Wow guys – thank you for all your support. My last chapter received the most feedback of any! For that, I am grateful. Here's the follow-up – and a gentle reminder that this is still rather difficult material, although this chapter focuses more on Pansy, and the next will be mostly Dramione. I had initially thought my next chapter would come first, but I changed my mind. I want to address one of my reviewers, the one who mentioned that Lavender is a pureblood. I just want to say that, although I've seen her written as such, the Lexicon has stated that she's not canonically pureblood. So that would make it so she's either half-blood or a Muggle-born. I chose whichever fit. Just wanted to respond since I couldn't directly PM.

LCailan

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

"You see, she was with child."

Draco refused to believe that he had heard those words. He put his hands over his ears, his heart refusing to acknowledge what his mind already knew; his second child, a child he would never meet, one who he hadn't even known about, was dead.

Dead.

A child that he would never get the opportunity to hold and touch, to smile at, and to raise…a child who had never been given a real chance, but murdered by the sadistic and hateful world that it would have been born into.

My baby! Hermione's baby.

He was trembling outwardly, gazing down at the ground so he wouldn't have to look up at the Healer's face.

Our baby. Oh, God! Our little baby!

The wail that escaped him was broken and lost. Even though he fought against himself, trying to keep it from coming, somehow it still did, poignant and heartbreaking. Suddenly Draco felt like the room was stifling; like it was closing in on him, the four walls rushing at him with a violent force, as if to crush him by their weight. He would have welcomed it, if only he had known for certain that it was Death that was coming for him. But he didn't know.

Breathing heavily, he began to rock, his head between his legs, willing the turbulent waves of panic to cease, but they only came faster, more determinedly, with more fury.

No, no, no, no….

Not his child, not his baby, not another one…not another one.

My fault…oh, Merlin…my fault! For all the lives I've taken, all the pain I've caused! My very grievous fault, and I-

Hot tears spilled from behind his hands, and he began to shake with the force of his sobbing. Somewhere in the background of his tormented mind, Draco could hear the sound of the elderly wizard, the touch of his hand, the way he was trying to gently push that same bloody flask of potion into his hands.

He pushed it away; he willed the Healer to stop, to leave him alone with his misery and the utter devastation he felt. A devastation he'd believed he would never feel again after that late afternoon he had held the fevered body of his deceased son. As he rocked back and forth in that too-small room, Draco wondered helplessly how he would ever be able to handle the flood of gut-wrenching loss that crushed him in its grip.

Finally, he wasn't able to handle anymore, and stumbled to the door, fumbling for the handle. He turned to see the Healer wearing a concerned expression.

"You aren't well. You should stay here to gather your strength."

Draco choked on his tears.

"You don't understand, you old codger," he hissed. "What's it matter what happens to me? I lost a baby. I don't give a damn what happens to me now!"

With that, he was gone, but Draco didn't know where he'd go – he was afraid to leave, but afraid to stay. He wanted to die, and he wanted to hold Hermione. He stumbled into the darkness, more lost than he could ever remember.

What purpose was there for him now? He had ruined Hermione's life, and he had killed his own unborn child.

Her eyelids felt heavy.

It was impossible to open them, and so she floated in a strange, black dream-like state, although she could sometimes hear voices around her.

Hermione was aware of very little except that there was no pain. Even though her body was too heavy for her to lift, at least there was no pain. She couldn't remember where she had been, and did not know where she was now. At times, the voices were clear, and she could hear discussions of 'blood', 'potion', 'weak' and 'monitor closely'. And sometimes, the darkness was blessedly silent and she could her nothing but her steady heartbeat and even breaths.

She had no knowledge of how much time had passed when she first opened her eyes. What she saw was the blurry face of an elderly wizard with kind, dark eyes and a long grey beard. She felt the gentle touch of his weathered hand on her forehead and the way he gently wiped a cool cloth along her skin. She opened her mouth to thank him, but what came out was a garbled sound, nearly like a moan.

Could she not speak? Would they not understand her? Where was Draco?

"Here, child," said the Healer, offering her a potion which she tried to swallow though much of it leaked from her trembling lips and was soaked up by the clothes she wore.

It tasted familiar. Perhaps Pepperup Potion or something nearly like it. It sent waves of warmth through her, like the feeling of the sea against her toes. For a moment, she felt lucid and tried to express her gratitude to the nameless man who had shown her such great kindness. She wondered if he was with the Ministry, or if he knew her blood status, or if this place was somewhere safe. Perhaps Draco had found her a place to rest. A place where there was no Marcus Flint and no more horrible pain.

Tears welled in her eyes as the thought of what she had been through. She thought of Justin, of Ginny…of Lily…of-

"There, there…"

He was whispering to her, and Hermione's vision blurred with the hot tears that rolled down her face. The emotional pain crushed her, making it harder to take a breath and soon, Hermione felt like she was suffocating and fell into a blessed blackness where she knew nothing, hoping that when she woke next, she would find salvation.

The next time she opened her eyes, the battle weary heart within her soared.

Draco.

She could not say his name, no matter how she tried, and he only leaned down, brushing his lips against he forehead with the softest of caresses.

"Hush…don't say a word," he whispered, and Hermione felt the touch of his hand warm within her own, though her fingers found no strength to hold on to him, and so she allowed him to be the strength for them both.

As her wide cinnamon eyes flickered across his face, tears filled them and spilled over in silence. They were tears of relief, of uncertainty, of pain and of longing.

What had happened? How had they gotten here? What was waiting for them?

Draco saw her silent agitation, the attempts at finding her voice, the weakness within her. She was too ill yet, too weak to bear the burdens thrust upon her. All he knew was that he would protect her. If he had to die to do so, he would do it.

"Hush," he tried again.

He smiled, hoping to alleviate some of the fear she must have been feeling. The fear of the unknown was often the worst fear of all.

"I'll go get the Healer," he whispered, leaning in to caress her satiny cheeks with his thumbs.

Hermione found a moment of strength to squeeze his fingers at an attempt to keep him by her side. Now that she knew he was alive, that she had seen the familiarity and safety in his grey eyes, she was afraid to let him go. As he moved, releasing her hand from his, Hermione found her voice.

"D-don't leave me!"

It was the weakest of utterances; her voice a battered croak in her throat. Draco stopped and swallowed back his pain and guilt.

"I'm not leaving you," he whispered. "I'd never leave you."

Her beautiful, wild eyes flickered over his in panic, as she clutched desperately at his hands to keep him there.

"No, stay..."

"I love you, Hermione. Hold onto that. I'm going to get you help. Please…just hang on."

He hated leaving her this way, knowing she was terrified.

I must protect her.

The alienage was empty; it was a ghost of what it had been before. The remains of the buildings, the ashes that littered the grounds and the half-standing enclosures were a bleak snapshot of the resistance that was standing against the Ministry. It seemed, in this place, that the losses seemed doubled, that the devastation left behind more poignant.

Dozens of Ministry officials had perished.

Half the Mudbloods had escaped.

It had been a startling victory for the Alliance, a flare of hope to light the hearts of those battling against the Ministry.

These were just the facts; they did not scare her, not really. What terrified her most was that someone would pay for what had happened – and pay dearly. And because of this, for the first time since taking the Mark, Pansy Parkinson crumbled beneath the weight of her fear.

In the nearly seven years that she had been in the service of Bellatrix Lestrange, second in command to the Lord, Pansy had seen death. She had gloried in it, she had killed because in her world, it was kill or be killed; it was destroy or be taken down. She had never been one to stand back and let things happen. Instead, Pansy had always been a woman of action. To see death once had been harrowing, but to see it over and over made it much too familiar, like the things she did everyday. Death had become a companion in Pansy's world – as intimate as the touch of her many lovers, or the whispered words of a mother she no longer remembered. At first, the pain and suffering she had caused during the waking hours ate away at her conscience as she tried to sleep. Soon, she had learned that it was just easier to silence those parts of her that cried out against what she was doing, for her conscience had become an obstacle between herself and her goals. Had sacrificing that part of herself truly been such a high price to pay for security? It hadn't seemed such in a world where there had been no true certainties. At least, knowing she was on the side of the Ministry had ensured a proper job, a warm flat, food in her belly and something to wake up for. Even if her waking hours seemed an endless reel of pain, suffering, of tears, screams, panic, terror, and ultimately, death.

Learning how to silence those voices had been a challenge, but Pansy had succeeded. She no longer lived in a world where there was right and wrong, but instead, lived life day to day, doing what she needed to survive. And how she had laughed! How she had laughed at those less fortunate, those who had chosen to oppose the Ministry and those who were Mudbloods and would never have a chance. She had laughed at them all, for their fate would be worse than hers, and she had laughed because deep inside, Pansy envied them.

She had envied them because they were allowed to scream their fear aloud, to wallow in their pain whilst she was not. She had faced things just as horrid as they, and she had to remain strong, a sentinel against the fear that daily threatened to destroy her, to drive her mad, to erase her.

I can't breathe.

And how she loathed the Ministry! How she loathed the very organization that had made her what she was, and had stolen her soul and sense of self at the same time. She loathed who she was and how she had become a woman she no longer recognized.

Choking on the breath of icy air she had just taken, Pansy's watery eyes lifted towards the horizon, where she could see Bellatrix Lestrange just exiting the makeshift offices that had been set up in lieu of those burned down. Her husband followed, wearing a long, billowing cloak, and she recognized the third man as Fenrir Greyback.

Pansy shuddered, still recalling the way he had used her in the past and the way she had degraded herself at his command. Tears of humiliation filled her eyes, burning hot in the icy morning air.

I can't breathe.

She had already stood before the Ministry's disciplinary committee, and the hours upon hours of interrogation had drained Pansy, leaving in their wake a small, dried husk of the woman she truly was. And still, she knew nothing of her future with the Ministry – either if they would spare her the worst of her punishment or if they would do as she feared and strip her of her position.

Everything I have done, every soul I have destroyed will be for naught if I do not have my job. It is all I have left; everything else I ever had is gone.

The three Death Eaters in the distance faded into the morning haze, and Pansy was all alone. Still, she did not break down, even though the urge to wail overwhelmed her completely. Instead, she stood, breathing heavily, her head spinning with too many thoughts, her heart beating queerly within her. As she turned, she found it was more difficult that morning to put one foot in front of the other, willing herself to go where she needed to go, to continue with her day just like all the others. She had to meet Draco; she had wanted to say no, but the power he held over her would be her downfall. He was the only weakness that Pansy had ever truly known.

If I just keep going, they will not stop me. They will not destroy me.

Head lowered against the biting wind, Pansy moved towards the infirmary just as she did each morning. She wondered why she continued to care for a man who cared nothing for her, but she knew that Draco was the only thing that grounded her, the only reason she still had to hold onto this life. As sad and pathetic as she knew she was being, still it was the truth. As she thought back to the day in the interrogation room when Marcus had determined to kill both Draco and the Mudblood, her heart froze with the same utter terror that she had felt while it was happening. Since then, she had never again looked in Flint's direction; he was dead to Pansy - as dead as all those she had murdered.

I should have known that there would never be any other man; I wasted myself with others to numb the truth – I have always been Draco's.

But he would never be hers.

Pansy saw him standing near the building that housed the infirmary, closest to the row buildings where the Dementors were caged. Beyond it, she could see the fencing that had been destroyed by the Alliance the night of the breakout. It was just another, painful reminder of what she stood to lose.

He was smoking a cigarette, his eyes trained on something in the alabaster dreariness of the horizon. When he heard her approach, Pansy could see him turning to face her, dropping and crushing the cigarette beneath his boot. She was shaken by the paleness of his countenance, and as she neared, by the loss reflected in the depths of his eyes.

If I hadn't sold my soul, it would be crying now.

Pansy stared at him, but found she was unable to speak.

"The Ministry gave me my suspension this morning. It came via floo."

Draco's voice was devoid of any emotion.

She nodded, swallowing back all the feelings raging within her.

"I stood before the committee. They have yet to decide."

They stood together in a silence Pansy didn't understand, until he spoke in a voice she no longer recognized.

"I won't be coming back here."

"W-what?" Her head shot up, eyes widening.

"I won't be coming back. As soon as I can find a place to go, I'm leaving here. I'm leaving London. I'm leaving England."

"Draco, you can't-"

He stopped her, the look on his deathly pale face harsh, her heart frozen like a lake in bitter winter.

"Don't you see the utter destruction around you, Pansy? Does nothing affect you?" he spat, his voice a hiss of hatred. "Don't you see how they'll never stop until they destroy everything they can? Can't you see what they've done to us? What they're trying to make us become?"

He shook his head, grimacing.

"I can't do this anymore."

Faced with all her past deeds, pointed out by a man whom she admired, coveted, loved for so long, Pansy couldn't keep the bout of tears at bay, and they shimmered on the edge of her control, threatening to break her.

You're wrong, Draco! If only you really knew how wrong you are!

"Where will you go?" she whispered with despair.

Living without him seemed impossible. The idea of waking up and knowing she wouldn't see him unfathomable. He was wrong, she knew. Pansy had forgotten how to feel many things, but the love she felt for him still burned with an undying heat inside of her. For him, she would always burn, always feel. Her tears would always be for him.

Draco shook his head, swallowing back his anger. He flung out his hand angrily.

"I don't know. Away."

"Draco, please…"

For the first time since she had arrived, Draco took a closer look at the woman whom he had spent most of his life hating. What had she become? What had the Ministry made her? Her dark eyes glimmered with unshed tears, the pain that she kept contained at all times painted along her face, causing her mouth to tremble and her face to pale. Though he could see no signs of physical pain, he knew there were scars – ghostly scars, but there all the same.

He could look at her no longer, and dropped his head, his fists clenched against the flood of his own pain, the damage he had taken for years. When he finally looked up, his eyes were alight with passion.

"They want all goodness within us to die. They've tried to give us this false sense of security, of independence, but Zabini's been right this whole time! They own us, and they'll destroy us the moment we no longer serve their unholy purposes. I won't let them do it to me! Most of the others are gone already; they've succumbed to this…disease the Ministry is spreading. But I know you, and you're stronger than that, Pansy."

A single tear rolled down her face.

"It's not true," she whispered raggedly.

"You saved my life that day with Flint. You could have let him kill me, and you could have allowed him to murder…"

Somehow, saying Hermione's name was impossible.

A bit of color flooded Pansy's cheeks, blooming like a rose in winter.

"Don't say it!" she hissed from behind clenched teeth, her eyes watering furiously.

"Pansy…"

"I only did it for you, don't you see, you fool?" she cried out. "Because I love you and I can't seem to stop!"

Draco searched her tear-filled eyes, wishing that so many things were different, but never regretting a moment spent with Hermione. But in a strange way, he saw himself in Pansy's eyes, could understand the pain of what she was feeling.

"I'm sorry."

Slowly, with careful deliberation, Draco reached out, offering his hand. She stepped back, horrified.

"Don't. I can't bear to feel your touch!"

Pansy flinched at the thought, both with deeply buried desire and shallowly planted hatred. Her lips trembled, and finally the tears rolled down her frozen cheeks.

"How can you just leave me? I can't-"

Her hands trembled with emotion as she fought for words.

"I can't lose you. Not when I stand to lose everything else."

She watched him, hoping to see a signs of his relenting, but he remained stiff, unable to gaze back at her. His words broke her heart.

"How can you say that? You can't lose something you never even stood to gain!"

Pansy knew life was cruel; she had seen the hand of cruelty too much to believe otherwise. It hurt more though, coming from someone she loved so much. It seemed strange that it was Draco who was trying to throw her world into darkness, to stomp out all her hopes and dreams – and yet, he was the man she loved.

His voice softened when he spoke.

"All I can say is thank you for what you did." He took a breath. "I owe you much I imagine…and I know I cannot give you what you really want. And for that I am sorry."

"I'm sick of your apologies, and sick of hearing your stupid, fucking voice, Draco! Just shut up! Don't say another word!" she shrieked in her growing frustration.

Breathing heavily, Pansy covered her mouth with one hand, willing herself to regain the control that was slowly slipping away from her. Tears tasted bitter as she choked on them, turning away from Draco so he wouldn't see her humiliation.

How she hated him! How she loathed the world she lived in and relished the thought of dying! She was alone and frightened and no longer recognized the woman she saw in the mirror.

Without him, you are completely lost. More lost than you felt in Marcus' arms, and those nights with Fenrir. More lost than the first time you took a life by your wand. Without him, what is there to live for?

She was frozen by this thought, unable to move, to speak, to put one foot in front of the other and continue on with life. The door behind them opened, and Pansy turned to see the Healer standing on the doorstep and the look on Draco's face was like another knife through the heart.

Strangely enough, Pansy was readily willing to admit that the afternoon in her flat, when he had confessed his love for a wife who didn't love him, Pansy hadn't believed it. Too long ago she had convinced herself that Draco had never loved his wife, and not even an admission as heart-felt as it had seemed, would sway her. But now, it was not words that she heard, but the expression she saw.

And sometimes, one look spoke more than a hundred words could ever express.

That had been a ploy. A ploy to help a Mudblood he looked me in the face and told me he cared nothing for.

But he could not hide the look in his eyes, and no false words could hide the truth written in their gray depths.

He does love, but it is not Astoria. It never has been.

The tears burned down her face and blurred her vision so she could no longer see the longing on his face, the love shining in his eyes; a love that he felt for another woman.

He will never be mine.

The blood rushed through her, blocking her ability to hear anything but the furious pounding of her heart. Pansy couldn't hear what the two men were discussing; she could only see Draco's face, his concern for someone else, for a Mudblood.

She should have hated him; she should have hexed him, inflicted on him the pain she was feeling. She shouldn't have cared about Draco's pain at all. But somehow, Pansy was unable to move, staring at him brokenly.

"You lied to me," she whispered, betrayed. "That day in my flat, when you came for Lily…you lied to me."

She stared at him with dark accusation.

"It was never Astoria, was it?"

The truth was stark – written in his eyes like a hard finality. Pansy shuddered, unable to move.

"Does that Mudblood not love you, Draco?" she sneered with contempt. "You've lowered yourself to her disgusting level and still she doesn't love you?"

Draco stared at her unable to muster the anger he should have felt, for he was drained of all emotion, a man who was really a shell and nothing more. He knew that Pansy would have found out the truth sooner or later for there was no one who had known him as long, no one who could read him as well as she could.

"I had to lie, don't you see?" he asked, ignoring her mockery and resentment. "You would have done the same, Pansy. You would have lied for me."

The denials and degradation bubbled to her lips, but when she attempted a reply, nothing escaped but a strangled groan. He saw her pained expression and his words tumbled over themselves, running away from him.

"You know what it feels like, I know you do! You protected me! I can't deny my feelings, and I know it makes no sense, but I can't stand back and watch this Ministry and whatever evil lives in their hearts to destroy her! I can't!"

His eyes were ablaze with a passion Pansy had never seen in the whole of their lengthy relationship – whatever it was. He had hated her, he had been irritated with her, they had been casual friends, business associates, and now somehow thrown into a trap neither had wanted. And never had he looked at her with the intensity that was on his face now. They may have handled what fate had given them in different ways, but Pansy knew that they were really not that different; she had chosen to erase emotion, conscience, and he had chosen to wallow in guilt, never forgetting the things he had done.

But at their core, there was pain, there was love, there were the tiny hiccups of hope that they were clinging to. And the Mudblood was one of his. Now Pansy understood why he would have to leave, why he was so vehement about his decision.

If only he knew how to love me! I could find myself, I know I could! I could try and forgive myself for all those things I've done, if only I wasn't so alone and terrified. I've lost my way; I have…if only…

She had lived all those years for him, in hopes that he would realize what was in front of him. She would have done anything; she would have died for him. Somehow that admission was impossible for Pansy, and she could only choke out a few words.

"This whole time…"

It was a whisper not of disbelief, but of realization. Swallowing, Pansy searched the tense lines of his once beautiful face. Now it was worn and beaten, bruised, defiled.

"If you protect her, it's at the risk of your own life."

"My life's worth is nothing if not for her."

"You'd die?"

She swallowed back the panic, her eyes wide with horror as she waited for the inevitable. His nod, the acquiescence of what she had already known.

"I'm no different than you, Pansy."

Her eyes were stricken, and a sob escaped her as she clamped her hand across her mouth as if with an effort to hold back her emotions.

"I love you," she moaned in weakness and fear.

"I know."

"They'll murder you if you do this thing, if you try to escape."

"Do you fear death?"

"No."

"I'm willing to risk it. If I die, it will be in protecting her."

Pansy's heart hammered dully within her, leaden and heavy with her grief and loss.

"If you die…"

She could not speak the words, she couldn't even comprehend them. The terror seemed all too real, solid, and tangible. She watched in horror as he threw himself forward, gliding down the stairs leading from the infirmary and past her towards the ashen, gray courtyard with it's skeletal buildings.

"Draco…I won't let you do this!"

He whirled on her angrily.

"You can't stop me!"

Pansy wondered for a sad moment if he even had the inkling that she would never have tried to stop him.

"When have I tried to stop you from doing anything you wanted?" she exclaimed with bitterness.

"You tried to kill her," he hissed, his eyes flashing hatefully. "That day in the courtyard, wasn't it? Even then you were doing this…sick thing, trying to get her out of the picture, weren't you?"

She wrung her hands.

"I'm still human, you daft prick! I can only handle so much, or have you forgotten that all of us have a breaking point?"

Draco though of his son, and then of the baby Hermione had lost and a rush of tears welled up in his eyes.

"I've reached mine," he choked out, shaking his head, wishing he could stop the tears. Pansy's jaw was clenched against something unknown.

"Flint will try to finger you for this," she warned, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He stands in front of the disciplinary committee this afternoon, and he's not going to take this well. You know him; we both do. You don't have much time."

Draco's eyes searched hers and he nodded.

"I know," he replied. "Let him; I don't care. I'll take the fall for this, let them take my job, let them have it all!"

"Are you mental?" she hissed. "They won't just take your job; they'll destroy you! I know it, because I had hoped that Zabini-"

She had known what they had in store for Zabini – she had been too cowardly to witness it, and that's why she had stayed away.

"Not if I'm gone before they come for me."

"Draco…"

She was wordlessly pleading for him not to go, and her eyes spoke more than any words could have.

For a moment he had the urge to crush her in an embrace, to glean comfort from her and give her something to hold on to. He wanted to beg her to help, to cover his tracks so that he could get far enough with Hermione to make a difference.

I can't do that; I can't ask her for help.

Though it felt like something had been left unsaid, Draco hesitated only for a second, before turning around on his heel and moving back towards the infirmary, head held high. Pansy watched him go, feeling like someone had torn her in two, and those halves warred with each other in bloody battle. Her heart ached, yet it burned with hatred and anger. She wanted to hold him, and yet rip him apart for his inability to return her feelings. How was it that she felt so deeply could not be returned to her?

Soon she was alone again, and Pansy hesitated, wondering where to go. In the end, she remained standing still, lowering her face into her long cloak as if to ward off the chill. But what she was really doing was hiding her tears.