Author's Note: I do not own any of the characters in this story; they belong to J.K. Rowling. I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter 6: The Unseen Wounds

The next few weeks passed in a slow, steady rhythm. Hermione and Draco had fallen into an unspoken routine, meeting almost daily, whether by design or by chance. Sometimes their conversations were light, skimming the surface of mundane things—books Hermione had been reading, renovations Draco was considering for the manor. Other times, they would sit in silence, letting the unspoken weight of their shared history fill the space between them. It was comfortable, though neither of them could quite explain how they had gotten here from where they once stood.

Hermione felt herself becoming more attuned to Draco's moods. She noticed the way his posture would stiffen when certain subjects came up, the way his eyes darkened with memories he wouldn't share. And though he never spoke directly of the war or the years that followed, it lingered between them—always there, like a shadow that refused to disappear.

It was on one of these quiet afternoons, as they sat by the old stone wall near the edge of the forest, that Hermione decided to push the boundaries of their unspoken agreement to avoid the past. The day was overcast, a cool breeze rustling through the trees as they sat side by side, their usual companionable silence stretching between them.

Draco had been quieter than usual, his gaze distant as he stared out across the fields. Hermione could feel the weight of his thoughts, heavy and oppressive, and she knew instinctively that it wasn't something he would bring up on his own. But she had learned enough about him to know that he needed someone to nudge him—someone to show him that he didn't have to carry it all alone.

"Draco," she began softly, her voice cutting through the stillness. "Have you ever… talked to anyone? About everything that happened?"

Draco's eyes flickered toward her, surprise flashing across his face before it was quickly masked by indifference. "Talked about it? With whom?"

Hermione hesitated, watching him carefully. "Anyone. A therapist, maybe. Or even a friend."

Draco's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "I don't have many of those left, Granger. Friends, I mean. And as for a therapist… well, that's not exactly something Malfoys do."

Hermione frowned, her heart aching at the casual dismissal in his tone. She had expected resistance, but it still stung to see how deeply ingrained his isolation had become. "It doesn't have to be a therapist," she said gently. "But you shouldn't keep it all bottled up. It's not healthy."

Draco let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his tousled hair. "And what would I say, exactly? That I spent my childhood under the thumb of a madman? That I was too weak to stand up to my father? That I watched as everything I thought I believed in crumbled around me?"

His voice had risen, a sharp edge of bitterness cutting through the calm façade he had been trying to maintain. Hermione could see the cracks now—the raw, unhealed wounds that he kept hidden beneath layers of sarcasm and indifference. Her instinct was to reach out, to offer him the comfort he so clearly needed, but she knew that he wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

Instead, she spoke quietly, her voice steady but filled with empathy. "I don't know what you would say. But I do know that keeping it all inside won't make it go away. You deserve to heal, Draco. You deserve peace, just like anyone else."

Draco's expression hardened, his jaw clenching as he looked away from her. "Peace," he muttered, as if the word itself was foreign to him. "You think I deserve peace after everything I did?"

Hermione's chest tightened at the raw emotion in his voice. She had seen this before—in the survivors of the war, in the people who had made choices they couldn't take back. The weight of guilt, of regret, hung heavy over them, trapping them in a cycle of self-punishment.

"None of us came out of that war unscathed," Hermione said softly, her eyes searching his. "We all made choices we regret. But you're not defined by those choices. You're more than the person you were back then."

Draco's eyes met hers, and for a moment, Hermione thought he might argue, might push her away. But then, something in his expression shifted—his defenses crumbling just enough for her to see the vulnerability beneath. He looked away, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his past was too much to bear.

"You don't understand," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "You were always on the right side, Granger. You didn't have to live with the consequences of following the wrong path."

Hermione's heart ached at the pain in his voice, and she reached out without thinking, placing her hand gently on his arm. "You think I don't understand guilt?" she asked quietly. "I watched my friends suffer. I watched people die. And I didn't always know if I was doing the right thing. None of us did."

Draco's gaze snapped back to hers, his eyes wide with disbelief. "But you *were* doing the right thing. You fought for what was good."

Hermione shook her head, her hand tightening slightly on his arm. "I did what I thought was right. But that doesn't mean I didn't doubt myself. It doesn't mean I didn't make mistakes."

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, the silence thick with the weight of unspoken truths. Hermione could see the battle raging inside Draco—the part of him that wanted to believe her, to believe that he wasn't beyond redemption, and the part that had been taught his whole life that he was unworthy.

"I don't know how to let go," Draco admitted, his voice hoarse. "I don't know how to forgive myself."

Hermione's heart twisted, and she shifted closer, her voice soft but unwavering. "Then maybe you start by letting someone else help you. You don't have to do it alone."

Draco looked at her, his expression conflicted, as if he wanted to pull away but couldn't bring himself to do so. "Why are you doing this, Granger?" he asked, his voice raw. "Why are you still here?"

Hermione took a deep breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she kept her hand on his arm. "Because I believe in you," she said simply. "I believe you can be more than what you've been told to be. And I believe you deserve a chance to prove that to yourself."

Draco stared at her for what felt like an eternity, his eyes searching hers as if trying to find some hidden agenda, some reason for her kindness that he could use to justify pushing her away. But there was nothing there—only honesty, and perhaps, a little hope.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Draco's shoulders relaxed, and he let out a long, shaky breath. "I don't know if I can do it," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione smiled softly, her hand still resting on his arm. "You don't have to know yet. Just take it one day at a time. One step."

Draco's eyes met hers, and for the first time since they had reconnected, Hermione saw a flicker of something she hadn't seen in him before—vulnerability, yes, but also the faintest glimmer of hope.

"Alright," he said quietly. "One day at a time."

Hermione's smile widened, and for a moment, the heaviness in the air seemed to lift just a little. The path ahead was still uncertain, and they both knew there would be setbacks, but this—this small step forward—was enough for now.

They sat in silence for a while longer, the cool breeze rustling the leaves above them, and for the first time in a long time, Draco didn't feel quite so alone.