cursed himself for the millionth time. If he hadn't been so greedy, so lazy, so smug, then she would still be here, and he would not be stroking a hair accessory and wishing that it was her soft hair. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that it was more than slightly pathetic that a twenty year old man still had what essentially amounted to a comfort blanket..

He pushed the ribbon back into his pocket and sighed heavily. He knew he had not been perfect, but Hermione hadn't been either. So uptight, so reluctant to let her guard down, and the way that she had left him without a word had hurt more than she could possibly have realised. He lay back down, and felt despair wash over him. Of course she had left without a word, he wouldn't have let her get one in edgeways. Turning over and willing himself to sleep, he silently prayed for another chance, a single moment to make her realise that he had changed just a little, just enough to let him love her without locking her away.

His final thoughts before he drifted into a troubled sleep were of her; what was she doing at that exact moment? Did she ever think of him? And did she have any inkling that he had never stopped loving her, and he didn't think he ever would?

Hermione was still lounging on Harry and Ginny's sofa, still with her feet in Ron's lamp, and still idly picking at a now-cold slice of pizza. But her outwardly calm appearance was masking a frantically-racing mind. It had seemed so simple when she had made her decision. She would kiss Ron, she would forget Draco's possessive and passionate love, and she would move into a grown-up, comfortable love where she would be cared for without being controlled.

But such a decision was far easier to make in one's head than to actually carry out in real life. Her relentlessly efficient brain was already mapping out possible routes to achieving the desired outcome, and that was what had thrown her into such confusion. Why was she having to plan out her romance? Why wasn't it as easy and as impulsive as falling in love with Draco? Why should she have to work and scheme to get her happy ending? Cinderella hadn't had to, she had just been herself and things had fallen into place for her, Hermione thought mutinously.

Now that she was contemplating leaving them, her nights of pining for Draco seemed very precious. If she was with Ron, she would have to sacrifice every memory, and that meant the cherished ones of Draco's laughing face and cool grey eyes, his teasing tone, and the barely restrained delight in his lean body as he had pressed it against hers.

Why on earth would I want memories of a boy who broke my heart rather than a man who will love me, she asked.

'Because you LOVE Draco, you idiot!' screamed the hateful little voice in her. 'You were utterly, irreversibly, irrevocably in love with him, and you still are. You're only willing to tolerate Ron and you're only willing to do that because meeting up with Draco didn't leave you with the fuzzy pink glow that you had imagined. How shallow are you? You're willing to give up the man of your dreams as soon as the going gets tough! And this is the girl who fought through Death Eaters and discrimination! Call yourself a Gryffindor…'

Shut up, Hermione told it firmly. You have no idea of the hell that Draco left me living in.

'Of course I do. And you can call it hell, but you certainly weren't complaining when you were being held by him. In fact, I know perfectly well that you felt whole when you were with him, and you've felt like something was missing ever since you gave up on him. Do you honestly think that Ron, sweet as he is, is going to fill that gap? Obviously not – he's your friend and nothing more.'

I can make him more than my friend, Hermione muttered mutinously. And then I'll be fine.

'No you won't, and you'll just be ruining another person's life that way. Are you not content with fucking up yours and Draco's lives already?'

That's a bit strong, she protested.

'Oh really, what would you say you've done? You left two people broken hearted when surely with a bit of work and understanding they could be blissfully happy! Do you honestly not think that's fucking up?'

Hermione struggled for a minute, but couldn't think of a snappy response. I'm not talking to you anymore, she thought, you know me far too well. I can at least try this.

Silencing the retorts already surfacing, she poked Ron with her foot. ''I'm going to go home now.''

''Yeah, I need to be going as well. I'll see you home Hermione.''

Hermione felt a flush of pleasure and congratulated herself: she could feel happy when Ron was doing what she wanted! Her face fell as she realised the problem – she wasn't happy because Ron was going to see her home. She was happy because things were working out according to her plan.

Saying goodbye to Harry and Ginny, Hermione and Ron turned on the spot and arrived outside her front door. She began rummaging for her keys. ''Do you fancy a drink?''

''No, I'm fine.'' Ron was looking at her oddly, and Hermione realised she was blushing. She had never been so forward in her life.

''Sure?''

''Yeah. Are you ok, you look a bit flushed?''

Hermione felt a rush of irritation run through her. Draco would have understood. Draco would have taken her in his arms and kissed her until she felt weak.

'Ahem,' piped up the know-it-all in her head. 'Shall we assume I was correct then?'

No, snarled Hermione, and took a deep breath. ''Ron, I'd like you to kiss me.''

He laughed softly, incredulously, and kissed her cheek. ''What was that for? Is it some kind of bet you've got going?''

''Not like that.'' Hermione breathed in even more deeply, and tried to throw her memories of Draco to the wind. ''Like this.''

Leaning forward, she pressed her lips against his, able to sense his shock through the way he kissed her; unable to decide whether he should give in to the girl he had wanted for so long, or whether he should pull away and demand an explanation for the unprecedented affection.

Hermione clung to him, longing for him to be the raft that would float her out of her Draco-induced swamp of misery. But it wasn't working. She could only compare: Draco had parted her lips gently with his tongue, nibbling at her lips, stroking her jaw – forceful but absolutely blissful. Ron was pressing at her, his lips covering hers. She felt trapped beneath a weight of expectation, both her own and his. How could this be the answer?

Pushing him away, she muttered an apology, slipping into her flat. She locked the door and dropped to the floor, sobbing brokenly. When would his spell break and let her live an ordinary life? She needed to get away from Draco, but she couldn't let him go. To do so would be the ultimate betrayal. She had left him once, but she hadn't let him go then, and she couldn't let him go now. How could she when he was all she needed to make her complete? But how could she keep on wanting him, needing him, when he was the antithesis of all she logically knew to be desirable?

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