Overcoat flapping in the chilled wind and wet trousers weighing him down, Draco hiked through the ferns and brush toward the bridge. He pulled at the pill bottle caught in his coat's right-hand pocket, exhaling when he had to surrender his other hand to the evening air to free both hand and bottle. He twisted the cap off and shook two pills into the palm of his hand.

"You're weak, boy."

Draco ignored him and threw back the pills, swallowing them dry. He hadn't lied when he told Hermione that he saw some ghosts more than others. His father, unfortunately, was one whom he saw the most. In fact, it was rare his father didn't appear just to degrade him.

Stalking close to Draco's shoulder, Lucius trudged through the ferns and nettle, his gaze a brand on Draco's back. He'd been self-medicating in an attempt to make his father disappear. He glanced back, noting the long nearly white hair and rhythm of his father's cane-assisted gait.

The pills clearly haven't worked.

Draco ran a hand through his hair, slicking the damp strands out of his eyes. Exhaustion pulled at him. Ever since the term started, he'd slept even more fitfully than at the manor.

He hadn't even wanted to return to school. However, he'd done so at the request of his mother. She thought getting out of the empty manor would help him.

It didn't.

Now, Narcissa was there by herself in that too large, too vacant manor that resembled a prison more than a home.

Draco wrote to his mother every week, and they were usually formal, curt messages, though he always made sure to give his mother his love. In the past few weeks, his mother's responses had gotten shorter and less lively. Draco felt that she might be withering away in that house. With no house elves to serve and no family to visit, Narcissa was alone for the first time since marrying his father. He hoped she didn't give in to her grief and despair.

Draco had shut himself off a while ago. He was visited by ghosts, but he'd been walking around a phantom of his old self for months. Everything just seemed inane. Especially school.

After witnessing so much brutal, ruthless death a few months ago, returning to learn about how to defend himself from the Dark Arts was utterly pointless. He'd already experienced the real world. Had participated in the evils of it.

Draco rubbed at his Dark Mark scar when it seemed to burn in response to the thought. As though it prodded him to take up the Dark Lord's cause. As if it urged him to remember why he'd taken the mark in the first place. Draco shook his head.

"You did it for me, son, didn't you?"

Lucius' voice snapped Draco from his thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder. Yes, he had partially done it for his father. He'd wanted to restore his family's position and also make his father proud.

He scoffed.

He'd been so blind, so foolish. He'd been so focused on pleasing his mentors that he hadn't stopped to think about the consequences. Draco had never considered one of them being the death of Harry Potter. He was bleeding Harry Potter for Merlin's sake. The Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived.

Draco had always felt like Harry would survive the Dark Lord as he had countless times before, so when his faith began crumbling, he felt confident that those protecting Hogwarts would triumph over…Voldemort.

The name was like an electric shock. Draco put a hand against his chest and rubbed. Some weak part of him had wanted to weep when Hermione had said his name.

Draco shut his eyes and turned his head from the past. He could still feel the effects of the Cruciatus curse sometimes. He could hear Hermione's screams, and see her face twisted in agony. His fingers curled into a white-knuckled fist.

When he'd pulled her from the water, he'd let go of her so quickly because touching her had been like static electricity. It emanated between them and it pained Draco.

Hermione was trauma and past pain. She was his darkest moment and a reminder of all he'd lost. Draco unclenched his hand. She was also his lifeline that kept him from drowning and a breath of air that saved him from suffocating. He recalled bits and pieces of that day, and most of it consisted of Hermione.

Draco shook out his hand as if that would erase the feel of her.

He'd tried to wipe away the memories of that day, but all the pain, anger, and grief had been seared into his mind. No matter what he did—drown himself in fire whiskey, attempt to escape into a book, or swallow endless amounts of pills—he couldn't forget the day he shattered. Something within him had broken to the point of being unable to mend. If he were a broken rain catcher, then his coping mechanisms were a water-soluble glue holding the pieces of him together, and it rained every day.

He remembered Hermione's face, remembered the feel of her hand around his. She'd squeezed so hard it had hurt. Good, he'd thought. The more he focused on the pain in his knuckles, the less of his mind he gave to the Dark Lord.

She never let go. Even when he was drowning, Hermione hadn't let him sink.

Perhaps that's why Draco had reacted when he saw her falling and again when she'd gone under the water—because she hadn't let him go, hadn't let him slip away, so he wouldn't either.

A part of him wondered if Hermione had thrown herself off the bridge. He wouldn't have judged her for it. Draco adjusted the collar of his wool coat against the cool breeze and then returned his hands to the pockets. He couldn't imagine why she'd do something so reckless, so he didn't fully believe it. However, in the same breath he'd accuse her of selfishness or recklessness, Draco understood why. For a moment when he saw her plummeting toward the water, he'd wished it was him. Only briefly, but the thought had crossed his mind. He was jealous Hermione would escape the pain of the past and move on to join—Draco realized he didn't know anything about Granger. Were her muggle parents still alive? Had she lost her father like he had?

An unsolicited memory flashed through his mind and a word clanged through him.

Mudblood.

Draco sneered at the recollection of him shoving that word in her face and laughing afterward. He sneered at himself. His blood may be pure through ancestry, but Draco was filthy. His hands were covered in blood and his soul had been tainted. Some part of him believed he'd never fully come clean—that the slate would never completely be wiped away. He would always carry with him his sins and he'd willingly crucify himself repeatedly to right those terrible wrongs.

Draco paused, listening. Hermione hadn't come after him, hadn't rushed to catch up. Not that he wanted her to. The more time she was around him, the more she'd hurt. They were each other's reminders of the past, and honestly, it pained Draco to see Hermione's face. To see that she looked like he felt—tired, weak, and hopeless.

He remembered in the Forbidden Forest how different she'd been then. She most likely still had hope then. Something to fight for and be strong for.

As the Dark Lord tortured Draco, her hand clasping his had kept him grounded. Faint images of her face came through like a hand on a foggy window. She'd stared at him, mouthing something over and over again—something Draco hadn't been able to make out over the ringing in his ears—but she'd had a fire in her eyes he hadn't felt.

Since then, that fire in her eyes had been replaced by a dull gleam. He'd seen her around the castle. She walked with her eyes trained on nothing in particular, her gaze distant. Draco hadn't realized how much her laugh and smile lit up the corridors until those signs of joy were nowhere to be seen. Until her best friend died and there was no reason to smile anymore.

Draco thought about Harry sometimes. Thought about the very night they met.

He'd wanted to befriend him for all the wrong reasons. His father had demanded he get close to Potter. Not to become true friends, but to keep him close. Even eleven-year-old Draco was simply a tool his father wielded to further the plans of the Dark Lord.

It was all about blood purity, and despite Potter being a noble, head-strong wizard—the opposite of most Death Eaters and even Voldemort himself—he was pure-blooded. And a strong pure-blooded wizard at that. James and Lily Potter were not only known for their bond as a witch and wizard but also as husband and wife. Draco had heard all about them, of course, though his father had painted them as insolent fools who were too narrow-minded and selfish to truly understand the kind of impact they could create with the power they had.

Draco knew now that it had been their power, their love, which had saved Harry from the Dark Lord's first attack. Somehow—somehow, they had saved their defenseless baby against the most powerful dark wizard of the modern world.

He shook his head. Even now it was a feat to survive the Killing Curse, and somehow Harry Potter had survived it twice. His throat bobbed. Even The Boy Who Lived could not survive it a third time.

Draco inhaled, breathing deep the crisp evening air. He placed a palm over the bridge railing and stared out over the Black Lake at the closing of the sunset. If he watched closely, he could catch the green flash before the sun dipped below the horizon.

But he hadn't come up here to watch the sunset.

He glanced down under the bridge to where Granger stood still soaked in her jeans and cream sweater. Her brown boots were muddied, and she'd had on a maroon overcoat similar to his, but it hadn't made it out of the water.

Perhaps he should retrieve it for her.

Draco shook his head before he could second-guess the idea.

The silence broke when Hermione yelled, "Reducto!" and an explosion of dirt and plants flew everywhere.

"Bloody hell," Draco gasped, covering his face with his arms.

When no more spells were cast, he peeked farther over the railing only to see Hermione, legs lowered into a power stance and arm outstretched from the casting of the spell. She didn't move. Draco squinted. She seemed to be breathing heavily while continually scanning the emptiness.

Draco retrieved his wand and whispered, "Sonorus."

He listened as Hermione muttered to herself hundreds of meters below. "They're not real," she said, poking herself repeatedly in the temple. "They're dead. They're not real. They're dead. They're dead."

Draco didn't know if she even realized she was saying it. After a moment of composition, Hermione tucked her wand away and started up the hill he'd just been on.

He waited to see if she'd stop.

She did.

Hermione paused and stooped to pick up something from under the ferns: his ring. He nearly smirked until she jerked back, reeling as though the jewelry had burned her. "Malfoy," she muttered—his name no more than a breath on her lips. His throat bobbed, neck muscles clenching at the feeling that swam through him when she scoffed. It was barely noticeable, but with the charm, Draco heard it clearly. She scoffed at his name—at the idea of him. And Draco didn't entirely blame her for feeling that way. Most days he hated himself too.

When Hermione at last turned with the ring still in her palm, Draco had begun to leave before she could spot him, but as he did, a cut off gasp drew his attention.

"Granger," he breathed, rushing to the railing.

She had fallen to the damp, muddy ground where she convulsed.

Draco stumbled back.

He knew what caused those jerky movements. He knew and feared having to relive the horrors of that day. He feared he would be the same coward who had let his father die. Who hadn't been able to stop the Dark Lord from harming Hermione. Who had watched as Harry Potter collapsed to the forest floor and didn't rise again.

"Coward," his father said from over his shoulder. "The Granger girl is in his grasp right now and you're up here hiding." He spat the word as if it were bitter on his tongue.

Draco faced him. "It's a hallucination, much like you are," he said with a shrug. "There's nothing I can do."

Lucius folded both hands over the head of his cane and cocked his head, long hair parted perfectly over his shoulders. "Draco, my boy," he said, voice low, "I thought I raised you better."

"You didn't raise me at all."

Lucius nodded once. "Well, I certainly didn't raise you to hide from your own power. You are a Malfoy and you are almost nineteen. It's time to grow up, Draco."

Draco whirled. "Grow up? Grow up?" He stormed toward his father, a finger pointed at him. "I watched you die, father. The Dark Lord killed you. He killed Harry Potter." He tapped his index finger against his chest so hard it almost hurt. "He tortured me." Draco paused, breathing heavily. "I endured in two days more than you did in a lifetime."

"And you survived." His father looked at him then, perhaps with less disdain and disappointment than he'd ever seen. "Stop being weak and do something. Power is not something to shy away from. Use it."

Use it? How could he—

Draco couldn't see what Hermione was fighting, but perhaps there was a way in which he could. He adjusted his grip on his wand and then aimed it at Hermione's twisting form at the bottom of the bridge.

"Legilimens," Draco whispered, and the magic yanked him into Hermione's mind, but nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.

It was that day, months ago, and she was reliving every second of it. The ridicule, the cruelty, the torture.

God, her screams were enough to make his skin crawl.

Because he'd heard her scream like that even before the Dark Lord had used the Cruciatus curse on her. It had been in his house, and Bellatrix Lestrange had done it. Draco had done nothing to stop her then. He'd been too scared of the consequences if she chose to turn her wand on him. Too much had been at stake for his family and their standing with the Dark Lord, but mostly Draco had been a coward.

Within her mind, he turned to the scene from that day where Hermione writhed on the ground, clothes dirty and bloodstained, and forced himself to reside there. Though a grimace pulled at the corners of his mouth, Draco refused to turn away.

He needed her to get out of this vision or hallucination—whatever it may be. It was hurting her and Draco could practically feel it himself.

As though the folds of Hermione's mind were silk fabric, he tugged on them and pulled himself in. There on the forest floor, he knelt by her side. Though she couldn't see him, he hoped she would hear.

"Come on, Granger," he whispered, taking her hand in his. "Come out of this." He squeezed harder. "This isn't real. Not anymore."

From over his shoulder, the Dark Lord twisted his wand and Hermione choked back another scream as her body contorted to withstand the pain. That fire in her eyes had nearly been snuffed out and Draco could feel her surrendering.

"No, no, no," he snapped, tugging at her arm. "No giving up. You do not give up."

She could neither see nor hear him. Hermione's eyes began to close, and Draco knew she had started to allow the pain to overwhelm her entirely.

Anger swelled within him as he peered down at her. He jerked his gaze up to the Dark Lord, silently begging for him to stop even though he hadn't that day. He'd tortured Hermione for hours while Draco fought against the binding spells trapping him. Yet it had all been futile because he'd had his turn eventually.

Draco shoved those memories away and focused on Hermione's—the one she was suffering in. That anger turned to rage and Draco began to see red.

He looked up at the Dark Lord, face hot and blood boiling and yelled, "STOP!" He aimed that rage at whatever sickness had taken over Hermione's mind and willed it to end. He needed her to come back. Desperation filled him, and without fully meaning to he cried out again. "PLEASE!"

Blackness filled Draco's vision and in the next moment, Hermione's subconscious threw him from her mind. He landed hard on the wooden boards, head reeling as reality set back in. He scrambled to his feet and looked out over the edge to see Hermione breathing heavily and shaking but awake and alert.

"Merlin's beard," he mumbled, running a cold hand through his hair.

There were few times in Draco's life in which he had truly been terrified, but he'd have to include that one on the list. His heart pounded in his chest and his blood thumped in his temples. He glanced at his hand which trembled, but a few squeezes of his fingers helped mellow the adrenaline out and steady his hand.

As he composed himself, he risked a glance back down at Hermione who seemed to be doing the same. She brushed dirt from her pants, though the brown stains on the cream colored sweater remained. She didn't bother pulling out her wand to magically clean up her appearance. Perhaps she didn't have the energy to.

In a few moments, Hermione closed a fist over his ring, tucked it into a pocket, and then marched back up toward the castle.

Draco took a deep breath and let his shoulders relax. He closed his eyes and forced all his muscles to unclench—his jaw, his shoulders, hands, and he even forced his facial expression into one of neutrality. He wasn't sure how long it had been since he'd experienced real peace. This sure wasn't it since he had to make himself loosen up a bit. And it was only a bit. Tension lay right under his skin waiting to make its return.

For now, he'd keep it at bay.

Draco's boots had only clicked a couple times over the wood boards before a flash of deep red caught his eye. He cocked his head at the book that lay open face-down, pages strewn and bent against the floor. He bent to gather up the book and cradled it against an open-faced palm as he studied the cover.

The Hidden Monsters of Ilvermorny.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips. Hermione must have been reading. Draco nodded to himself. That must be why she was so close to the railing in the first place. How she got from here to diving toward the Black Lake he could only guess.

Draco tucked the book against his side and walked back toward the castle grounds, making a mental note to return Hermione's book to her when he could.

Tomorrow morning, perhaps.

He glanced over either shoulder, but his father didn't make an appearance, and Draco was once again alone.