Hey everyone. Firstly, small apologies for taking a little while. I'm currently trying to study for exams, but failing miserably because that's when I keep getting ideas for writing. I guess I should do exams more often, as it might help me update faster.

Anyway, earlier I went back through the fic and created a timeline for myself so I can figure out where the hell I am time-wise. At the end of last chapter, I deduced that we were on Friday, April 17th, 2009. Just to clarify for anyone who was curious. So, this would be the following Monday (Monday, April 20th, 2009) and ending on Friday, April 24th, 2009.

I also only recently learned of the 2-week break for Easter holidays at Hogwarts. I guess we could assume it took place during the healing period for Hermione, or we can just ignore it (as I don't really remember it ever being mentioned in the books at all). So, you can choose for yourself.

Enjoy the chapter!

Chapter 23

Under the Willow Tree

It was dark. Very dark. Small eyes peered through the darkness, small hands reaching out to feel the familiar surroundings without hesitation, and small feet moved forward on the soft, carpeted floor.

In such times, such darkness would be heavy, thick, and overwhelmingly silent, like the finals moments one experiences just as they fall into sweet, dream-filled oblivion.

But something disturbed the silence, a keening, wailing sound that echoed throughout the silent home, bouncing off of the walls to penetrate the ears of those nearby.

It was that sound that woke them, the wailing that rarely stopped, broken by periods of softer, quieter sounds that screamed for discovery. It pricked at one's curiosity, tugged the small figure out of bed and had the small feet padding down the hallway.

At the top of the stairs the screaming got louder, echoing cries broken by shuddering, begging sobs. Very few words were discernible, but all the ears could hear was a begging "please" coughed out every now and then.

A foot stepped onto the stairs, silently sliding onto the smooth, marble surface, and the person was grateful that marble did not creak or groan when weighed down. A second foot slid down, landing gracefully on the stair, and, like a dancer moving across a stage, the feet gliding their way down the stairs.

There was a light nearby, illuminating the darkened hallway leading to the back of the home. The living area to the left was creepy, for there was no other word for it. Paintings watched the figure move, pale eyes shifting in the light, glowing in an unearthly fashion against the pale moonlight streaming through the windows. Couches, a marble fireplace, an untouched piano, and other miscellaneous decorative items stood out in the room like silent sentinels, watching the figure move towards the room at the end of the hall.

"Please, please…I just…I just wanted to make it a surprise."

Muffled speech, a man's voice, deep and powerful although no ear could hear the words. It was a voice that beckoned others to follow, that compelled the weak, and strong, to listen to every word and obey every order. It was a commanding voice, even at its softest, and right now, it was directed to the sobbing creature at the end of the hall.

"I just…I just wanted to make something…please, I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

"Learn to obey…not appropriate…forbidden," were the words the figure could make out as they neared the door. Little ribbons of light slid down the hall, bright, painted streaks that stood out starkly against the surrounding darkness.

The man's voice was always so commanding, so fierce, and it made the person hesitate, one foot lifted halfway through the next step. The voice was bothersome, it was a pain and it symbolized pain.

The ears twitched at the sound of a loud smack, followed by a sudden crash. Small feet hesitated before taking several quiet but rushed steps back. Years of sneaking had taught the feet to be silent, to know just how and where to land on the floor so they made the littlest noise possible.

The sobbing started again, the mumbled apologies broken only by deep, angry curses spoken by the male voice. It took a moment for the figure to gather enough courage, just enough time to take in one deep breath before the plunge.

Blinding.

The light was blinding against the darkness, turning everything into a gray, dull fog that slowly grew more detailed with every passing second. Eyes adjusted to the sudden change, in just enough time to hear the next words.

"Crucio."

The keening wail turned into a high scream of pain as a body fell to the ground and writhed on the marble kitchen floor. Grey eyes adjusted to the darkness and watched as blonde hair covered the floor in wave after wave. Pale, blue eyes opened, rolling with pain, and the soft, ruby lips shook with each cry.

The woman sobbed once the spell was lifted, fighting back tears of anguish and pain. Over her stood a dark man, an evil man, shrouded in a blanket of the thickest, cruelest fog. The only part that stood out on his dark garb was a shining, long halo of brilliantly white hair.

The blue eyes darted around the kitchen, desolate and immaculately clean save for a metal pan lying on the ground, melting and squished unbaked cinnamon buns slowly caking to the floor.

A soft gasp brought the eyes to the woman as recognition and horror filled her face. Slowly, she reached out with a trembling hand, begging the young child to leave the room.

The dark man gave a leer at the sight and turned to the child. "Watch. This will be a right lesson for both of you, watch what happens when women don't obey the rules."

Shock filled the child as the sight before slowly sunk in. This was something new, something that wasn't right, that shouldn't be right. Why was she lying on the ground, crying? Why was her mouth bleeding and her dress, her beautiful, silken, white dress, ripped? Why were handfuls of her hair littering the ground, like glittering crystals against the floor? What happened? What was going on?

What was he doing to her?

It wasn't right…it wasn't right.

He lifted his wand, movement fluid and still, like shimmering steel, and his lips slowly moved to push out the words, "Crucio."

It wasn't right!

Two screams joined in the air, one of immeasurable physical pain as the woman contorted in torture. The other was that of a young boy's, screaming for his father to stop hurting his mum, who he loved so dear.

"Stop!"

He woke with a sweat, eyes wide and alert in the surrounding darkness of their bedroom. A hand was reaching out, wand held tightly by shaking fingers and a sweaty palm. His body shook involuntarily and the mere act of sitting up felt painfully stiff and difficult. His eyes darted throughout the dimly lit room, trying to find some sign of intrusion, some shadow that screamed enemy. Slowly, once the room had been examined, he lowered his arm and let his wand fall on the sheets beside him. Breathing heavily, he lifted a shaking hand and pressed it to his face, trying to wipe away as much sweat as possible.

Draco bit back a groan of frustration, digging his fingers into his temples as he fought to regulate his breathing and stop the shaking before it woke the sleeping form of Hermione beside him. He was glad that she was at least not facing him, having turned her back to him at some point, yet still keeping her leg twined around his. Awkward, yet comfortable, and the mere thought of her bare leg on his helped steady his heartbeat.

Squeezing his eyes, he pushed away droplets of sweat on his brow before opening them, looking down at his lap. Lowering his hand, he let both fall into his lap, fingers trembling uncontrollably against the sheets. The sight made his stomach turn with irritation and anxiety.

Fuck, he thought he was finally past this. He thought that he had finally begun to push away from the memories and had begun to dream and sleep better. For so long, ever since Hermione had begun slipping into bed with him at night, he had experienced either a dreamless sleep or a night filled with blissful visions. Not these dark, cruel memories that made his stomach churn and heart ache.

He knew without even trying that he was not going to be able to fall back asleep. It was probably somewhere near four in the morning; the sun would be rising soon enough and, in a few more hours they would have to be up and getting ready for the day's classes. It was going to be rough, but he knew that sleep would elude him.

He was afraid of going back in time again and remembering all of the darkness.

Quietly, with practiced skill from numerous one-night stands, he slid out of the bed, fighting back the uncontrollable shaking, and adjusted the sheets so Hermione wouldn't be cold. Moving across the room, he grabbed his fluffy bathrobe on his way and stepped out of the bedroom, easing the door closed to remain as quiet as possible.

Once he was sitting in the Common Room, fire blazing at the command of his wand, a cup of warm cocoa nestled between his hands, he finally allowed his body to relax. His back ached from the tension, chest aching from the panting, and his eyes felt tight and stun with lack of sleep. Yet, he kept sipping at the cocoa, hoping the warm heat would spread through his body and wake him up.

Curling up on the couch, toes just hanging off the edge, he hugged his body to keep the warmth wrapped tightly within the cocoon of his bathrobe. The sweat had cooled on his skin, creating a blanket of cold that struck him to the bone. The trembling returned with a vengeance, causing his stomach to twist uncomfortably and he suddenly feared that he might throw up.

He needed to do something, to get out, get active, to let his mind move away from the dream and back to reality.

Glancing towards the window, his eyes widened at the distant sight of the tall hoops, seemingly hovering in the air, and he had an idea. Quidditch practice, he would go out, work out and practice so much he'd be exhausted. Then, he would be too tired and sore to think about anything else. It might not solve the problem, but at least it would provide some temporary relief.

His body randomly convulsed again, little shudders running through his muscles and nerves, and he huddled closer under the blanket, deciding to finish his cocoa before trekking out onto the dewy grounds to the pitch. It would at least wake him up a bit more.

Taking a deep sip, he let out a sigh and clenched the mug tighter in growing frustration.

"I thought I was past all of this," he breathed out, head falling back as he closed his eyes. "I thought it was all gone, that I could forget everything."

But, Draco reminded himself as he remained on the couch, one could only run so much from the past before it caught up.

Hermione Granger was growing increasingly frustrated as the day went on. First, she woke up to a cold and slightly damp bed at six in the morning. Immediately, she wondered if Draco had had an 'accident' and was too scared to admit it, then she remembered that he was a grown man and would probably never have such an 'accident' unless he got far too drunk to control his bodily functions.

This brief deduction lead to another thought, which was that something had happened and caused him to leave the bed at some point in time during the night. She had intended to find him in the Common Room and talk to him about it, yet she had found it abandoned, a clean mug sitting on the counter and the fire dying away to glowing embers.

She then assumed that she would see him at breakfast, yet the only sight she caught of him was when he was crossing the Great Hall, clad in Quidditch practice gear, a layer of mud, and another layer of sweat. She had tried to make her way to him, but several Prefects had stopped her to ask question about that night's meeting concerning the Graduate's Ball, which lead to his inevitable escape.

Then there was class, where he seemed far more studious than usual, yet still greeted her with warm kisses and hugs, almost as though he hadn't left her alone in bed sometime before 6 a.m.

Lunch came, and her schedule had been kind enough to give her a class separate from Draco, so by the time she got to the Great Hall for lunch, he was nowhere to be seen and not a single student she had barked at had seen him.

So the bastard ferret had eluded her all day long and it was growing increasingly frustrating.

This meant that by the time she had successfully cornered him after supper, she was fuming, stomping, and damn near shouting at him for his evasiveness.

"Draco, where did you go this morning?" It had taken much of her willpower to grit out the words rather than shout them out. She knew she shouldn't have been so frustrated, but she also knew that he had been purposefully avoiding her, and it was, for lack of a better word, frustrating.

"This morning?" He gave her a wide-eyed look of confusion that nearly had her convinced, if she hadn't seen that look used multiple times before on teachers when he wanted to worm his way out of trouble. "What happened this morning, love?"

Fighting the urge to pinch him on the chin, hard enough that it would leave an unflattering bruise, she instead crossed her arms and tilted one hip. "This morning, love, you left me all alone in a cold and empty bed, without any note."

"Is that what you're really mad about?" His expression was schooled, practiced, and she knew that he was hiding something. She just wasn't sure what, and it bothered her to no end.

Draco, on the other hand, was fighting every urge to run at the sight of determination in her eyes. He knew that look, understood it very well, and he knew that she would not give up until he had given her an adequate answer. He just wasn't sure what kind of answer to give her. He didn't want to talk about the dream just yet, it still felt too raw, too real and exposed, and he was afraid that by merely discussing it, the dream would come back again tonight and sleep would once more elude him.

He wanted to only go through one day of casting glamour spells to hide the dark circles under his eyes; he didn't want to worry about it again all day tomorrow.

He also didn't want her worrying about it, although he was doing a fine job at making her worry already. Her bottom lip was sore and swollen, as if she had been chewing on it all day, and it was something she only did when anxious. It made his heart fall in guilt and he let out a soft sigh of exasperation.

"Hermione, love," he began, trying to find some excuse that would ease her worries and not let him have to think about the dark memories, "I woke up because the match for the Quidditch Cup is coming up soon and I wanted to get extra practice in before classes. I'm sorry I didn't leave you a note; I thought it wouldn't bother you. I'll make sure to leave one next time."

Her face twisted in conflicting thoughts for a brief moment as she thought over his words. It was true, the Cup was coming up in a couple of weeks, roughly the second week of May, and he was probably worried about whether or not they would be able to pull off another victory against Gryffindor. It made perfect sense; he was a perfectionist, striving to be better and do better, and, for once, he actually had this hope that Slytherin could win the Quidditch Cup. It would be nice…

Although it was still frustrating that he hadn't bothered to leave her a note. But then again, she was probably overreacting; stress, lack of sleep, and PMS had a tendency to make her do that.

Letting out a soft breath, she closed her eyes and nodded. "I'm sorry, Draco," she admitted. "I think I was just overreacting, I'm just a bit…tired. And with everything that's been going on lately, I'm just more prone to jumping at the littlest things." Turning away, she rubbed her face with her hand and inhaled. "I'm sorry; a note is more than enough. Just as long as you let me know that you're okay. I just don't like waking up not…knowing."

It took a moment for his mind to process her words, but slowly and surely his sleep-deprived mind came to a haunting conclusion. The war had taken its toll on thousands of people, bringing with the battles and death unforgettable pain and nightmares. It would be normal or her to have experienced nightmarish situations, just as he had. He could only imagine what instigated these thoughts and concerns, perhaps it was waking up in an unknown place, bloodied and battered, or maybe it was waking up to find the body of a friend or family member, who couldn't take the pains and anguish of the war. Maybe it had been waking up alone in a home, terrified and not knowing who would not be returning later that day.

All of those thoughts, all of those experiences, could become fuel for her anxieties. It was at that moment that he felt guilty for his actions, unaware that he had been causing her stress and fear, all in his need to deal with his own problems by himself.

He lowered his head, watching the emotions play across her face as she schooled her eyes to remain focused on the task at hand, rather than the memories that brought the anxieties to the surface. Exhaling softly, he lifted his hands to cup her cheeks, thumbs gently rubbing on the smooth flesh. His head tilted, forehead pressing against hers, and he placed a chaste kiss to her lips.

"I'm sorry love," he said, watching as momentary confusion played with her features. "I promise I'll leave you a note next time, so you don't have to worry."

Smiling gently at him, she reached up and grasped his hands in hers, squeezing his fingers. "Thank you."

She ended their discussion with a tender kiss, glad that he had been able to understand her thoughts without needing to ask any question. It created this tight bond between them, like a rope was wrapped tightly around them, keeping them physically and mentally close. It made her body feel warm and fuzzy, a feeling of comfort strongly wrapped around her that made her feel at home.

Like always, it felt perfect.

Night was always a time that a new world came to life as the daylight world went to bed. When the daytime creatures shut their eyes and minds against the barrier of darkness, the unique creatures of darkness slithered out and roamed the world under a blanket of stars. It had been a realm of mysticism and curiosity, something that compelled and captivated him. Often times, he found himself wandering the woods or streets alone at night, willing the creatures to come out and communicate with him.

Now, night was an entirely different world. The luscious, unique, and beautiful creatures turn into serpentine, malevolent spirits with red eyes and dark thoughts. Their movements, once gracefully elegant, became twisting, smooth, sneaky and slithering steps, quiet and shadowy. What he used to imagine as fairies hiding in the shadows of the forest, he now realized that those fairies were full grown men turned into monsters, and the magic used to bring the forest to life had turned into dark magic of pain and death.

He no longer left his home at night, forever avoided leaving all of the lights off, and forever kept his windows and doors locked, just in case the monster of darkness dared sneak up on him and take his life.

Night was a time to be feared; one never knew what malevolent creature was lurking beyond the shadows.

He wondered, briefly, if she had thought of this. If that this fear was the reason why all of the lights in her home had been on when they came for her. This fear was what explained the amount of traps she had placed in her yard, the numerous, magical attempts to protect herself from the darkness.

Yet, it was all for naught. They had broken into her brightly lit home, avoiding injury and attack, and had quickly taken care of her dog with a fast Killing Curse. They had subdued and bound her, gagged and abused her, and now she was there, hanging upside down on the table, surrounded by those dark creatures in that dimly lit room.

For the time being, he was glad that she was blindfolded; she wouldn't be able to see him, to tell who he was, and she would not have to die with the knowledge that he had been part of this, not that any of it had been willing. He had tried to avoid partaking in it, had argued and begged, had tried to use charm and rhetoric, attempting to weasel his way out of the attack in any way possible.

But, when the Dark Lord wanted something, you had to do it, regardless of your situation.

Besides, he had had no choice; he needed to do it, or else there would be no healing from the consequences.

Death was an unbreakable disease that either came too quickly or too slowly, and it was unbearably permanent.

His heart ached in his chest as he stared at her limp body, trying his hardest to tune out the hissing of the heavy snake draped across the table, ignoring the voices of the wizards and witches around him garbed in black and plagued by the need for deceit, death, and destruction. His mother sat on his side, a beacon of silvery, beautiful light in the room of darkness. Regardless of how much she hurt, no matter how many times she was savagely abused, she stood still, proud, and beautiful among these ugly masses of cruelty.

He kept ignoring them, watching as the blindfolded women rotated slowly, hair dangling gingerly just above the table. He wouldn't let it touch the table, Merlin forbid the smallest part of the Muggle lover touch a piece of Pureblood property.

Even the chains they used in the dungeon had been destroyed after she'd been unshackled and brought up to become an item to display.

She was like a clock, slowly rotating in a clockwise fashion, as though ticking off each passing second with every movement. It was unchanging, repetitive and haunting.

His stomach fell with the blindfold, face fighting hard not to twist in fear as recognition slid across her wakening face. He suddenly felt sick, fighting the urge to vomit, and he found his nails digging deeply into the wood of his chair, trying to break through and stab into the flesh of his palms.

While he had never been a student of hers at Hogwarts, Charity Burbage recognized Draco Malfoy just as he recognized her. It was when their eyes locked that Voldemort called for dinner and green consumed her body. His stomach fell as she slammed onto the table, and he jumped slightly in his seat, trying to keep a grip on his emotions and reality. Letting out a quiet, shuddering breath, his gaze locked with her dead one as the snake slithered forward and consumed the woman's dead body.

This time, when he woke, his stomach revolted. He had somehow managed to quietly rush out of the bed, cast a quick silencing charm, and make it to the toilet just in time to lose all food in his system. The tiles were scathingly cold, burning against his heated, sweaty flesh, and they provided a grounding sensation, beckoning and pulling him back to reality and out of his nightmarish past. As he pressed his head to the edge, dimly, at the back of his mind he was grateful for the automatic cleaning charm on the toilet, which cleaned it after every use.

He closed his eyes, fighting back another, weaker, onslaught of nausea that threatened to shake his system. Letting out a trembling breath, he waited a good fifteen minutes before acknowledging that he was no longer going to be sick and that he could finally move.

His limbs were numbed, little, prickling sensations fluttering throughout each body part as he struggled to get to his feet. He suddenly felt awkward, standing naked and sweaty in the cold bathroom, flushing down the remains of his supper. Suddenly, as he washed his hands, it was as thought the awkward realization brought physical reality crashing down on him. Without warning, he began to shiver uncontrollably, not due to shock or fear, but due to the sheer frigidity of the room. His wet skin soaked in the cold air and froze him to the bone.

A gentle knock broke through the silence, like a whip cracking through the air, and his head turned sharply at the sound.

"Draco?"

Suddenly, he found himself feeling soothing warm enveloping his body, as though the very sound of her voice grounded and warmed him. He loved the sound of her voice when she was half-asleep, this groggy, sweet slurring tone that made him think of gentle dreams and marshmallow pillows.

"Are you almost done? I have to use the loo."

He lowered the silencing charm and answered back, making great show of flushing the toilet a second time. Quickly, he washed his face and hands, brushing his teeth, and let the love of his life take over the bathroom from him. Then, climbing back into bed, he waited patiently for her to finish up.

The second she crawled back between the sheets, shivering from the cold, he found himself overwhelmed with the irresistible urge to hold her tightly in his arms. She rolled over, pressing a kiss on his neck before burrowing her face in his chest as sleep took over her. For the first time in his entire life, he managed to close his eyes and fall into a world of sweet dreams after the nightmares.

"You know, he really pisses me off sometimes."

Feet marched loudly on the floor, slapping mercilessly against the tiles as two bodies moved across the Great Hall, one taut with frustration, the other leading the way.

"I mean, that's all I asked for. It wasn't that much was it? Just a bleedin' note, that's all I wanted. And, I gave him all week; I didn't bother him once about it! Not once! And what does he do? Not give a damn about what I said. Like he didn't even listen to me at all."

Hermione Granger was, yet again, frustrated with a certain blond-haired man in her life. It was now Friday, and every day this week, except for Tuesday, she had awoken to a cold and empty bed, without a single indication of where and why Draco had left her alone. All she had asked for was a note; it wasn't that hard. Just leave a simple note, indicating where he was going, and that was it.

Of course, he had decided to ignore her request and just disappear, and then avoid her for the first part of each day. Except for today; he had actually skipped all of his classes, leaving her to deal with the Professors. She had, of course, lied and said that he was cooped up with a stomach bug, which meant that she had to go to the Hospital Wing and get Gastrointestinal healing potions from Madame Pomfrey, which she had been entirely against. What if those had been the last in Madame Pomfrey's stock, and then some poor student actually afflicted with the stomach flu showed up and could receive nothing to help? It bothered her to no end, so she had dumped the potions on Draco's bed, resisting the urge to pour them over his favourite pillow.

That was not even the worst part of her day; the most annoying had been when she initially woke up. First, there was a great sense of loneliness; the bed always felt so massive and cold whenever she was alone in it. Then, there was minor frustration, when she realized that she had no idea where he went. But, almost immediately after came the anxieties as memories were brought to the surface. She remember those mornings during the war, remembered the anguish of discovery, the despair of realization, and this morning, she had been forced to sit down for several minutes and fight an anxiety attack. She hated this, hated no knowing, hated it when those memories rose up, and almost despised the feeling that she could not do anything about it.

So, it was without a doubt that, by the end of the day, she was short tempered and ready to snap.

"Does he not realize just how frustrating this is? Such a pain in the arse. You understand, don't you?"

Regardless of Hermione's feelings at the moment, there was a sudden awkward pause as she turned to her companion. Both paused halfway across the lawn outside the school towards the lake. She felt a blush suddenly creep across her cheeks as she realized just how much she had been venting and to whom.

Millicent Bulstrode had gone through remarkable transformations throughout the past years. While still stocky in build, she had developed subtle, feminine curves that made her more delicate in appearance. But, her personality was still similar to that of a man's and many students had wondered if her relationship to Elsa Mirren, from Hufflepuff, was more than just friendly.

But, the one thing that stood out about Millicent was her never-ending silence, even when situations grew awkwardly uncomfortable.

"Ah, I…I'm sorry about this," Hermione fumbled, feeling uncomfortable under the unblinking gaze of Millicent. "I didn't mean to…well, you know, it's normal when people get frustrated."

The Slytherin girl who had spoken up when Hermione asked earlier about Draco's location, merely shrugged her shoulders. She had never been one to dwell on unnecessary things. "It's okay, it happens." She then turned to point towards a tall willow tree near the lake, so close and so large that the leaves dipped gently onto the surface of the water. "He usually goes over there to hide out."

"Oh, thank you." Hermione felt the blush recede, glad that Millicent hadn't made the situation more awkward than necessary. Thanking the Slytherin girl another time, she moved towards the tree, trying to lessen the frustration bubbling inside of her. She wanted to snap at him, but she knew that it was the wrong way to deal with this situation. It would only aggravate things and possibly end in a massive row between her and Draco.

She found him sitting against the trunk of the tree, basking in the shadows of the leaves. He looked peaceful sitting there, with his eyes shut against the sun and a gentle breeze sending tendrils of his hair across his face. It was soothing, and it felt almost painful to interrupt him, but as she moved closer, the shadows she saw in his face were not shadows from the tree. Dark circles had formed under his eyes, heavy and telling, and his usual pale complexion had developed a gaunt pallor to it, almost sickly in appearance.

It made her stomach twist uncomfortably and her frustration suddenly faded as guilt breached her walls. There was clearly more to this than she originally thought; it was possible that he wasn't just leaving early in the morning for Quidditch practice; something was forcing him to get up and leave early.

Bending under the leaves, she quietly moved over to sit down beside him, the bark of the trunk rough and bumpy against her back. It created a combination of feelings, massaging and itchy. Sighing softly, she reached over and pressed a hand against his knee.

His eyes flung open and his body jolted, stiff and alert as the touch broke him from his reveries. When she squeezed his knee, alerting him that she was here to soothe rather than harm, his body visibly relaxed and his eyes drooped just the slightest bit.

"Hermione, what are you doing here?"

"Believe it or not, Millicent Bulstrode told me you hide out here when you need to be alone," she answered.

He nodded in acknowledgement before turning his gaze away from hers, resting his head on the trunk and focusing his attention to the cool, shimmering lake.

"Draco," she said softly, breaking the sudden silence, "I need to talk to you."

Alert slipped its way back into his eyes and he gave her a quick look, calculating whether or not this discussion would have a positive or negative ending. She looked anxious, worried lines engraved in her usually smooth and relaxed face. She wasn't biting her lip just yet, but he saw the way her jaw moved, saw the faint indentation that let him know she had been worriedly gnawing on it for hours.

His heart fell and he feared what might come out of her mouth, but he wasn't a Malfoy for nothing. They stood up strong in these situations; they didn't cower in fear or try to avoid the inevitable. They met it with welcoming, strong arms and embraced it, then they would manipulate and alter it so that, in the end, the result was to their advantage.

His nod beckoned her to continue, but he turned his eyes back to the lake, as though willing what was to come, to come.

"You've been leaving very early in the mornings without letting me know where you're going," she began. So this was what she wanted to talk about, his lack of leaving notes. He honestly understood her reasoning for wanting notes, but it was something easily forgettable considering the circumstances. It irked him.

"I'm not here to bother you about the notes," she continued. She always seemed to know him, to read his mind and understand every word that flit across his thoughts. It was strange yet comforting. He still wasn't sure how much he liked it. "I want to let you know that I'm here to talk and listen." This made his head turn, twisting to give her a quick glance of perplexity. She wanted to talk about talking?

"Draco," she sighed, "a few weeks ago, I told you some things about myself, told you worries that I have. I want you to know that it also goes the other way around. I know that you're always here to listen to me when I have a problem, that you'll always be here to hold me when I'm upset, and I want you to know that I'm here to help you just like you help me." She reached over and cupped a cheek, her expression softening with her voice. "I love you, you know that, right?"

He slowly nodded, drinking in her every word. It made his heart sing and sob at the same time. He had always had Blaise as a friend, someone he could rely on and talk to, but there were some things he could never discuss with his friend, things buried deep within his heart that he never found anyone worthy of mentioning them to. They were the memories that made his heart hurt, the reminders that wrenched at his stomach, and the thoughts that made his brain dark with pain. To hear her words, to have her say that she would always be there for him, it made him want to cry with relief, because never before had anyone ever uttered those words to him.

"I do," he answered quietly, drinking her face with his eyes. "I love you too."

"Good." She nodded, and her gaze grew firmer. "Then I want you to know something very important. What you're doing, keeping whatever it is that's bothering you inside, isn't good. You need to talk about these things, you need to discuss them and me know when these things are bothering you. A few weeks ago, I told you about my nightmares," she moved to face him, "today, I want you to tell me about yours. Besides, it's only fair," she added with a smile, "like an 'I show you mine, you show me yours,' thing."

He suddenly let out a breath, as though every ounce of pain in his body became exhaled on that one string of air, and his body bent forward, as though the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders and he felt free to move. She let him breathe, watched as he took delight in her words, and she kept her hands on his knees, running her fingers over them in soothing circles.

"You do realize that I've never done something like this before," he said, lifting his head to look at her.

"That's fine."

"And you do know that the things I might say…they're dark."

"I understand."

"And…bugger, I hate to admit this…you know that it might…make…you cry, right?"

"You might cry, yes, I know that," she answered with a broader smile. You could take the Malfoy out of the Manor, but you could never take the Malfoy out of Draco. It was completely inert.

"Malfoys don't cry," he muttered, causing her to pinch his knee. Taking in a breath, he closed his eyes, as though willing himself to gather enough strength to go through the next actions. After several minutes of silence, he leaned back and opened his eyes, staring straight into her soul. "I've been having…nightmares. No, that's not the right word. It's more like…memories."

She nodded for him to go on, shifting closer to that she could feel his heat radiating off of his body and onto hers.

"It started probably after you," guilt ripped at him and he lowered his gaze, "told me about yours." She increased the pressure on his knees, silently telling him that she did not blame herself. It was a normal reaction, a person is reminded of a harsh time, and memories from that period will come back with greater ease.

He nodded, understanding the signal, and continued, "They started on Monday. They're all from, well, bad parts of my life, mostly of the war and," he swallowed, "my family. My father was never a very loving man; he often resorted to violence and mental abuse when things didn't go his way. This happened a lot with my mum. I remember one time, when I was a kid. It was my birthday, and I woke up in the middle of night because of weird sounds. I investigated and found my father performing the Cruciatus Curse on my mum in the kitchen." He let out a shaky breath as memories from that moment filled his mind, the screams of his mother echoing loudly in the back of his head. It was only her touch, that gentle, soothing grip Hermione had on his knees, that pulled him away from the past. "Turns out, she wanted to make me cinnamon buns for breakfast, to surprise me. He said that, as a Malfoy, she was not to be seen doing Muggle and slave tasks in the kitchen, and apparently it wasn't the first time. It seemed she 'pushed his buttons' and he thought she deserved to be punished in such a manner."

Hermione slowly nodded, still rubbing his knees. Her heart fell at the image of the memory, for a young child, on his birthday, to discover his father abusing his mother. It just wasn't right. "That's why," she began slowly; "you didn't like the idea of me baking at Christmas."

"Yeah," he admitted, keeping his eyes focused on his knees. "It…brought back bad memories and…"

"Frightened you," she finished. Suddenly, she felt a tingling sensation biting at the back of her eyes as tears threatened to well up. Her heart had fallen, aching and twisted, as she realized that, beyond this story, there were so many more like it in his past. He was a child without love, living in a childhood without compassion, and that he had managed to successfully push all of that away to become the loving, loyalty, and beautiful man he was now man pride well up in her chest.

"He did that a lot," he continued, "attacked my mum. It seems like he treated her like a punching bag; whenever he got angry, if she was there, she took all of the force of it. If she wasn't, it was the House Elves."

"Did he ever…?"

"No, he never touched me." He let out a choked, barking laugh at the thought, sardonic and dark. "I guess he thought that I was too good to be hit, that real Malfoy men never got hit and never hit each other. No, when I got older he made me watch; told me it was a way to train me to become a better Pureblood, a better…Death Eater. It's kind of funny," he let out another laugh, "for the longest time, I thought I was so lucky that he never turned on me. Now, I wish I had stood up, even just once."

She fought so the pride stayed in place, battled so the positive emotions within her outweighed the heavy darkness, but it was easily a losing battle when she watched his mind unravel before her. Swallowing thickly, she slowly blinked, needing that moment of disconnect to recollect her thoughts.

"It's not your fault, you were just a child. You couldn't do anything about it."

"I know that," he breathed. "I don't blame myself, I can't do that, it would just eat away at me. To be honest," he leaned back, letting his head fall back against the trunk, "those memories aren't the worst."

Her heart practically disappeared; it had sunk so low, creating a heavy weight at the bottom of her stomach. She knew what he was referring to, knew that part of his memories were her own, painful recollections of a time of war, bloodshed, terror, and death. A morbidly curious part of her wondered if one of those painful memories involved her torture at his Manor. That thought was quickly suppressed as she mentally berated herself; what did it matter if those memories involved her? It didn't make them any better or worse.

He had paused, torn between self-preservation and pouring out his feelings. He knew that he needed to tell her the rest, to tell her about all of the deaths and tortures he witnessed, to tell her about the kidnappings and attacks he couldn't stop, and most of all, to tell her about what caused his mother to finally have a mental breakdown. Yet a part of him wanted to keep it all inside, ashamed of the memories, afraid of how she might react, and unwilling to spread his misery onto those he loved. He couldn't allow her to bear the burdens, yet here she sat, quiet and willing, patient and loving, listening to every word he had without judgment or blame.

He knew that he would never find a woman as wonderful and amazing as her.

"I have so many recollections from the war," he said softly, closing his eyes as a soothing breeze wafted across his face, trying to pull him into a relaxing comfort zone and ease his pain. "So many bad memories…" he then began retelling everything, every pain, every torture, every ounce of blood that dripped onto his feet, hands, and body, and every death his terror-filled eyes witnessed. He told her of when they kidnapped Charity Burbage, an event that had been his initiation. He felt tears sting behind his lids as he told her about every crunch, snap and crack he heard as Nagini ate the deceased teacher. He told about the plans to kill Dumbledore, told her how he had tried to avoid it, how he tried to do everything in his power to not be involved in it. He told her about how they forced the Dark Mark onto his skin, how it had burned and ached for weeks on end, how it made him scream and how those screams blended with those of two teenage Muggle girls as they were raped by Fenrir and his werewolves in triumph. Everything, every ounce of pain that filled his mind, he told her.

He didn't speak out of guilt, he didn't talk out of shame, he told her every little thing because he finally could. He told her it because she wanted to hear it, because she was listening, and because it made his heart lighter with every word spoken.

He didn't know when the tears first poured out, perhaps it was when he talked about tortured and murdered classmates who recognized him, or maybe it when he told her about how his mother finally snapped, raped and abused too many times for her mind to remain sane and coherent. All he knew was that, at the end of it, the tears streamed down his burning cheeks, the wind doing little in cooling his warm face. Her hands were on his face, cupping and massaging it, tenderly wiping away every tear with gentle fingers. He found his face pressed against her bosom, a soothing, maternal action that made his heart ache.

She peppered kisses on his head, waiting patiently as he cried his heart out, the tears growing stronger and more painful with each passing second until his body shook with every sob. So she sat there and held him as he cried out his memories, each nightmare sliding down his cheeks with every tear.

He didn't know how long it took, had no idea how many seconds, minutes, or hours they spent under the tree, embracing one another against the onslaught of nightmarish memories, but eventually the tears dried up and his stopped hurting so much. Slowly, he pulled away and looked up at her, surprised etched in his features at the tears quietly sliding down her soft cheeks. Something made his heart tight, a strange sensation at the sight of the woman he loved so much, crying for him, for his pain and nightmares. It made him happy, it comforted him, and it made him want to spend every second of the rest of his life in her arms.

His thumbs traced her cheeks, wiping away the tears, and they spent a moment in silence, staring at each other, baring one another's souls to the other as the sun slowly set on the horizon, bathing them in warm, pink hues.

"Two things happened during the war that makes me afraid to wake up alone," she suddenly admitted in a soft, raspy voice.

He kept his gaze focused on her, hands on her cheeks, and he leaned forward to rest his forehead on hers, patiently waiting for her to continue just as she waited on him.

"The first was Krum…during the war, we found him and got him to come and hide with us a Grimmauld Place. After a while things got…well, when you think you're going to die, you tend to cling to people close to you. We started getting together…and one morning, I woke up alone. I found him in the bathroom; he'd…" she choked on her words, closing her eyes against the memories, "he'd hung himself. Couldn't take the fear, the pressure, the not-knowing…it was just too much for him."

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tightly against his body, needing to hold her, to keep her grounded. He felt her pain, soaked it into his body and willed it away from her soul.

"The second," she continued without hesitation, voice muffled against his shoulder as her hands clung to the back of his shirt, "was when Remus died. We woke up one morning and he had just disappeared. It turns out he had tried to go and find some werewolves to join our side, and he didn't want Tonks worrying so he didn't tell her anything. We don't know what happened, didn't hear from him or see him again until the final battle here. Tonks and Arthur found his body, tortured, practically ripped to shreds. We're sure Fenrir found him and tortured him until he died and dumped the body there as a warning. It…the look on Tonks' face, the way she just fell…it…"

"I know, love," he murmured against her hair, keeping her close and tight. "I know. If I had known he had been taken…if I had found out at all, I would've tried to help him escape."

"I know." She pressed her face against his chest, effectively dampening his shirt with her tears, but neither party cared.

The silence continued for a while, until the sun hid behind the horizon and stars began to glitter playfully in the sky. In the castle, supper would be well along its way, students chattering joyously, feasting away without a care in the world, unaware of the internal battle of the couple under the willow tree.

"I love you Hermione, so much," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her ear. "Without you…I don't think I ever would've had the strength to stand up against my father. My mum hates me for it, but she doesn't understand, she'll never understand…I had to kill him." To anyone else, it would have sounded as though he was trying to convince himself that what he spoke was the truth, but Hermione knew that he was just letting out more emotions, more memories, and removing the weight from his chest. He didn't need any convincing, he knew that Lucius had to die, knew that Draco had to be the one to defeat him, and he fully acknowledged this as reality. Narcissa never would, but that didn't matter to Draco anymore. His father was dead, killed by his own son to protect the woman in Draco's arms, and he would never be able to hurt them anymore.

All Hermione could do was say, "I love you too."

When the moon rose to its full zenith, they slowly untangled themselves and made the trek back to the castle, fingers twined and hearts lighter. As they lay in each other's arms, sleep slowly washing over them, it felt as though every worry of their past, every nightmare they held within their souls, had flown away with the wind, trapped in the branches and leaves of the willow tree.

Hey guys, so it's a nice long chapter for you. I hope that you enjoyed it, it took a while to get it right, in a way that I liked it, so I ended up re-writing a few parts, but I'm finally pleased with it. I know it was probably depressing, but I think it's about time the readers learn about certain parts of their past. I know I changed a few things around, but I like to take some creative liberties with my writing.

Also, I know I didn't use Italics for the dream sequences, like most people do, but I wanted to give is a real-feel to the readers, as well. Draco's remembering them as memories, not having these strange, surreal dreams. I wanted it to feel as real to the readers as it felt to Draco.

I hope you all enjoyed it.

Upcoming chapters: we will be looking over what's been going on with Ron, dealing with the Grad's Ball, and a potential meeting between Hermione and Narcissa, all to come in the future!

Happy reading everyone!