Twenty-Nine

Ron gives her a meaningful look as she slopes into the dining room, muzzy-headed and miserable, still in her t-shirt and the same leggings from last night, scooped off the bedroom floor. He jerks his head to the kitchen, and she nods and follows him in, feeling nervous and worried. Mrs Weasley is there, smiling and bright as she bustles about. "Can we've a coffee please, mum?" Ron asks very sweetly, and Mrs Weasley magics two brimming cups up within a moment with a good morning for Hermione, which she mumbles back with a tired smile that's entirely forced. She holds Ron's mug as he shrugs on a parka, and then he holds hers as she does the same, and then they're out the door on the porch, in the morning light.

It's chilly still, especially at this time – it was eight when Hermione slipped downstairs, and the sun hasn't warmed up the air yet. It's a cloudy day too, the sky full of puffy grey drifts, slowly sliding across the patch of sky above them, and the wetness of the ground and the last three porch steps means it either rained, or there was a heavy dew. Her toes and nose feel cold, but the parka is enough to keep her snuggly. Despite that, there's a cold that just won't leave her.

"Sleep okay?" Ron asks as they settle down at the top of the stairs, and Hermione shrugs, her mouth full of a sip of hot coffee that had nearly burnt off her tastebuds. "I see Malfoy isn't up yet?" She swallows.

"I slept okay, once I got to sleep," she says. "And no, he was still sleeping when I got up. I left him a glass of water and a pain potion that should help, but we don't have any hangover cure in the bathroom. Hopefully, he'll be okay when he wakes up. I've never seen him that drunk before. Not even after the flogg–" She cuts herself off, and Ron's expression is pained sympathy before she looks away, chewing on the inside of her bottom lip.

"I know about the hangover cure," Ron says, woebegone, and she's so glad he didn't mention the flogging. "I checked when I got up. My head is ringing like a bell, and I feel sick ."

"Well, I'm not sure coffee will help."

"Coffee always helps," Ron says emphatically, clutching his cup tighter in his two hands as though afraid Hermione will confiscate it for his good health. Well. She actually doesn't care. She's too nervous. "So. Did Malfoy say anything, before he passed out?" Ron asks, and Hermione's stomach churns.

She looks down at her own coffee, also cradled in both hands, to keep her fingers warm. The milky liquid shivers as she shifts her grip. She feels properly nauseated, and she hasn't even drunk at all. It hardly seems fair. "He talked about wanting to fight because he'd murdered a girl and felt guilty," she says in one quick rush, not wanting to draw it out or get into details. "Basically." She feels compelled to add: "I mean, it was obviously a little more complicated than that, and he was drunk, and slurring, and – but that seemed to be the gist of it." She falls silent, looking at Ron anxiously. Fear is tying a giant knot behind her sternum. It feels hard to breathe, and her fingertips are tingling for some reason. She nearly feels light-headed as she stares at him.

No. She does – she definitely does feel light-headed. She gulps.

"There's no easy way to say this, 'Mione," Ron says, and Hermione wants him to hurry the fuck up. Just spit it out , she thinks furiously. "He said a lot, but it all seemed to revolve around how if he couldn't fight for the Order, then he should die. That he didn't deserve to be alive."

"He said the same to me," she whispers.

"And then he said he sometimes thought it would be best if he killed himself," Ron says bluntly, clearly speaking from memory, and Hermione makes a stifled sound of horror and denial before she can stop herself.

"No," she says, very small – barely a breath – and then Ron's hand is on her back, distant through the padded parka as he rubs briskly up and down.

"Hey. 'Mione. You're not about to faint on me holding a hot coffee, are you? 'Cause that'd be a terrible waste," he says, deadpan, and even though it's not that funny, she hiccups a wet laugh. "And you might get burnt," he adds, worry in his voice as he reaches out with his right hand, steadying her coffee, which is trembling in her hands. He's clearly set his own down, Hermione thinks inanely. She frowns, trying desperately to understand, but her brain seems to be sluggish and stupid.

"He actually said the words? Kill himself? Not, 'I should be dead', but –"

"I should kill myself," Ron clarifies, sounding grim. "Yeah. I don't like the bloke, 'Mione, but I know you love him, and, well...he doesn't deserve to end up offing himself. It's not right. Not after what he had to do for the Order."

She looks up at Ron, and there's a lot to untangle on his face. Pity and worry – the latter probably for Hermione rather than Draco – and an odd look of responsibility. Like he thinks he owes Draco. And really, she supposes the Order as a whole does owe him, for what he did. Just as it owes everyone who works for it, whether their work be noble, or hidden away and abhorrent. It's their fault he feels the way he does. She takes a shaky breath. "Well, shit ." She has the sudden urge to run upstairs and check on him. To make sure he hasn't woken alone, depressed and guilty, and opened his wrists like he did to that nameless girl's. She gulps. He won't. Surely not. He hasn't yet.

"I think he needs to fight, 'Mione," Ron says as she numbly drinks down some of her nearly-scalding coffee. It sets a warm fire in her stomach at least, even as it scorches her tongue a little, competing with the leaden cold spreading through her. He's still rubbing her back gently. "I know you don't like the idea, but I think you're gonna have to give him your blessing, or whatever it is he needs to be able to do it without feeling like he's hurting you."

"But I told him that he could," she says tightly, and tears are stinging in her eyes, emotion clogging her throat. "I told him."

"What did you say, exactly?" Ron's kind; his bright eyes like the bluest sky, and without a hint of bad behind them. Just pure, and good, and Hermione sniffles, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. She stares at the garden, small branches gently stirring in the breeze.

"I said I couldn't stop him," she admits, and Ron makes a sound of understanding.

"Yeah," he says apologetically. "Yeah, that's not really good enough, 'Mione. If you told me that about something, I'd feel like I shouldn't do the thing, and I'm not even shagging you."

"Ron!" she exclaims as she stares at him in shock, but she's laughing a little, breathy and teary. He smiles at her, rubbing a hand over his auburn beard, which actually looks quite handsome on him, despite all the teasing he's been getting.

"You need to actually give Malfoy permission, 'Mione, and mean it. He feels trapped between making you happy and not being suicidal, and I'm worried he'll end up...doing something stupid," he finishes delicately, and Hermione can see the sense in it.

"Yeah," she says at last, on a sigh. She's not willing to risk being the reason Draco kills himself, after everything he's survived. That would be unthinkable. It would be the worst tragic joke in the history of the world; the girl he risked his life to save got him dead in the end. And the guilt of that would kill her. Maybe if she sends him out there on the agreement that he doesn't do the most dangerous missions? A compromise? Or – "If he did, could he be on your team, Ron? Would you – would you look out for him? Make sure he's not taking stupid risks, and being reckless?"

"Me? Look out for Malfoy?" he asks, pointing at himself, disbelief in the words and the set of his mouth. And then he shrugs and grins wryly. "For you, 'Mione, anything."

She sniffs, tears welling up again. "Thank you, Ron. So much. For – for last night, and for this."

"What're friends for, huh?" His arm slides around her, and he kisses the top of her head as she leans into him, both of them cosy in their parkas, watching the scudding clouds for a while.

When Hermione goes back upstairs with breakfast on a tray for Draco, he's awake, and she sees the water and pain potion she left him are gone. He's lying on his back, forearm over his eyes, somehow exuding misery. He peeks at her from beneath his arm as she pushes the door shut behind her with one foot, the tray in her hands. A full English courtesy of Molly, and a cup of coffee that slops over onto the tray a little as she jostles it. "Good morning." She smiles at him sympathetically as he groans and struggles into a sitting position, rubbing his hands over his face. "I looked for a hangover cure, but there wasn't any. Sorry."

"Ugh. Morning," he mumbles, and then shoots her a nervous look. She wonders how much he remembers of last night as she sets the tray on his bedside table. "I wasn't expecting a hangover cure." He scrubs at the side of his face with the heel of his hand and yawns. "The pain potion was a pleasant surprise." His eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, his complexion greyish, and his hair dishevelled. Half over his eyes, half sticking up wildly. Hermione thinks: if he's going to go out on missions, he needs it cut. Her heart wrenches as she moves to open the curtains.

Part of her is still hoping that last night was an aberration, an anomaly, and now that Draco's sober, he'll see sense and say he doesn't want to fight after all. But she knows that won't happen. Not really. She stares out the dormer window at trees and rooftops. Her conversation with Ron had forced her to face up to and acknowledge what she'd been trying to deny for a while; that Draco's mental state was just getting worse and worse. As Hermione improved – feeling rapidly stronger and more stable in herself, so long as she stayed in her comfort zone – he was destabilising. For whatever reason, fighting openly on the side of the Order was essential to him. And selfishly, she'd been denying him that while trying to pretend that she wasn't.

Telling him that he could wasn't the same thing as giving him permission.

"I'm sorry," he says as Hermione sits back down on the edge of the bed beside his feet. Draco's sat himself up while she's been lost in thought, his coffee in his hands, his expression forlorn, and embarrassed. "I'm sorry about last night. I don't remember a lot, but I do remember Weasley had to drag me up here, which is bad enough. I get the feeling I was a mess." He's picking his words carefully, and Hermione gets the feeling that he remembers a lot more than he's letting on. But she doesn't blame him for not wanting to go over it. She didn't know what exactly had happened before Ron had brought him upstairs, but she imagined it was mortifying.

"A little. But the messiness was fine. Really. You weren't that bad. You were just...very drunk." She thinks about the way he'd wept, after admitting to murdering a little girl out of a desperate, cruel mercy, and presses her lips together hard. The memory makes her feel sick with horror and empathy. She forces herself to meet his eyes. The whites webbed with red, the look in them apologetic and uncertain.

"I'm sorry," Draco says again, shoving his hair out of his face. "I had a nightmare, and I knew there was a bottle of firewhisky stashed in the kitchen, and...well, I drank more than I meant to." He grimaces. He doesn't mention his suicidal ideation, doesn't bring up the way he'd cried, or the way he'd insisted he needed to fight, although she feels like he does remember, at least parts of it. The careful control over his expression is a dead giveaway to her now. But he's not bringing it up – which means she has to. Hermione bites her lip, hands twisting in her lap as she makes herself just say it, still meeting his eyes as he sips his coffee.

"Ron said you were talking about killing yourself," she says bluntly, and watches Draco's expression shift. He's not as good at keeping a poker face as he used to be. His eyes skitter away as his jaw tightens, and his lips flatten, and he takes in a sharp breath. His coffee cup trembles in his hand for just a second before he steadies it.

"Weasley doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut," he says flatly, refusing to meet Hermione's eyes.

"Oh shut up," she snaps, furious. "That's good. It's good that he told me that you're thinking about killing yourself because –"

"I wouldn't actually do it," he protests, and Hermione doesn't believe him.

"Dragon-dung. You wouldn't mention it if you weren't seriously considering it." And she believes that. She can't imagine Draco telling Ron something like that unless it was at the forefront of his mind, even if he was stupid-drunk.

"I was drunk, Hermione. I was talking shit."

"You told me about the girl," she retorts, hoping to provoke a reaction, and succeeding. His eyes widen and his jaw tenses even more, muscles bunching at the hinges as he sets his coffee down. "You told me you killed her because she was going to be taken up to a revel. So you cut her wrists while she fought you, and –"

"Enough!" He's ashen except for colour burning high on his cheeks, his eyes unnaturally bright. Hermione feels cruel.

"How long have you wanted to kill yourself?" she pushes.

"Don't –" He's glaring at her, and it makes her feel sick. His anger being turned on her is a wholly awful experience.

"For Merlin's sake, just answer me!" she snaps, and she feels shaky, nausea churning in her stomach.

"For years, Hermione. For fucking years." He's scathing and bitter, and she finally drops her gaze from his, staring at her fingers twining together in her lap.

"But now it's worse because you can't fight?" she asks in a small voice, and he sighs.

"Yes. The things I've done – that girl wasn't even the worst of it. Not even close. I have done so fucking much, Hermione. I'm going to be having nightmares for the rest of my life. And I deserve them. I know that." She looks up, and he's watching her, a horrible guilt filling his eyes. "I might be legally exempt from prosecution after the war because I was an agent for the Order, but morally – morally, there isn't any forgiveness for what I've done." She wants to protest that but keeps her mouth shut as he goes on. "I can try to make up for it, but I'll never actually balance the scales. I know that. My hands are dripping in blood. I've hurt and killed so many people. Stood by and watched as terrible fucking atrocities took place right in front of me."

He looks very old and tired in the morning light as he goes on, and Hermione's heart wrenches for him. He shouldn't have to bear this burden. She remembers him crying quietly in the bathroom back at the mansion after a particularly bad night – one of the nights where he came back spattered with blood and stinking of death – trying to hide his terrible guilt from her.

"It's not your fault," Hermione can't help saying, even though she knows it won't help. He's determined to hate himself, and she supposes she understands why, even though it frustrates her. She doesn't know if she could live with herself if she'd had to do what he's done. She doesn't know if she could do it in the first place. Hermione thinks she might have fallen apart very quickly – or given herself away, with her inability to keep her cover. That he'd stayed in character for so long and played the part so perfectly is both deeply disturbing, and horribly sad. Because she sees that look in his eyes and knows that he had hated every second. "I wish you'd stop blaming yourself. It's not your fault. You didn't have any choice."

"I could've chosen death," he says coldly, pale in the light that falls over the bed, and Hermione scoffs.

"Don't be stupid! Whom would that have helped? No one. The information you passed along has done a lot for the war effort – Remus told me so." She's earnest, her hand falling to rest on his knee over the blankets. "You made a difference. A valuable difference. And you didn't make anything worse ."

"I did terrible things, Hermione. Things I don't want you to ever know about."

"Well, if it wasn't you, it would've been someone else. And you tried to help where you could. And you saved me." She offers him a hopeful little smile, thumb rubbing over his knee. He says nothing to that, sitting there as if lost in memory, his jaw tight. "You aren't a bad person," she tries, and he laughs hollowly.

"You don't know, Hermione. Don't tell me –" he cuts off and sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. He looks miserable and hopeless when he drops his hands. "Just don't."

"Fine," she says, holding her hands up in surrender. It's obvious she's not going to convince him of anything, which she knew going into it. Hermione just can't stop herself from trying. "If you promise that you'll be careful, if you promise that you won't – won't kill yourself, then you can fight," she tells him instead, the words a struggle to spit out. But she thinks of what Ron said and what Draco said last night, and she knows this is the only option. She swallows hard as he looks at her, uncomprehending. "I think you should," she adds, to make it clear, the words making her feel sick, her fingers twisting together painfully. She hates this. She wants to take him and run to Argentina. "You should fight. You should go out on missions and contribute to the war effort." She pauses as he stares at her, comprehension sweeping his face now. "Ron says you can be on his strike team, which makes me feel a little better," she adds. "He said he'll look out for you."

"I don't need Weasley fucking looking out for me," Draco begins indignantly, as if it's some automatic reaction, and then snaps his mouth shut as he realises. "I – shit. Sorry. I just – really?" He looks like all his Christmases have come at once. There's a triumphant joy on his face that looks almost hungry, mixed with disbelief, tension radiating off him as he sits forward, staring at Hermione with bright eyes.

"Really. If it's so bad that you're genuinely thinking about killing yourself, then – then what else can I say?" She shrugs helplessly, and an unhappy, guilty expression flickers over his face, marring the joy.

"I'm not trying to use that as leverage, you know," he says quickly. "I don't even – I mean, I've thought about it, but that doesn't mean I'll do it. I've thought about it for years, and I've always been too much of a coward –"

"You're not a fucking coward!" she half-yells, pushing to her feet and glaring at him with clenched fists, so sick of the way he constantly disparages himself. "What you did was the opposite of cowardly. A coward would have killed themselves. Or would've run away. But you didn't. You did what had to be done, and I know it must've been terrible, and that you saw and did horrendous things, I understand that, but you aren't a coward. Or a bad person. You're a good person who was shoved into one of the most horrible situations possible, and did your best. Which was pretty damned good."

Hermione's panting with emotion by the time she's done with her rant, all breathless and furious, and tears are blurring her eyes. She swipes at them, and her vision clears to Draco holding his arms out to her. His expression is apologetic, with just a hint of triumph. "Come here. Come here, Hermione. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"You're a fucking git," she snaps, even as she climbs onto his lap, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He holds her close, rocking slightly as he rubs her back. It's frustratingly soothing. She wants to be angry at him, but she can't when he's doing this. "I can't believe you felt that bad and you didn't say anything to me. You're supposed to tell me things, and instead, you're thinking about – about..." She hitches in a juddering breath, eyes stinging and wet as she clings to him, feeling the roughness of his scars beneath his t-shirt.

"I'm not going to kill myself. I promise," he assures her.

She's crying properly now. "I hate you," she sobs, and then immediately retracts. "No, no, I don't, I'm sorry. I don't hate you."

He huffs a laugh, still rubbing her back. "Not even a little bit?"

"Not even a little bit," she says, and then sniffs wetly, teary and snotty, and getting it on his shirt, as his hair tickles her face, which reminds her: "You need a haircut if you're going out on missions. It gets in your eyes."

"Okay," he agrees, so fucking amiable now that he's gotten his own way. She wants to hit him and kiss him at the same time as she sits back, wiping her nose with the hem of her borrowed shirt. It needs a wash anyway. "That's my shirt," he says, nose wrinkling with distaste, and she glares.

"Shut up. I'm still upset with you. Lying to me by omission, again. Trying to make me think you were alright, and I knew you weren't. I knew something was wrong. But did you tell me, or talk to me, or –" She's working herself up again, and he cuts her off sharply.

"You'd made your feelings clear, Hermione. You didn't want me fighting." He looks uneasy again as she sits there across his lap, damp part of his shirt balled up in her hand. "In fact, I doubt your feelings have changed. So am I just forcing you to let me, because Weasley blabbed, and now you're afraid I'll off myself if you don't? Because I don't want that," he says reluctantly, looking scared to hear her answer. She's honest.

"I wouldn't have changed my mind without last night, no. But you're not forcing me, Draco. You didn't even tell me how you felt, Ron did. So I know you're not trying to – to manipulate me. That's just how you feel." Hermione sighs. "And I can't say I don't understand how you feel. It terrifies me, thinking of you out there, but I know I'm being selfish. If you feel like you need to fight...then you should be able to. I never should've stopped you. I'm just scared." She meets his eyes. "I can't lose you."

"I'll be careful. I swear." His knuckles smooth over her cheek. He looks more at peace than he's seemed in weeks. There's a lightness to him that makes Hermione feel like crying for some reason – not from sadness. She just feels all wobbly and tearful as he smiles at her, the corner of his mouth hooked up lopsidedly, his eyes shining. "I'll be so fucking careful. You say I don't care if I live or die, and I don't know... I guess now, thanks to Weasley, I can't exactly deny that."

"If Ron hadn't said anything, I wouldn't have changed my mind about you fighting," Hermione points out, and he winces.

"True. I'll make sure to thank him," he says deadpan, and Hermione isn't sure if he's being sarcastic or not. "But as I was saying – I don't care much for my own sake. But I don't want to hurt you. I'm not planning on getting myself killed. I'll be careful."

She sniffles, dabbing at her nose again. "You'd better. And you need to let me start putting scar liniment on your back too." She's not having him go out there with limited mobility. "A haircut, and scar liniment." Hermione lays out the conditions firmly. "And you have to be careful. Please."

"I will." He cups her face in his hands and kisses her lightly, heedless of her rather damp state, and that beautiful lightness about him makes her smile despite her worry. "I promise."