Both of my parents look shocked to see me and I think it's been quite a long time since I popped in to join them for dinner unannounced, unplanned, or unrequested.

"Granger, ah," I hesitate. Is there danger in admitting I essentially left her there alone? How much detail to provide?

Well, why not all of it? She does live in the Manor now, even if it's against her will. My parents know she's here, after all. "Granger is trying to figure out how I made the scar lotion. I left her to it in my lab."

They exchange a look but don't seem unduly concerned. And Granger doesn't have a wand, anyway, and the ingredient inventory is limited. I suppose she could make some nasty concoction up there on her own to surprise me with, but even hot coffee could blind me if she were so inclined.

"She was quite curious about it," my mother muses. "Understandable."

"It would be understandable anyway, even if she weren't as brilliant as she is," I emphasise. "But it's also giving her mind something to do, something uniquely academic for the first time in - well, maybe years."

Or since learning Occlumency, my brain whispers. But in a way, this is almost the opposite. Occlumency is about clearing her mind, thinking as little as possible. Deconstructing a brand new potion crafted in a unique mix of alchemy over the course of this dinner will take all the tremendous brainpower Granger has.

Of course, she can have as long as she likes. But I smile a bit thinking back to her demand that I return after dinner so I can answer her questions, in case she still has some. She's confident she can do it in this span of time. I'm quite curious to see how far she gets, to be honest.

My mother catches my eye. "I'm not sure about that. She's been spending a great deal of time enjoying the library."

I have a brief urge to ask if she's been researching manticores and chimaeras, then give myself a quick shake. "Good. I'm glad she's able to find something to enjoy here."

"And she went searching for you this evening. Apparently she's not quite so indifferent to you after all," my father purrs.

"'Indifferent' isn't the word I'd use, and I still wouldn't go that far, just because curiosity is winning out over hostility." I quirk an eyebrow at him and help myself to some salad, picking away the grape tomatoes. "I'm sure it's temporary."

"She does seem a certain blend of curious and hostile, I'll agree." My father lifts his glass to his lips, but his tone is playful. I'm intrigued.

Pleased at having grasped my attention with this, he goes on. "I had a delightful little spar with her over house elves the other day. She's quite spirited."

I vehemently wish I'd been a fly on the wall for that conversation and can't help wondering if Granger slapped him by the end of it, like she always used to do to me. I wonder what my father would do if she did.

Probably best not to find out.

"How many other conversations have you had with her, pray tell?" I inquire, trying for casualness and not at all managing it.

Lucius is amused. "Are you concerned? Worried, perhaps, that I can't play nicely?"

"On the contrary," I say, a little stiffly. Definitely not casual. "Granger likes to slap when she gets riled. I'm only wondering if you've seen that side of her yet."

He's scandalised. My mother looks quite amused too, and releases a soft sort of giggle into the top of her wine goblet.

Now my father looks rather put upon. "Cissa, are you implying you hope that's happened? Or that you'd like it to?"

Letting out a full gasping laugh, now, my mother says, "Not at all, dear. Evidently, Hermione used to hit our son quite frequently."

Bollocks. How'd we get onto this? Can I rewind this conversation? My father and I both try to speak at once.

"What do you -"

"What did she -"

I know my place comes after my father's, and reluctantly relinquish my question.

"What do you mean, she used to 'hit our son' a lot?" Lucius's tone is enunciating and precise.

I could answer this, and maybe it's better if I jump in front of it, anyway. But I'm deliciously curious as to how Granger has explained this to my mother, and so we both stare at her, waiting.

"Hermione says that when Draco used to visit her, it was always with a specific purpose of having a row. You aren't the only one who has enjoyed 'delightful sparring' with her, it would seem."

I'm caught cold by this. Those were two years ago. Could she have been remembering much longer, like Lovegood had? But no; it seemed clear that it was relatively recent. Even so -

('you don't hurt me')

Isn't it possible that some sort of shadow had stuck in her mind, though? Maybe… maybe my visits to her stood out to her for another reason.

She'd fancied me, after all, I think, with the conjoined feelings of joy and the stabby sort of misery that accompanies how brutally I quashed it. She was always so furious with me for killing Dumbledore; could it be that I'd… disappointed her? She'd hoped for better, better from me. Better than me. So I'd arrive and she'd scream and curse her fury, and eventually smack me.

And I'd leave and she was left with the echoes of the row, the slap, me doing nothing but verbally provoking her.

('you didn't hurt me')

Ah, but I had been, all along. Isn't that what Ginny said to me on the Quidditch pitch? Just because it wasn't physical doesn't mean I wasn't an active participant in her harm.

I've quite forgotten about the inciting statement to this train of thought and come out of my reverie to find them both staring at me for a response, an explanation, something. Anything. I clear my throat and try to look like I'm in control of one meagre thing.

"As you said, Father," I try to deliver with dignity, even though the subject matter involves me getting repeatedly slapped by a witch the approximate size of a pixie, "I find arguing with her stimulating. She's good fun to wind up, as you've found. And her fearlessness is inspiring."

Never having considered that angle before, I realise rather late that it's true.

"Perhaps you simply aren't very frightening," my mother says with delicacy, looking somewhat pleased at the thought. My father visibly disagrees that this prospect would be pleasing and turns a fierce glare on me instead.

"Perhaps our son was doing it wrong," he says sternly, and my mother actually swats his arm with her napkin.

"Hush, Lucius," she orders as I goggle at her. "He loves the girl. Of course he isn't going to try and intimidate her. Don't be ridiculous."

It's the first time anyone at this table has said the word 'love' in regards to Granger and myself, and it's not lost on my father. He's also staring at her, eyes wide and aghast, and she sighs. "It can't be a surprise, darling."

Then again, until recently it had taken several people to convince me that I was in love with Granger, so I suppose it's understandable that my father has a mental block about the whole thing.

He turns to me, now, and yes; he's struggling quite valiantly with the concept. "So - your earliest visits with her, at the beginning of the park. It was never for sex?"

Narcissa cringes and I can't alleviate much of the awkwardness for her. Yet. "No, Father, it wasn't. I was just - spending time with her. And before you ask, no, I don't have a kink for being slapped across the face."

She puts a hand over her eyes as if she's seeing it happen right before her. This is almost certainly the first - and probably only - time the word 'kink' has been uttered at this dining room table, maybe in the whole of the Manor.

I can't help asking my father, "What did you think was going on, precisely? What had Snape told you?"

It's also the first time any of us has acknowledged Snape's contact with my parents and I'm intensely curious to know how they explain it. My mother is having detailed conversations with Granger; Snape has been having detailed conversations with my parents. I'm tired of being left out, and I can only do something about the latter.

While still Granger-adjacent, this is a solid topic change and I feel all three of us are relieved. My father takes the circuitous route towards answering my questions.

"Severus has always been fond of you, Draco. I don't think he ever truly shed the mantle of looking out for you, as he did near the end of the war. You were there with the Granger girl a lot, at the start of the park. He was concerned about you."

"What did he tell you?"

They both speak at the same time.

"Nothing," my father says succinctly, but my mother overshadows him.

"That you didn't harm her," she says, and he shoots her a surprised look.

So they'd both been talking to Severus. Maybe together, but sometimes independently. Severus, who always has his own game, never says more than he must to any one person. My father didn't need to know I wasn't violent towards Granger. My mother was put at ease by it.

"What did you think was going on?" I ask again, truly adrift, now. Nothing makes sense if they knew I wasn't forcing myself on her.

My father actually shrugs, a foreign gesture on his person. "You were infatuated with her in school. I thought you were working it out of your system."

I turn to look at my mother now, inquisitive. "You were clearly spending time with her. I knew it wasn't violent, but I didn't know what you were doing. Indulging the infatuation, perhaps, just being around her. Talking to her, getting to know her, maybe. Then, it all stopped. You stopped going."

"We thought it was over," Lucius confirms.

"Well, it is now," I agree. "Yes; I do love her. But regardless of whether she's in my potions lab keeping busy in her never-ending captivity here, she wants nothing to do with me. So no; I'm not ready to date Tania Nott or Lola Selwyn or Anita Rookwood. But I'll presumably get there eventually, if you can bring yourselves to be patient. Now, if you'll excuse me," I sigh, rising from my chair. "I'm going to go check on the progress being made in my own lab."

Upon arrival at the door of my lab, I see the witch inside looks quite vexed and I enjoy a rather juvenile rush of satisfaction.

I knock on the doorframe just as Granger did earlier, so as to avoid startling her, but I have to do it twice more before she notices. When she does finally look up, her mouth is tight and set, her lips pressed. Brow furrowed, plaited hair still managing to frizz. She eyes me with what is unmistakably her old vitriol - I'm tremendously offensive, can't I tell? - and I give her a single smirk.

"Well?"

Granger throws up her hands and I try to provide some relief. "It's not as if you've had very long to work on it, you know."

This seems to come across patronising, especially since I haven't got rid of the smirk, and I find myself falling back into the old pattern of engagement as if the past seven or eight months never happened. It's - wonderful and my heart speeds back up.

And it would be a mistake, as tempting as it is, to try and brush past everything she's been through as if it were a matter of course.

So I begin again. "What have you found?"

"It's not just a potion, clearly," she snaps. "It's something new."

"You knew that, though," I say calmly, boosting myself up onto the lab table to my right. "How far did you get?"

"Well," Granger replies, starting to pace up and down along the various cauldrons, all of which have now changed in colour, temperature, and general viscosity, "I identified the acne cream component. You needed something to clear the skin, a blemish remover."

I nod. That was the most foundational component and something that already existed. I can't imagine she ever needed much of it in her teenage years - she was never spotty - but she'd have had to live under a rock to not know about it.

But not far past that, Granger got stuck. In hindsight, it was probably a little mean to have expected her to make progress on something she didn't know existed. Snape's time-lengthening concoction for the Polyjuice is entirely new. Well, at least I came back up right after dinner and didn't allow her to devolve into full vexation.

"What is this bit?" she waves at the third cauldron and I try to work out what she'd done to each. I can't.

"I'm not sure. What were you trying?"

"I was trying," she huffs, "to take out the acne remover and see what was left."

"I figured as much," I say smoothly, "but what turned it blue?"

"It didn't like the specialis revelio I tried," Granger supplies, somewhat reluctantly.

Interesting. Not that she thought to try it; that it turned the potion blue. I wonder if it works the same, only blue. "So you did figure out there was a spell involved, though."

She nodded. "I thought there had to be. It would make sense to be something else that masks things, features, whatever. So I thought probably a glamour of some sort, but -" she cuts off and shrugs.

"Very impressive, Granger," I say disingenuously, because it really isn't coming from her. I'd have expected her to get this far, at least in conjecture. But being nice never hurt anybody.

She shoots me another look, the sort that says I'm being patronising again.

Well, fair play. Being nice doesn't come naturally.

"So you had the acne cream and combined it with a glamour. At what point?"

I'm finding that I'm somewhat more proud of myself when describing my success to Granger and preen a bit at the opportunity. Just a smidge. "At the ninety-third minute of simmer after six figure-eight stirs, starting at the twelve-o-clock position of the cauldron."

She's stubbornly refusing to look dazzled by my ingenuity or my persistence. "What's the rest of it then?" Granger crosses her arms impatiently and I know she's about to start tapping her foot. I come clean. She can't have been expected to puzzle out this part, not without a sample of it to work from.

"The rest is a new invention of Snape's. It allows the lotion to work for up to ten hours or so before wearing off."

She perks up at this. "Do you have some?"

"I don't, but I can owl him for a vial if you'd like to see it. I need more, anyway, come to that. The last I had of it went to make these five samples," I gesture behind her.

"Why did you have so many?" Granger asks, brow still furrowed. "Are you planning to mass-produce it?"

With a little chuckle, I deflect. "Ah, no. At least not yet. There's one more ingredient I want to try to improve upon, first."

Her interest is clearly inflamed and I don't make her ask. "I have hopes of making it less temporary. I don't know if it will entirely eliminate the need for Snape's portion; I was pleased enough to get a viable solution out of the alchemy I did. But -"

"What more do you want from it?" she inquires sharply, and I love the tone of her voice. She's very interested in this and we're actually on something semi-pleasant.

"I have several frozen samples of Campanula rapunculus in the kitchens. I think there's a chance they have restorative properties. I'm planning to try them in different ways to see how they affect the lotion."

"Speaking of lotion, it's not at all lotiony now," Granger points out. "I expect it thickens when you take it off heat?"

"Indeed, it does," I confirm. "Much like cooking sauces on the stove."

"And what would you know about that?" she fires at me, her eyes dancing and for a split second it feels like we both forget how we got here.

I suppose we did, because her face shutters and she looks back at the cauldron. My heart drops back into its usual place of general gloom, somewhere in the vicinity of my lower intestines.

"I'm so sorry, Granger," I say, barely above a whisper, and she turns away, one hand over her mouth.

"I thought I could -" she begins and stops. "I can't. I can't yet." And she turns on her heel and leaves the room, leaving me with a completely incomprehensible, "I'm sorry."

As if she has anything at all to be sorry for. As if she could ever need to apologise to me. Even though I'm mostly sure it was a reflex on her part, I force myself not to run after her, grab her arm, and pull her back to tell her so. Apologise again, and again. I force myself to stay, holding onto the sliver of a promise that was 'yet.'

I scarcely dare to hope, but Granger's in the lab when I arrive home from work the following evening.

She's carefully Occluded, physically reserved, and not meeting my eyes, but she's there. She's examining the fourth cauldron on the table, the one coughing up green smoke now that it's had a day to percolate. It looks quite hazardous, in fact, and I wonder exactly what she'd done to it the night before.

"I don't think there's much use in keeping these," I open cautiously, "unless you have something you'd like to continue working on."

Granger doesn't answer, moving slowly to the fifth cauldron.

"Which is fine," I hasten to add. "I can't start a new batch for testing until Severus sends over the samples of the time-extending potion."

"Stop being solicitous," she says almost absently, not looking up. "It doesn't suit you."

I feel rather at loose ends. I haven't a clue what to do or how to improve anything in this situation, yet I feel instinctively that going the opposite direction and being an arsehole is not the right way to go. But what counts as 'solicitous,' anyhow?

Smothering Granger in apologies and explanations she hasn't asked for? Giving her full run of my lab? She can have it all to herself if she'd rather; I'll set up a second one. Of course, she'd probably rather have that one as it wouldn't be adjacent to my living quarters, but -

I decide to follow the playbook Blaise and I used on the Quidditch pitch. She knew I'd come here after work and she came anyway. So my presence isn't outright objectionable. I swing my chair around to keep well away from her personal space, and plop down in it unceremoniously. I'll let her decide if and when to engage.

"Stop staring at me," comes at me next, after I dedicate myself to sitting patiently while she surveys her myriad handiwork from the previous day.

"Should I leave?" I ask, feeling quite like I'm drowning.

"No," she sighs, finally looking over at me. It's brief, but she does it. "Just - stop acting so strange."

"Well, I'm trying not to be a prick," I say, hoping for even a ghost of a smile. "It is strange."

"And instead, you're treating me like I'm broken," she snaps and her voice is clear, ringing through the air, a striking difference from the Occlusion in her eyes.

I exhale heavily. "I think I should go. I don't know how to do this, I can't -" I stop and swallow hard. "I can't give you what you need and want most. So there's no use in me being here. You can work in here all you like. I'll set up your own lab in the East wing."

"Stop," she whispers and I freeze. "I don't want you to go. I have things I want to know, things I need to know, but - can we just work here in silence until I'm ready?"

Well, that much I can give her. It's a tiny thing, but it's something. "Alright, Granger. Let me go downstairs and get the Campanula rapunculus samples from the freezer. That's going to be the next thing I do. I can map it out in here."

I could call for an elf to bring it but the trip down to the kitchens gives us both a few more minutes to prepare.

Upon my return, Granger's perusing through the first cauldron's contents again and I wonder what she hopes to gain with more tinkering. Maybe just keeping her hands busy. But I won't bother her about it. I sit down and summon a quill and parchment, penning out a request for additional samples of the flower in bloom from the supplier I found in Morocco, along with some seeds I can plant in our conservatory. Something tells me I'm going to need more.

I don't make eye contact with Granger. I let her do whatever she fancies and eventually, she comes round to asking small questions. Inconsequential questions, but it's not as if I'm eagerly anticipating leaping into the open volcano of the park explanation and all its implications.

"What made you think of Campanula rapunculus?"

"You, actually," I tell her honestly. "You were on the balcony outside one evening a few weeks ago and it made me think of Rapunzel in her tower."

Before this - my affections or attentions or anything else - can bog her down in any way, I keep going. "The witch in the tale was obsessed with Rapunzel's hair as something that could give her eternal youth. Rapunzel was named for the plant Campanula rapunculus which made me wonder if it has some sort of restorative properties. My hope is that it can restore the skin cells, the damaged scar tissue."

As I move about the room, clearing a section of the wall so I can hang a rough plan of steps to test the new ingredient, I see Granger chewing on her lip in thought.

I sketch out three columns, marking them 'whole,' 'chopped,' and 'ground,' and drawing horizontal rows across beneath them so I have a grid. As I mark them with different time limits, stirring patterns to test, temperatures to brew at, Granger says suddenly, "Ron is out?"

I stop moving for a brief moment, almost paralysed with the combative feelings of jealousy over Weasley, her unanticipated willingness to bring up a very serious topic, and my desire to always tell her the truth. Also, this is good news, this is something good I can give her. "Yes, he's out."

"Where is he? And Ginny? Do you know?" I can barely hear her and when I glance over, she's picking at her thumbnail and not looking at me.

"Snape assumes they rejoined the Resistance. The last I heard, he suspected they were massing near Dunrobin Castle to strategise their next moves."

"When was the last time you spoke to him about it?" she asks tentatively, as if afraid of the answer.

This is not such good news - probably. "With you here, my trips to the park have all but stopped with the exception of financial meetings with Dolohov's team. It's been several weeks since we spoke in person, or about the war at all. We put nothing in writing, of course," and Granger nods. She expected that.

She says nothing else and I revert back to my obnoxiously large grid of testing possibilities. Of course, the one I'd had to make when testing three different components in the alchemy was worse, but this one is going to give me a headache just by reminding me of the first one. Guilty by association, as it were.

Granger lets me work for another several minutes before saying something else. "Could I speak to Snape?"

That could be helpful, I reflect, for everyone involved. It hadn't crossed my mind but it should be easy enough to coordinate as long as Snape comes here.

"I don't see why not," I say agreeably - but not solicitously - and move back to the table to write out another short note to owl Severus. Maybe he can bring the potion samples with him.

He can't come until the weekend but tells me to come by the park with Blaise and can pick up the samples in person. This isn't necessary; an owl could bring them, so Severus must want to speak to us about something else in private.

I tell Granger, so she won't be expecting me after work - ridiculous, that, as if she's waiting around for my arrival with bated breath - and then deeply consider throwing myself in the lake.

Granger takes the specificities of my schedule in stride until I mention - just as foolishly, do I learn nothing? - that the following night will be Friday, and I'll be meeting Blaise for a pint after work.

A peculiar look crosses her face at the mention of Blaise, and I don't pry as we've settled into something of a rhythm with the questions and answers. Questions posed entirely by Granger, answers provided entirely by me. Never the other way around.

Whatever it is, she moves along past it, reverting back to our pet potions project. "Do you really think these flowers have a chance at restoring skin cells?"

I gamely follow along. "It depends on whether the tale was thought up by a bunch of duffers who picked a name at random, or whether there's actually something to it."

"But most old myths and tales have a root basis in fact," she murmurs thoughtfully. "Have you tried simply crushing the petals into a paste and seeing what it does?"

"Ah, no," I say, a little embarrassed at the obvious oversight. "I had them frozen when they arrived because I wasn't ready to try anything yet. But now I've written off for more of them, so we could spare one of the flowers if you'd like to give it a go."

Granger looks intrigued and I motion towards the table. "Go on, then."

She sets to work with a mortar and pestle and I watch her do it with a sad smile. Her eyes are bright and engaged, tracking the progress she's making, and I'm nearly bowled over by an overwhelming feeling of loss. Of simply missing her. I want to hold her, hug her and run my hands up her back into her hair, kiss her again.

Of course I miss dirtier things too, and that's exactly how they feel, now: dirty. It's not a teenage boy's absurd fantasies anymore, it's something awful and horrible for her that I have no right to want, and all I feel about them now is ashamed.

No; it's not all about the shagging - or near-shagging, pre-shagging - whatever. I've not reverted back to my earliest incarnations of her that Snape called me out on. But neither am I the obsessive prick thinking only of getting her knickers off. Somewhere in there is a middle ground, and I think I've found it at last.

But my brain whispers in the back of my mind, you'll never touch her again. No, probably not.

The few petals Granger had to work with don't produce much in the way of a paste but she dabs some with her index finger and gently rubs it into the first letter carved into her arm. I want to come closer to look but I don't, watching her face instead to see if it had any effect.

It didn't. Her face falls slightly, even though it was a long shot anyway, and I can't stop myself from blurting out, "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry that - that's on your arm. It shouldn't be there. I'm sorry."

Granger looks at me sharply, a piercing look that makes me immediately want to backtrack. "I shouldn't have brought it up, I'm sorry, I won't -"

"You didn't put it there," she says softly, her eyes fixed somewhere around my shoulder.

"I didn't," I agree, horrible wretch that I am, "but I didn't do anything to stop it, either."

That sad look is on her face again and I'm almost overcome with the desire to do something - say something, anything, to wipe it off.

"I don't know what you could have done," Granger responds in a low voice, giving me an absolution I do not deserve. "You're doing the right thing now," and I almost snort.

"Yes, always too late, long after I could have made an actual difference," I scoff in disdain.

With a serious expression, Granger continues on this absurd path. "This will make a lot of difference to a lot of people," she waves a hand around the lab, even though there isn't a single potion currently being brewed.

I can't take it, though. I have to get back on comfortable footing. "Don't be such a Gryffindor about it, Granger. Stop being selfless. Of all people, it's not your job to make me feel better."

She looks moderately insulted and I think we might be making progress before I balls it all up again. Apparently apologies are contagious, and as I suspected I might, I can't hold back in the more critical sort, the ones of a much more immediate importance.

"And I'm sorry about -"

But she stops me. She can't do that part yet, she says. Can't hear it out loud. In fairness, I did just tell her to stop absolving me of things.

I wonder how tightly she's got it all walled away in her mind, whether she learned the tactic I so wanted her to. Half of me thinks well, good on her. The other half thinks it's probably not healthy, but I've long forfeited the right to any opinions I might have on how Granger handles what happened to her.

But I have to apologise properly. It's eating me up inside, speaking of unhealthy mental processing, and with the next two evenings occupied with Severus and then Blaise, I decide to write Granger a note instead.

She can read it now; save it for later. Start and stop fifteen times. Tear it into a hundred pieces and throw it in the loo.

But she may never want to talk about it openly, with a true dialogue of back-and-forth, the exposure of being face-to-face with the same person who hurt her so incredibly deeply. At least this way I can take my time and say what I mean, and Granger can take it - or not take it - in any way she needs to, when she's ready. If she's ever ready. But I can't control that; all I can control is the message I deliver and I have to get it off my chest. It's unfinished business and I owe it to her, if nothing else.

I, too, have to start and stop fifteen times, working to find the delicate balance of an explanation that isn't a justification, too much detail against something sparse that comes across almost cavalier when I read it back, something that sounds like nothing but excuses.

Not patting myself on the back for all the ways I was trying to 'help.' Too much blithering idiot pity about what a fuck-up I am, pouring regret from every orifice.

I mean, I am that, but it's not Granger's job to deal with it.

Telling her I love her when it just sounds like a cheap trick.

Waxing nostalgic about her gorgeous brown eyes and her glorious hair and how much I miss her.

Fuck it, maybe this is therapeutic for me in a different sense, every letter I write and then reject before lighting it on fire. I roll my eyes, intimately exhausted of wallowing in self pity all the time. Maybe when I'm finally done with this exercise, that'll alleviate somewhat.

At least I'll have said my piece.

Granger -

I'm sorry I let things get as far as they did between us. I promise we didn't do anything you were uncomfortable with I didn't consider how you'd view our time spent together with a clearer memory of things, and there's no excuse for it.

I should have told you the truth about what was going on sooner but I didn't want to make things worse.The time I spent with you was the best I've ever hadI did my best to keep you out of harm's way

The more I struggle, the more I realise there is absolutely no justification for anything Blaise and I did. Yes, I was trying to help, but it all sounds terrible when I try to write it down. Everything seemed like a good idea at the time; rational, even. Me testing her as Harry to see how she reacted to her best friend. Blaise testing her as Ron to see if she was afraid of… her boyfriend? Sexual contact?

Weak. Weak excuses for… what? What was I gaining from it? Peace of mind? Some. A little. Not enough to justify the cost.

Finding myself in an even deeper pit of self-loathing now, I try to wrap it up.

I'm sorry that I hurt you.

It's the last thing I ever want to do.
Draco