Art of Correspondence - Draco's POV

Draco leaned back against the cold stone wall of the deserted manor, his mind buzzing with thoughts he couldn't seem to quiet. The mansion was too quiet. Empty rooms stretched out around him, each one filled with a silence that felt almost oppressive. His father was hiding somewhere in the countryside, his mother was desperately trying to maintain appearances with what was left of the old families. And he… He was stuck here, caught between two worlds—one foot in the blood-stained shadow of the Death Eaters, and the other inching closer to something he still couldn't name.
A sharp whoosh interrupted his thoughts. His eyes darted to the glowing piece of parchment that materialized out of thin air, landing softly in his lap. It was the same type of charm he'd set up when he'd agreed to become a contact for Theo—a system meant for emergency messages only. Draco's heart pounded as he unfolded the letter, the handwriting on the parchment instantly recognizable.
Hermione.
He hadn't been expecting her to write again so soon. She'd been cold and distant the few times they'd exchanged letters over the extensive period of time in correspondence, carefully guarded behind the words she chose. But this…
As he read, his stomach twisted painfully.

Draco,
I don't know why I'm writing to you. I just… I can't do this. I can't keep going like this. We lost so many tonight—Ron, Remus…Neville, Hannah. And I keep thinking—if I had just been stronger, faster, smarter—if I had just done something differently, maybe they'd still be here.
I can't—Ron loved me, you know? He…he never said it outright, but I knew. I knew, and I never loved him back. Not like that. And now he's dead, and all I can think is…if I'd just been honest with him, if I hadn't let things go unsaid, maybe—maybe it wouldn't hurt this much.
I'm so tired, Draco. I'm so tired of fighting, of losing, of watching people I care about die. I feel like I'm falling apart. Like everything we're doing is for nothing.
What's the point of any of this, if we're just going to lose everyone we love?
Please…please just tell me something. Tell me I'm not going mad.
Hermione.

His hands clenched around the edges of the parchment, his heart racing as he read her words again and again, each line cutting deeper. She was…giving up. Merlin, she sounded like she was already halfway there, crumbling under the weight of guilt and grief. Draco's throat tightened as he imagined her alone somewhere, curled up in pain, drowning in despair.
And he felt it—the panic, the anger, the desperation—to do something, anything, to make her see that she couldn't give up. She couldn't let this break her. Not now. Not when there was still a chance, however small, that they might win.
His quill shook as he grabbed it, the ink splattering across the parchment as he began to write back furiously.

Hermione,
You're not mad.
I… I don't know what to say, except that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry you're hurting like this. I'm sorry for all the lives that have been lost. But I need you to listen to me right now.
I know it's hard. I know it feels hopeless. But you have to keep fighting. You're the strongest person I know. I mean that. I don't think I've ever met anyone with your courage, your determination. Even when I was being a complete prat to you, you never backed down. You always stood your ground.
Don't lose that now.
The Order needs you. Harry needs you. And I—I need you, too. Even if I can't be there with you, even if we're on opposite sides of this war… I need to believe that someone like you can still win. That someone like you can still fight for what's right.
You're not alone, Hermione.
Don't let them break you.
Please.
Draco.

He sent the letter off before he could second-guess it, his chest tight as he watched it disappear into the air. He paced the room restlessly, running a hand through his hair. He didn't know why he was reacting like this. Why her pain hit him so hard, why the thought of her giving up made his entire body feel like it was seizing up.
This was Granger. Hermione Granger. The girl he'd spent years taunting, the girl he'd dismissed as a know-it-all, the one he was supposed to hate.
But when had that changed? When had the hatred twisted into something else—something dangerous and confusing and unbearably real?
Maybe it was when he saw her fight at the Ministry that first time, defying every hex and curse thrown her way. Maybe it was when she'd looked at him during the battle at Hogwarts, her eyes filled with something that was equal parts sorrow and understanding. Or maybe it had been during these exchanges—these fragile, desperate letters passed back and forth in the dead of night, when it felt like they were the only two people in the world who understood each other's fear.
He didn't know when it had started. All he knew was that he'd do anything to keep her from shattering.
The parchment glowed again, another letter materializing.

Draco,
Thank you. I… I don't know what else to say. I'm so tired. But…maybe you're right. Maybe we can still win this.
Maybe I can still do something.
But I don't know how much more I can take.

He cursed softly under his breath, grabbing his quill once more. She was slipping away under the weight of her survivor's guilt—he could feel it, could sense it in the words she chose, the hesitance in her handwriting. She was trying, but it wasn't enough.
Hermione,
You can take more. I know you can. You're not broken, Hermione. Not yet. And as long as you keep fighting, you'll never be.
You're going to win this war. You have to.
And I'll be here—no matter what happens. Even if it's only through letters.
Keep fighting. For them. For me. For yourself.
I have faith in you.
Draco.

He let out a shaky breath as he watched the letter vanish, his hands still trembling. There. He'd said it. He'd put it into words, all the confusion and frustration and fear he felt for her. He didn't know what it was—this inexplicable need to protect her, to keep her from breaking—but he knew it was real. Knew it was strong enough that he'd turn his back on his entire family, on everything, if it meant keeping her alive.
Because the world needed her. And—Merlin help him—he needed her.
Even if she never felt the same.
Even if he never got to tell her how much she meant.
All that mattered was that she kept fighting.
All that mattered was that she survived.