Author's Note: I seriously can't believe I've written a hundred chapters for this story. I think I'm partially in shock. I'm gonna have to go back and reread this thing from beginning to end (probably not today because I just don't think I can handle it at the moment) just to prove that I did write it all. Sometimes when I go back and read my own stories, I feel like I'm not reading my own writing… it's so strange. Don't know if anyone else ever feels like that…

Anyway, this will be one of my last author's notes, so I'll just tell you guys that you've been an awesome audience, and I've really enjoyed your reviews (and those of you who didn't review… SHAME ON YOU. Haha, just kidding! I love you too).

Oh, and one more thing, before anyone asks: no, I will not be writing a sequel for this story. As much as I'd love to continue with these characters, I don't think I have the inspiration for another 50-100 chapters of this (and if I wrote a sequel, I feel that it'd have to be comparable in length). And I am aware that there are a few loose ends. I am currently working on the (partial) remedy to that ;)

By the way, I did time this so that I would finish on Christmas day. So… Merry Christmas, guys! I hope you're having wonderful holidays :)

Chapter 100

It's really warm. Almost hot…

I open my eyes and see the roof of my bedroom. I feel much better today—as I should, since it's already been two days. Aunt Bella's modified version of Dolohov's curse may have increased damage to the victim, but somehow recovery is much easier.

I slowly sit up and then get to my feet. Much, much better than yesterday, that's for sure.

I'm surprised that Hermione isn't here. She's hardly left my side for the past two days.

When I walk into the living room, I see a guest sitting on the couch.

"Potter."

He looks up at me and smiles. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

"Better," I reply.

It's silent for a moment, and he looks back down at the paper in his hands. I take a closer look and see that it's an edition of the Quibbler.

"Old Lovegood got back to printing, then?" I say.

Potter nods. "And it's not all rubbish anymore," he says.

"That's good to hear."

Another brief silence.

He folds the paper up and puts it down on the coffee table before getting to his feet and meeting my eyes. "Before I get to the reason why I came… want some coffee?"

I look down at the table and see that two cups have been set there. "Why?"

"I just wanted to do a little something for you. Seeing as I'm hoping we can still be… if not friends, at least civil, after this."

"What, is this supposed to be your version of an olive branch?"

"Is it working?"

I shrug and reach down to pick up the cup on my side. "Sure."

"All right, then," he says, picking up his mug and taking a sip.

"You're not trying to poison me, are you?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He grins. "If you need me to prove I'm not, I wouldn't mind having some of your tea, too."

I shake my head, reminding myself that I'm supposed to trust Hermione's friends now. I drink some from my cup before putting it back down.

A strange, warm sensation comes over me, and I frown. It feels oddly familiar… like a potion that I've had before. But Potter's attention is back on the newspaper, and I frown. Is this supposed to be a test in trust? I wouldn't put it past Hermione—or Blaise, at least—to arrange something like this.

Eyeing Potter carefully, I consider it. This can't be a fake version of Potter, since only the real one can get past the Fidelius Charm. So I should be safe—besides, I already let him into my head once. What more can he do to me?

"Why are you here?" I ask him, deciding to go with it for the time being and see what he's up to.

"I came here today because I heard you were going to be fully recovered. And you said you wanted to talk about… well, I'm assuming it's about the last fight with Voldemort."

I nod. "I just have some questions."

"Shoot."

I hardly know where to start. "Well… how did you know that the Sword of Gryffindor was in the Hat?"

Potter smiles. "I didn't know for sure. It's just… the Hat was able to help me in the past."

"But… how did it know to help me? Did you tell it ahead of time that you were in my head?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "The Sorting Hat hasn't spoken for years, according to McGonagall. She said that she couldn't get it to speak to her, after we retook Hogwarts."

"Maybe it's because the school is closed," I theorize.

"Yeah, that's what she thought the problem was," he says. "But I'm pretty sure that the Hat couldn't have known that it was really me. There wasn't a way for us to get in contact with it."

"Then you had no idea that the Hat would really work," I say, frowning. "Well, what about the Sword? How did you know about the connection between them?"

"Do you remember when the Chamber of Secrets was opened back in second year?" he asks me.

I nod. That was a very long time ago, but I do remember that year. Fuck, it was the year that I first called Hermione a Mudblood. How could I forget?

"Voldemort was behind the attacks," he says. "Long story short, the hilt of the Sword appeared in the Hat, so I pulled it out. It saved my life."

I digest this tidbit for a moment. Maybe that's what he was talking about when he was speaking to Voldemort in the forest.

"But if the Hat wasn't speaking to anyone anymore, how could you be sure—"

"Hey Malfoy," he says, interrupting me.

From the brightness in his eyes, I can see that something interesting—or dare I say exciting?—has occurred to him.

"After the Hat saved me in second year, Dumbledore told me something."

"Do I want to hear this?" I ask.

He nods and continues, "He told me that only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that sword out of the Hat."

We're both silent for a long moment.

"I don't like what you're implying," I finally say.

"What, you don't think you could have switched Houses in all this time?" Potter asks. "You've done some pretty selfless things for—"

"Don't think they were selfless," I interrupt. "I'm a selfish bastard and I know it."

"Then maybe the Sword honed in on your bravery. In any case, you were deemed worthy enough to draw the Sword out of the Hat."

"That's… more than slightly disturbing," I say.

He smiles. "Is it that bad to be told that you might have picked up some Gryffindor qualities? We're not all bad, I promise."

I shake my head. "That's not the point."

"Yes, I know. It changes a lot about your perspective. Because you've always viewed yourself as being one way and us as being another way, and it's conflicting to suddenly be told by such an irrefutable source that you share a significant number of qualities with us."

I stare at him. That does not sound like something Potter would ordinarily say.

Then, as though he just read my thoughts, he says, "Yeah, I know. What a load of bollocks, right? That's what I said at first when Hermione told me so."

"You talked about this with Hermione?"

While my tone comes out surprised, I really don't find this unexpected at all. She was there, after all. If I had questions about the sudden appearance of Gryffindor's Sword, certainly she would have, too.

"Of course I did," Potter says. "And I think she's right. You really have changed a lot since school. I've had a good look inside your head. The Sorting Hat didn't get it wrong, mate. It takes a lot of courage to turn on Voldemort like that."

As he says the last sentence, his eyes stray to my left arm, and I wonder if he's doing that consciously or not. Deciding that I shouldn't pretend I didn't see it, I proceed to pull my sleeve up, showing him the Mark.

"Oh—erm, sorry," he mutters, color rising to his cheeks.

I smirk. "Does that make you uncomfortable?"

He shakes his head. "No. I just didn't mean to—I mean, when you were unconscious, before the memory that you caught me looking through, I saw… I saw a memory about how much you hated the Mark and what you did about it. And I—"

"Stop."

It's not something I think back on often. It had happened about a year after my fight with Blaise, a year after everything had fallen apart. I had felt like I couldn't take it anymore, and I'd tried to physically remove the Dark Mark from my forearm, using a knife.

Slicing the skin off my own arm had been excruciating, and even the spells to help numb me didn't do much to help. And then Father had caught me, arms covered with my own blood. He'd been furious and had given me a thrashing to remember. And then he'd imprisoned me downstairs, telling anyone who asked that I was very ill.

After the wound healed, the skin that grew back still bore the Mark. I can't even begin to convey the anguish I felt for the length of time during which I had to watch it grow back.

The fight with Blaise, and then this… It's strange that Potter happened upon some of my most vulnerable moments…

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

"Sorry for what?" a voice asks from behind me.

I glance over my shoulder and see that Hermione is standing just a few feet away from me. She walks over to stand beside me and smiles, but the emotion doesn't quite seem to reach her eyes.

"Nothing," I say.

"I was actually just leaving," Potter says, frowning at Hermione.

She gives him a meaningful look, and he turns his gaze back to me. What's that all about?

And then I remember that Potter had given me spiked tea. Could it really be something Hermione asked him to do? We talked a lot about trust the past two days, while I was unable to escape the confines of my bedroom, and she extracted a few promises from me about keeping me honest.

"I erm… I'll see you, Malfoy," the Chosen One says.

Before I have time to respond, he Disapparates.

"What's going on, Hermione?" I ask.

"I just—"

"Wait," I interrupt. "Before you say anything…"

I let my voice trail off, and when she opens her mouth to ask me what I want to say, I lean down and kiss her. As I expected, she gasps but doesn't move away. I pull away and smile, leading her into the bedroom. This can't go wrong. But when I lean down to kiss her again, she turns her face away.

"What's wrong?"

She refuses to meet my gaze, and worry begins to creep into my mind. Did I not pass the "test" or something? What did I do wrong?

"Hermione?"

"I think we should end this, before it gets any further."

No.

No.

Please tell me I did not just hear that.

My ears are ringing.

Fuck.

There's just no way…

Before it gets any further? Has she not realized just how far it's gone?

I become aware that she's still speaking—in fact, she's talking at the speed of light now, and it's clear to me that she's nervous about my lack of response.

"Hermione, stop," I say, interrupting her tirade.

Slightly out of breath, she starts trying to calm herself down with slow, deep inhalations and exhalations.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask her.

"Haven't you been listening?" she manages to ask, in a much calmer voice.

"I had a bit of a hard time getting past 'we should end this'. You need to leave a bit more time for me to process that."

"Sorry."

She doesn't sound particularly sorry, and it stings. What brought this on? I thought everything was fine.

"Tell me why you think—"

"Because it's dangerous, Draco. I—"

My eyebrows shoot up, and I can't stop myself from interrupting her. "Dangerous? Hasn't it always—"

"Don't you understand what happened? You almost died because of me!"

"Right, because this was the first time that that has happened," I say.

"But that's exactly my point, Draco. You keep putting yourself in danger like that, needlessly—"

"Needlessly? Needlessly?" I explode. "Need I remind you that you might not be standing here right now if I hadn't needlessly—"

"I know very well that you've saved my life. I just want you to stop—"

"Stop what? Stop trying to protect you? Stop caring about you? Stop thinking about you? I can't! You should know by now that I bloody well can't," I rant.

Anger pulses through my being. Does she understand nothing? Does she know nothing?

She looks pained. "Draco, this… this thing between us… it's impossible. Irrational. We can't—"

"Tell me, Hermione. Are you still afraid of flying a broom?" I interrupt suddenly.

She blinks a few times, surprised. "What does this have to do with—"

"Just tell me," I say, frustrated.

Hermione glares at me. "Yes, I'm still afraid. What of it?"

"Why are you scared? What are you scared of? Have you ever fallen off a broom before, or been attacked by one, what?"

"I'm just afraid of flying! What does it matter?"

"Your fear of flying is completely irrational, but it's real, isn't it? It's powerful, isn't it?"

The look on her face clearly says that she sees the flaw in her logic. But instead of giving in, she just says, "It isn't the same."

"No, but the idea is the same. Just because it's irrational doesn't mean it's not real, that you should throw it away. If you could get rid of everything irrational, why is it that you still can't get on a broom by yourself?"

"Draco, please stop."

"I don't understand what has you so convinced that this is impossible. You seem to have made up your mind, without any input from me. You've run through our relationship all on your own and decided that we aren't even worth a try. Fucking hell, Hermione."

Her eyes soften at my words. "I'm sorry, Draco. But think about it. What are the odds—"

"I don't care what the odds are, Hermione. I just want you to shut up and give this a shot. Give us a chance. You were the one who said that you'd never regret it."

Hermione blinks. "I never said I regretted—"

"That's what it sounds like," I say. It's the only possibility I can think of that would makes sense, given the circumstances.

"I'm sorry. But you haven't been straight with me about a lot of things, so it's not all my fault."

I frown, trying to gather her reasons so that I can counter all of them at once. "Why exactly are you leaving me, then? Is it because you're worried about me, or is it because I've kept secrets from you? Make up your mind."

"It's… a combination of the two. I just… you can't be truthful, and our relationship only just began. And with what's coming up for us…"

"We'd have each other."

There's a brief pause.

And then she says, "I don't know if that's enough."

I feel like something sharp has just been driven through my chest. "So, what happens now? Are you leaving me?"

She closes her eyes: "Draco, I just think it'd be better if…"

I suddenly step forward and wrap my arms around her, pulling her close.

"Um… Draco?"

"Don't do it, Hermione," I whisper.

Please, Hermione. Don't make me beg. Fucking hell, don't make me beg.

"Just… just think about it. How could this ever work out? We're never going to win. Yesterday, you explained clearly enough that the Death Eaters are fully capable of functioning without Voldemort, and with what happened in London, in broad daylight no less, we know for a fact that it's true. We're always going to be in danger."

"That doesn't mean we can't be together."

She starts to push me away, but I only hold on tighter.

"Is it because of what I said when I was barely conscious?" I ask. "Are you doing this because—"

"No, Draco. No. I've never believed that you were a Dark wizard, all right? We went over this already. I know you."

"I don't believe you. The Hermione I know wouldn't give up so easily without a fight."

"We did fight, though. We fought for this. We killed Voldemort. But it's clearly not enough."

I sigh and release her, backing up and sitting down on the bed.

"Fine. If you're so determined to leave, just fucking leave. I don't want to drag this out any longer."

It hurts enough as it is. She looks at me, and I see pain in her eyes. Why is she doing this, if it's hurting her, too?

"Draco, you have to understand—"

"No, I don't understand. I don't want to understand your way of thinking, if it means I have to conclude that we can't be together."

She looks at me for a moment longer. "Bye, then."

My chest twists painfully, and I know I only have a few seconds before she leaves the room.

My head hangs. I've never been so utterly defeated by a person, so unable to control myself. I wish I could stay strong and tell her to fuck off for being such an incomprehensible, insufferable, stubborn little twat—even as I think the word I want to slap myself for thinking of her that way—but I can't.

"Please don't go."

My voice is hoarse. I sound pathetic.

She pauses by the door. "I have to."

Have to? Why would she say have to? A glimmer of understanding shines in my mind, and hope flickers to life in my chest.

"What exactly did I say to you when I was delirious?" I ask her.

"I already told you. You talked about Russia and the Dark Mark, and what Voldemort said about you."

My throat tightens a bit as I consider the next question I'm going to ask. I haven't ever spoken of her aloud—at least, not that I remember.

"Did I ever tell you about… about her?"

From the way Hermione's back stiffens, I can see that she knows what I'm talking about. I must have mentioned her when I wasn't myself. I get to my feet and move toward her slowly.

"Did I tell you that I could shut off my feelings, that I could become numb to everything?"

She seems to be frozen in place, and I continue to advance.

"Did you assume, all on your own, that I wanted you to break up with me? That it'd be easier for me to live without feelings at all than to be with you and suffer all that guilt?"

I put my hands on her shoulders and slowly turn her around, and she doesn't resist. When she's fully facing me, her eyes flit up to meet mine, and in them I see that I've spoken the truth.

"Hermione, I love you."

Her breath catches in her throat, and her eyes widen. I've surprised her.

"I would rather spend the rest of my life wallowing in this guilt than having to live without you."

She opens her mouth to speak, but I lift a hand and cover her lips with a finger.

"Let me finish, so that I can get all this sappy stuff out of the way."

This earns me a small smile from her.

"I'm glad that you care enough about me to try to leave me for my sake, but you'd better get to know me and my priorities, or this relationship is never going to work out."

She huffs at me indignantly. "Well, whose fault is it that I don't know any of your priorities? You're the one who never cares to share what's on your mind."

I grin. "I'll try to be a little better about that in the future."

She raises an eyebrow.

"A lot better," I amend.

She smiles, relieved, and I thank Merlin that she happened to choose the one small word that gave her away. I lean down and kiss her lips. I'm so unbelievably lucky.

Lucky.

Wait, lucky! The familiar, warm, tingling sensation in the tea—Felix Felicis! Damn it, I think I'll have to call Potter a friend, after this. I owe him too much.

Then she backs away a tiny step and frowns at me. "Since when were you in love with me?"

I bite back the automatic impulse to retreat from her question. "From the start, I guess. I just never admitted it to myself," I confess.

She rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. "So it took me leaving you for you to finally say it. I wonder what it'll take in the future, when our relationship progresses to the next step."

"What next step? Are you sure you'll be able to hang onto me for that long?"

She smiles slyly. "Well, I didn't even have to put in any effort to make you fall in love with me, so I'm sure it won't take much to keep you wrapped around my finger."

Good point.

Instead of responding, I lean down to kiss her again, but she backs away.

"Don't you have a comeback?" she taunts me.

"Shut up."

Before she has a chance to gloat over her tiny victory, I tug her into my arms and capture her lips. But she presses at my shoulders and forces me to back away.

"What now?" I almost growl.

She smiles. "Just so you know, I think I love you, too."

My heart soars, even as my mind begins to rebel, saying that this can't possibly be reality. Never would I have thought I could hear those words coming from her lips.

Then those lips are pressing against mine again, and nothing else in the world matters.

I love her. And she loves me.

Author's Note: Yeah, sappiest ending ever, I know. The Draco in my head will never admit it because he's too dark and brooding, but he demanded a happy ending.

Thanks for sticking it out to the end. Seriously. You guys are great.

And again, Merry Christmas to all of you! Hope you have a magical day.