Ten

"How is he?" Hermione asks Lupin as he walks up the garden path from the shed; she's been waiting for him for lack of anything else to do, chin in her hands, sitting on the porch steps, all bundled up in winter garb. Coat, hat, gloves, scarf, and cosy wool-lined boots. Harry and Ron had gotten in about an hour ago, from a mission, she thinks, because instead of wanting to spend time with her, they'd disappeared up to their room, oddly silent. And then Lupin gets closer, and she sees his grim expression. She stands, feeling suddenly shaky. "Is he okay?"

"He's, uh... He's fine, Hermione, I suppose," Lupin says, stopping at the bottom of the steps, and Hermione feels cold in a way that isn't from the temperature outside. "I think – we need to talk, Hermione. Could you come through to my office?"

"We're alone." Hermione hugs herself, her bones feeling hollow and insubstantial as she stares at his sympathetic face. "So just tell me," she says, quick and hard, feeling like she's about to shatter apart. A dozen possibilities run through her mind, from one of the Order members hurting him to him having somehow killed himself in his cell, but none of them fit in with Lupin saying he's fine. "Remus, please."

"He, ah. Merlin, I'm sorry, Hermione, but he says he doesn't want to see you again," Lupin says reluctantly. He looks apologetic and weary, standing there with slumped shoulders in the snowy garden.

Hermione feels oddly hot. "Liar," she says, and the word coming out of her mouth doesn't even sound like her. Her ears are ringing and she feels dizzy, clutching at the porch railing. "Liar."

Lupin's expression is desperately sad as he looks at her. "I'm not lying, Hermione. He finished the debriefing process today, but he decided he doesn't want to leave the cell, and he said he didn't think he should see you again."

"Why?" she spits out, breathless and still in shock. It hasn't yet sunk in, she doesn't think. She feels wobbly.

"He thought, considering that you're doing so well, it would be best if he stayed away," Lupin says in an attempt at a neutral voice. He doesn't sound happy, though.

"Doing well? " Hermione stares at him and laughs. Bitter and humourless, the laughter hitches out of her in sobbing breaths, and tears start to fall as she plumps down on the steps, her legs giving way. Lupin reaches out, full of concern, and his hand falls on her upper arm.

"Don't touch me!" she says too loud and frantic as she flinches away and then chokes on her tears, trying to shove them down. Forcing herself to try to take slow, deep breaths. "He's being stupid, Remus. You know that. He's – he's punishing himself. Staying in the cell? Cutting me off? You can't let him –"

"We can't stop him, Hermione. We don't need his cell yet, so if he wants to stay put, it's almost easier, for now. And we can't force him to see you," he tells her, regret and apology printed all over his face as she looks up at him through tear-blurred eyes. Hermione shakes her head, refusing to accept that, the wind cutting cold over her wet cheeks, and she smudges them with the backs of her woolly-gloved hands.

"No. No. You see," she says slightly wildly, a manic edge to her tone, "this is very ironic. You see, I'm not 'doing so well'. I've only been pretending to be so that you'll let me see him when the time is up." Hermione tries to wobble a smile at him despite her tears, and thinks she makes a horrible rictus. "I'm actually doing terribly, and I desperately need to see him," she says, brittle and stiff. "But you – you've all ruined things. You tried to help, but you meddled. You meddled, and you ruined something that didn't need to be fixed." She glares at Lupin furiously. "You have to tell him I'm not alright." She pauses, and then the words rush out, small and broken. "I need him. I – I love him. You have to tell him that."

"Of course. Of course, I'll tell him," Lupin says quickly, an odd pain in his voice. "I will. But he seemed fairly determined, Hermione." She isn't surprised. It seems like the sort of stupid thing Malfoy would do. He is unexpectedly stupidly noble and self-sacrificing, even when he doesn't have to be. Not for the first time, Hermione wonders if he would still be sorted into Slytherin. Probably.

"He's punishing himself."

"I know," Lupin says, sitting down beside her with a grunt. He leaves a good foot of space between them and wraps his coat closer around him. His breath makes steam clouds in the air, like a dragon. "The things he's done, Hermione..."

Her hackles go up. "He had to," she jumps in, defending him, and Lupin holds up a hand, pale blue eyes mild.

"Calm down, Hermione. I know that," he says, his tone as mild as his expression. "I've spent nearly two weeks picking Draco's brain, poring over his memories. The only way I could know the man better is if we'd used a pensieve. I think I have a fair idea of his character, after all that."

"He's a good man," Hermione says in a whisper, looking down at her interlaced gloved fingers.

"He is," Lupin agrees. "And he has a courage and determination I never would've imagined he had buried in him, when he was a student at Hogwarts. Not many people could have done what he has these past few years without breaking entirely, in one way or another." Lupin purses his mouth, thoughtful. "He bears so much horror. So much. I don't envy him." He looks ill, remembering, and Hermione doesn't think she'll ever want to know the extent of what Malfoy has done.

"But he's good. He's not – he doesn't deserve to bear the blame." Hermione fumbles. "It's not fair – he only remained a Death Eater because the Order told him to, otherwise he would've defected. He did it all, saw it all, for the Order. Because they – we – told him to. He shouldn't have the guilt of that on his shoulders."

"No. He shouldn't," Lupin says, elbows resting on his thighs, face unshaven and obviously exhausted, "but I doubt he sees it that way."

"No. And I know he blames himself for – for what he did to me." Her voice got very small.

Lupin makes a short, complicated sound. "I didn't ask him much about that. Just so you know, Hermione." It's a relief to hear. "But he let slip enough that – well, I understand that you both were victimised by you-know-who. But I still don't think your attachment is healthy."

Hermione nods. "Fair enough. And I don't care that you think that."

He chuckles. "Fair enough," he echoes.

She looks at him then, eyes connecting, and she tries to make him feel what she says. "But I need him, Remus. I'm not – I'm adrift, here. I'm drowning. Struggling to keep my head above water and I'm getting so, so tired. I need him. He keeps me afloat. I know it might not be healthy, but it's my reality now. Nice or not, it's just how things are. And I have to work with how things are, not how we all wish they could be." It feels weirdly freeing to be so vulnerable – so bluntly honest.

Lupin looks down at his hands, loosely laced together between his thighs and lets out a heavy sigh. "Okay. Okay, Hermione. I'll talk to him in a few days. I'll tell him you need him." He glances at her. "He agreed to see a Healer, admittedly in order to be able to remain in his cell, so perhaps she can help him with his guilt. I don't know."

"Healer Siobhan?" Hermione asks disparagingly. "I'm not sure how helpful she'll be. She wasn't very understanding when I spoke to her. She thought – well, she had an idea in her head of the situation that didn't line up with reality at all." She's unsurprised that Malfoy had to be coerced into speaking to a Healer. She imagines he feels much the same way as her; that no one who wasn't there can hope to understand.

"In her defence, none of us knew the full situation, then." Lupin shrugs. "Once I give her a summation of my notes, I have a feeling her perspective may be different."

"I hope so," Hermione says, and the reality of the situation hits her as her mind ticks over. "God. What a fucking mess." She glances at Lupin. "'Scuse my language."

He laughs tiredly. "No, that sounds like the right description. Godric knows life hasn't exactly been fair on you. Or him."

"But then, that's war."

"It is. And because of what he's done, we have an awful lot of valuable information, Hermione." Lupin looks intent and grimly pleased, a hard glint in his eyes. "Particularly the information on the American wizards. We're in active negotiations with the Magical Congress of the United States of America, thanks to the names he gave us. He may have gained us allies we desperately need if things go well in our communications with them." And then he looks down at his hands again, sadness in the lines around his mouth. "In addition to closure on a lot of missing persons."

"Did you tell him?"

"I have." He nods. "But I'm not sure whether it sank in."

"Probably not," she says miserably, hugging herself and folding forward over the bars of her arms. They sit in silence a moment longer before Lupin stands, his knees clicking.

"It's too cold out here for me without a warming charm. My joints are aching. I'm heading in. Coming?"

"I think I'll sit a little longer." The sky has darkened while they sat there talking, and deep-grey thunderheads have crept across the blue of the sky, blotting out the sun and casting the world in greys that make Hermione think of Malfoy's eyes. Footsteps creak on the porch, and the door bangs shut, and Hermione sighs.

"...And she says that she needs you," Lupin finishes.

"She doesn't know what she needs," Draco says coldly, staring at the floor as he sits on the edge of his bed. "She tried to seduce me right before I took her to be violated, and potentially raped by me. Because in her fucked up head, somehow that made sense. That if we'd already – then it wouldn't –" He can't go on, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth, an ache behind his eyes. He looks up at the older wizard, who stands by the doorway, looking haggard as always. "She doesn't know what the fuck she needs," he repeats.

"She told me to tell you that she loves you," Lupin says awkwardly, and Draco squeezes his hands into fists, nails on one hand ragged and digging into his palm, nails on his other hand not yet grown in enough. His chest hurts.

"She's better off without me. You told me she was coping, Lupin. You said." The words come out rasping and thick. Draco has to believe that. Because he can't be what she needs. How can he be? Lupin sighs and shifts on his feet.

"I thought she was. We all did. But she's told me since then that she's not coping. She was just trying her best to seem normal because she was scared if she didn't, we wouldn't let her see you." Lupin sounds distressed by the idea that he's caused Hermione pain. "And now you're telling her you won't see her. It's going to break her, Draco." Anger seeps into Lupin's voice, his tone tight and sharp.

"I already did that," Draco says, images that he can't banish crowding his head. They plague him constantly now as he sits in his silent cell with nothing to distract him. He's spiralled since Weasley and Potter barged into his cell. Tumbled down a rabbit hole of guilt that is eating him alive. He suffers through a constant reel of every way he's hurt her. Every way he scared her, or violated her, or struck her. Every bite, every bruise, every flinch and every sob. The way she sat catatonic on the bed after the dinner, horribly dead behind the eyes as he tried to heal her every hurt. The way she'd cringed from his hand slipping tentatively beneath her jumper as they'd kissed, the way she'd touched his dick and then had frozen in fear and disgust. "I already broke her."

"Draco... I know you have a lot of... –" The words blur together as Lupin goes on trying to convince Draco, but he isn't listening. He's lost in his own head. I already broke her. And he did. He took Hermione Granger, and he tore her apart. He took something from her that she'll never get back. She'll never be able to experience anything the same way as she did before; he changed the course of her life irrevocably. Tainting it. He was the instrument of her ruin. He's not the one she needs. She only thinks that because of how he broke her. How he couldn't save her.

A couple of days later, Hermione's sitting in the lounge with Harry and Ron, watching them play wizarding chess and actually managing to half read a book when Lupin pops his head into the room and beckons to her. She flings off her lap rug and uncurls from the chair, heart beating quickly, legs shaky beneath her. She's been eating even less than usual because she feels so sick with worry, and today she's reached the point of a light-headed lack of hunger that feels oddly freeing but has left her trembly. Lupin looks too serious for it to be good news, his expression tight and strained as she crosses the room.

"What?" she asks, twisting her fingers together nervously as they stand in the hall by the front door, the Christmas tree gone now and the hall feeling oddly empty without it taking up half the space. "Did you speak to him? What'd he say?"

"I did speak to him," Lupin says, and his tone is confirmation the news isn't good. "Do you want to go to my office?"

Hermione sighs. "No. I'm not going to fall apart, Remus," she says and hopes that's not a lie. "Just tell me."

Lupin eyes her for a second before he speaks. "He's – he's not in a good place, Hermione. I tried to convince him that you want him here, but he dismissed everything I said." He frowns, obviously frustrated. "He said – I'm sorry – but he said that your feelings were situational and would pass if he stayed away, and that it was best for him to be out of your life. That you'd be able to heal better without him."

"God!" She spits it in an angry whisper, tears springing to her eyes and fingertips pressing to her forehead in frustrated impotence. "God fucking dammit. He's an idiot!" Lupin stands silently as she mutters epithets to herself like a crazy person, anger making her thoughts skitter in her head. He's so stupid. So irritating. She can't allow it. "You can't let him, Remus. You have to take me to see him. When – when the Healer's stupid time limit is up," she adds, hating that the Healer has any say in what she does, or when she does it. Only four more days, though. If Lupin will take her to see him. If not, maybe she can talk Harry or Ron into apparating her, she thinks, her mind racing.

"I can't force him to see you, Hermione."

"Just take me to his cell then," Hermione says, sick to fucking death of everyone and everything. She hates the war, and Malfoy, and Lupin, and Harry and bloody Ron and – "I'll yell at him through the door if I bloody well have to," she snaps, just barely holding herself together.

Lupin snorts. "Alright, Hermione. I think I can do that."

They talk for a few moments longer about what exactly Malfoy said in detail, and small things like how Hermione is holding up, and whether Malfoy's seen the Healer yet – he hasn't – and then Hermione shuffles back to the sitting room, feeling deflated and exhausted. She plans to sink back into her chair and stare sightlessly at her book for a while, unable to face even something as simple as climbing three flights of stairs right now. Harry and Ron look up at her as she comes in. They've been odd around her the past few days. Awkward, tripping over their tongues, and shooting each other secretive looks. Hermione suspects they've read over the part of Malfoy's debriefing that's related to her. That thought makes her feel sick, and she's considered confronting them over it, but she hasn't been able to summon the strength yet.

They both aim curious, lingering stares at her, pausing in their game. Hermione sighs. She hasn't told them what's going on, keeping it to herself, but maybe it'll help. It certainly can't hurt – it could hardly be possible for things to feel worse. She pulls the rug back over her lap.

"Remus says Dra–Malfoy doesn't want to see me," she tells them quietly.

"...Oh," Harry says helplessly and shoots a sideways glance at Ron. "Why?" he asks after a moment's stifling silence, a tension in the air that Hermione doesn't understand. She frowns, picking at pilled balls of wool on the crocheted rug.

"He thinks he's bad for me. After what he did," she mumbles, her cheeks heating and her fingers trembling. She feels an uncomfortable mixture of mortification and vivid, awful memory. "He's fixated on how – how he hurt me." The two boys look away, Ron fidgeting with a pawn he'd taken from Harry, that strange tension still thick in the air. Hermione tries to soldier on. "He can't seem to understand that he's not to blame, and he thinks I'll be better off without him." She pauses a beat. "But I won't. I can't – can't do this without him."

"Oh c'mon, Hermione" Harry says encouragingly as Ron nods. "Of course you can. You're doing really well."

Hermione recalls her morning – she'd woken to memories flooding in as always, and had cried into her pillow until her eyes were swollen and sore, her nose red and running, her chest aching as she'd gasped through her sobs. She'd kept thinking about the first revel, over and over, and it killed her – both what had happened, and the way it tainted the desire she felt toward Malfoy. The very real want Hermione felt for him was almost inextricably tangled up with the rape. She had felt arousal twist deliciously in her stomach at the memory of his mouth hot and needy on hers – only to remember the feel of him moving roughly over her, forcing his penis inside her with stinging, burning pain.

And then, from there, she'd thought about the snatcher who had nearly raped her, and the American dark wizards who had violated her in ways she hadn't even imagined before that evening, the only paltry mercy being that they hadn't used their penises. It had been several hours before she'd managed to wrestle the flashbacks and crying jags down enough to even contemplate getting out of bed. And then, once she was, she fled straight to the shower where she'd compulsively washed the parts of herself that they'd mauled, scrubbing hard and long enough that she had broken the skin by her left nipple. It's sore and weepy even now.

So, doing well? The thought is a fucking joke. Ridiculous. Hermione gives Harry a scathing look. "No, I'm not, Harry. I – just because I'm not falling to fucking pieces in front of you doesn't mean I'm doing okay!" It comes out slightly shrill and teary-wet, handfuls of the rug balled up in her hands. She thinks of tonight, which will probably be like every other night so far. Dragging herself numbly up the stairs and taking the Dreamless Sleep, curled in bed crying miserably until the potion drags her under. "Honestly, you have no idea."

"How could we? You don't tell us anything," Ron says slightly bitterly, and Harry makes a 'shut up' sound, and Hermione bites her tongue, anger thudding hot and dull in her veins.

"Well, I'm telling you now," she says at last, acid in her tone, and Ron looks immediately guilty. "Happy?"

"I'm sorry, 'Mione. I shouldn't have said that." He ducks his head, cheeks flushing hotly, still turning that pawn over and over in his fingers, his beard looking odd. "I just – we want to be there for you. And we can't because...because you haven't talked to us."

"Because I don't want to talk about it," Hermione says shortly, curled up defensively in her rug, her breathing a little fast and shallow. Adrenaline is rushing through her system suddenly, and her fingers twist on each other too tightly, white-knuckled. "And I don't have to, with Malfoy. He understands. He was there. He knows. I need him. I lo–" She stops herself before she can say it and shudders out a shaky breath, swiping at an escaped tear. "But now – now Remus says he refuses to see me. And I need him. He's an idiot." She laughs tearfully. "I thought it was just you two who are so stupid when it comes to emotions, but maybe it's every male in the world.

"Oh 'Mione..." Ron breathes sympathetically.

"Maybe he's just sick of me," she mumbles, spiralling, rationality sliding away from her, slippery and ephemeral. "Maybe he doesn't want me – maybe he hates what I remind him of," she says dumbly, not really even thinking about the words coming out of her mouth. She's getting lost inside her fears. Inside the sick sense of self-loathing that has squirmed under her skin all day, despite her attempts to suppress it. She feels dirty – ashamed. It's painfully cliché, but Hermione feels it regardless; her trauma has no regard for not being cliché.

"Don't be so bloody stupid, Hermione. He said he just wanted you to be happy, preferably with him," Ron says like he's reciting something from memory, while Hermione stares at him in puzzlement, and Harry buries his head in his hands with a groan. "So that doesn't make sense. Besides, anyone would be lucky to have you, let alone someone like Malfoy. He's lucky you even want to look at him after –" Harry thumps Ron hard.

"Shut up, you bloody idiot," he hisses, and Hermione's empty stomach lurches. Oh no. She feels shivery and cold.

"Ron?" she asks, dangerously quiet, thoughts percolating in her mind. What Ron had quoted didn't sound like something Lupin would have written down. They've talked to Malfoy; she knows it. "How do you know what Malfoy's said?"

Ron blanches. "Um."

"We went to see Malfoy a few days ago," Harry admits, sensibly not trying to deny it. Thank Merlin; Hermione doesn't have the emotional capability to deal with trying to pry the truth out of the two of them right now. She swallows hard, a lump in her throat, and god, she feels nearly feverish, tension winding her muscles tight. She clutches the rug hard in her fists, imprinting crochet patterns into her skin.

"And you didn't tell me?" she gets out with a kind of strangled calm, her voice weirdly distorted. How dare they. How dare they. She knows with near certainty that it can't have been sanctioned by Lupin, or he would surely have mentioned it to Hermione. They'd gone to, what, interrogate him? Because she knows for damn sure that they didn't go for a friendly cup of tea and a biscuit. And perhaps even worse than sneaking off to grill him – they hadn't taken Hermione. The two of them exchange another of those secretive looks, and it makes Hermione want to slap the pair of them. "What did you do?"

It takes some time, but she eventually strings together that they'd coerced Malfoy to take an extra dose of veritaserum, and then questioned him about what he'd done to Hermione.

"And?" she says, feeling numb – numb to her bones, and leaden. If they dropped her in a body of water right now, she would sink like a stone and drown, the water closing over her. She almost feels like she's drowning now; dizzy and dissociating, her thoughts cloudy and her breath hard to catch. She thinks she may be having a panic attack. "Did he say anything interesting?" The words come out harsh and awful, brimming with a cold anger; her breaths gasps that make them eye her worriedly.

The two look at each other again before they answer. "Stop that!" Hermione thuds her fist down on one thigh. Tears of frustration fill her eyes. The three of them used to share secrets, and now she's someone else entirely. Not part of that shared glance. Excluded. It hurts. "Just fucking answer me!"

"No," Ron says for the two of them. "Nothing interesting." He gulps and looks down at the chessboard. "Just – just how guilty he felt. How much he hated doing wh-what he had to do. How he wished he could've taken it all instead of you. How he would have died for you."

Hermione stares at them coldly. She's not sure they're being entirely honest, but whether or not they are – and whether or not those words give her a sick lurch of love toward Malfoy – they shouldn't have asked. Those are private things. Those were his private feelings. He must have hated having them ripped out of him. It would've killed him. She tries to steady her breathing. "How could you? You – you violated him. You forced him to – you shouldn't have – how could you?"

"We're sorry, 'Mione. We are. We both regret it, but –" Harry begins, but Hermione doesn't want to listen to their apologies. And then there's a horrified realisation dawning on her.

"What if you made him think I was better off without him?" Hermione feels like a stunned bird. Panicked and frozen even while her heart beats wildly and her muscles tremble and stutter, and it feels like she's dying. "What if you're the reason why he doesn't want to see me?" She finds her feet somehow, the rug falling to pool around her ankles, her fists balled at her sides. They look up at her, stricken, denying it, but it's too late; true or not, the idea is seeded in her head, and it's found fertile ground. She feels so angry. At everything. Everyone.

"I'm going upstairs," she says dully, cutting off Ron's attempts to both apologise and talk her around at once – a mishmash that does neither well. "I'm tired."

There's no point in yelling or arguing. They did what they did and said what they said, and Malfoy isn't going to change his stupid fucking decision just because Hermione has a screaming meltdown at Harry and Ron. Instead, she does it into her pillow. She doesn't come down for dinner.

"Hello, Draco. I'm Healer Siobhan."

He ignores her; lying on the cot in his cell as she stands in the doorway, tossing his apple into the air and catching it again, as he's been doing for the last hour or so. He's only missed twice. Draco had imagined Hermione's snorting snicker both times that he'd realised he'd missed, just in time to make a flailing, panicked attempt to avoid the fruit hitting him in the face – and failed. He thinks his jaw may bruise a little. The Healer is a slim, dark-skinned woman in pale green robes, her hair twisted up in an elegant bun. He can see her out of the corner of his eye. Slap; the apple hits his palm, and he sends it arcing back up.

"I'm here to escort you to a more comfortable space to talk."

"I'm fine here," he says. Whoosh, slap. Whoosh, slap. It's rhythmic and almost soothing. He's aware of Healer Siobhan's eyes on him. She seems uncertain. Good.

"Well, erm –" She turns and murmurs to someone out of sight, and a moment later the unseen wizard passes her a chair that she puts just inside the doorway. "Well then, let's talk, shall we?"

"No," he tells her flatly.

There's a few seconds of silence. "Lupin informed me that you agreed to see me in exchange for remaining in this cell."

Draco smiles, humourless. "Yes. And you've seen me. You can stay if you like. But I won't be talking. I never agreed to that."

It's childish and petty, but there's something satisfying in refusing to cooperate. He has so little left to him; he'll take his control and his victories where he can. He's decided; until Lupin allows him to have his wand back so that he can fight on the Order's side, he will be uncooperative. Fighting – making that pointless attempt to make up for every monstrous, terrible thing he's done – is all Draco feels he can hope for, now. And then maybe – maybe after the war, if he's still alive, Hermione might still have feelings for him, and he'll deserve her. Finally.