Draco awoke well after noon. His chest was sticky with cold sweat, his head felt fuzzy and heavy, and most glaring of all, every inch of his body ached with tense soreness.
He couldn't remember much about what happened after his father's Unforgivable, not that he really wanted to, but a few pieces of the rest of the night swam across his mind in the form of restless, blurry dreams.
They'd let him lie there on the floor, lifelessly twitching, for another hour.
One of the other masked figures, possibly Doholov, reported on his project of creating dark curses for use in battle, which brought much joy to Voldemort and Bellatrix, it seemed.
They'd escorted Narcissa out of the room at some point, her desperate sobs too much for the Silencio her husband had cast on her, overcoming it, to everyone's great annoyance.
Snape had, Draco thought, provided a few details of the Order of the Phoenix's plans to Voldemort and was met with minor pushback from other Death Eaters, but the Summons ended not long after that.
Snape had transported Draco, groggy and barely conscious, back to Hogwarts. Snape left him in his four-poster, in fresh pyjamas, with a hot water bottle underneath his elevated legs.
Draco woke up relieved to see his Death Eater robes and mask nowhere in sight.
He'd rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes and called to Dobby for tea and sustenance. Upon second thought, Draco asked Dobby if he could please bring some tea to Hermione in the library, and apologise for his absence. Dobby was much too cheerful to oblige.
Draco thought about pushing himself to his feet, forcing himself to return to the library for more research on Astronomical Theory, but his legs quivered where he lay, and he knew they wouldn't support him.
He fell back asleep, waking again after the dinner hour, feeling desperate for a mind-clearing fly.
He'd go back to the library in the morning.
He had already been punished for taking too long and he hadn't died yet. What would another day matter?
Astronomical Theory and its Implications in Arithmancy: An Educational Review proved to be the perfect companion Hermione needed for her holiday break… Once she battled the emotional and moral dilemma of it being a gift from Draco, of course. Since she had decided to take it off her shelf after dinner that evening, she fully engrossed herself in it.
The note that accompanied the book, Draco's boyish handwriting across the front of it spelling out her name, remained back in her dormitory.
Over the last few hours, Hermione had been comfortably tucked up in the library reading and rereading the first few chapters. Astronomical theory was a complex concept, much deeper than she'd ever covered in Astronomy class. Or any class for that matter. The book began with an in-depth overview of the development of Astronomical Theory, and it fascinated her to no end.
It was her first foray into high-level theory, and, like the day she got her Hogwarts letter, it felt like a piece of her was finally making sense. A memory of Draco's voice fluttered into her mind.
Hermione, as much as I hate to admit this, you have a mind that could do so much more than what other people tell you.
He had been right, of course. He'd somehow known exactly what she needed in her life. Intellectual challenge, theory, and philosophy; pushing boundaries and creating. She kind of hated that he'd figured that out before she had.
It's why she'd grown to feel so alive, so electric, with the project of mending the vanishing cabinet. It was a puzzle, a practical problem that needed to be solved. And she could figure out how to fix it.
These thoughts stung her when they floated through the tracks of her brain, now that she knew the truth of Draco's mission. It crossed her mind that she might have been most angry with him because of this.
How dare he get her so invested in a project, a puzzle, and then rip it away from her? How could she be expected to drop her curiosity overnight? How could she live with herself, after all the effort she'd put into it? How does one move on, not only from a tumultuous relationship but also from a life-giving project out of nowhere?
She knew, with all certainty, that she could absolutely mend the cabinet. She was capable, sure, but she was exceptionally motivated by the challenge. It was fun for her, and now it was over.
She looked down at the book in front of her and wondered if Draco had known that this book would have been a helpful tool for them in fixing the vanishing cabinet.
She thought about the small envelope he'd left squished between the pages. She hadn't opened it yet, not sure if she wanted to hear what he had to say.
It might say something simple and unfeeling.
Granger, I bought this for you a few weeks ago and it is too late to return. DM
Or maybe it was another apology, another confession of love.
Hermione, I know this gift does not make up for the pain I've put you through. I'm terribly sorry for pulling you into my mess and for betraying your trust. I meant what I said when I told you your mind was capable of so much more. I hope you enjoy this book as much as I've enjoyed these past few months with you. Yours sincerely in love, Draco Abraxas Malfoy.
Or maybe it had been something else entirely. A thank you. A plea.
Dear Hermione, thank you for keeping my dark secret. I'll forever be indebted to you and your help with the cabinet. In return for your help, I gift you this book and will notify you when the cabinet is mended so that you can escape. In gratitude, Draco.
She wasn't sure which of these she wanted most. Anything he could have written would undoubtedly make her break down again. No matter what words she'd read in his slanted, sharp scrawl, it would cut her again.
And she wasn't sure if she could handle it again.
He was so woven into her very being that thoughts about him were everywhere she went. If she read, he was there, if she drank tea, he was there, if she laid in bed, he was there, if she walked around the lake, he was there.
Sitting in the library, tucked into the comfiest chair, he was there.
She could see him flying out over the quidditch pitch from her window seat in the library, and she chose not to read too much into her subconscious decision to choose this exact seat.
She thought her eyes were deceiving her when she first returned to the library from dinner. When he hadn't come to the library earlier that day, she decided she wasn't going to care about his whereabouts anymore. Again. She decided she didn't care about him, again.
She'd already decided that before, hadn't she?
But who was she kidding?
She'd always care.
He'd been out there for at least an hour, flying at such a fast pace she was sure his cheeks were red with cold, frostbite nibbling at his toes and fingers. A thick layer of snow covered the pitch, and while it wasn't actively snowing, it appeared it could start up again at any moment.
The thought had crossed her mind that someone – maybe her – needed to go out and tell him to quit being an idiot and come inside before he freezes to death. Then she remembered how he'd told her that flying was his stress relief and she knew, if he was out there in this weather, he certainly must have needed it.
After their exchange of Happy Christmases a few mornings ago, a sense of contentment had washed through her. Yes, feelings of betrayal, sadness, and pain still lingered, but they now felt dimmed, as if his smile had blown out the flame of her misery.
Now over the last few days of exchanging pleasantries and sharing tea across the library, a calmness had settled into her soul, her mind becoming more clear with each passing day.
As Hermione dove into her revision schedule and study guides with new gusto, (she now decided that she needed to make up for lost time), she was finally starting to feel a little bit better. More like herself.
She almost forgot about Draco for long enough to push her own curl behind her hair twice without thinking of the way he did it, with his fingers brushing up against her cheek and his eyes looking molten and focused.
Not that she could ever really forget about Draco, of course not. But the sadness that usually came with every thought of him had faded toward forgotten.
She was capable, for the first time since their night on the Astronomy tower, to really consider Draco and his side of things.
She wondered why he had chosen to stay at the castle for the holiday break rather than return home to be with and take care of his mum. Hadn't that been his reasoning for wanting to fix the vanishing cabinet?
She realised with sadness, then, that if he was choosing to stay here rather than going to take care of his mum, it must be for a big reason. He must be avoiding something pretty terrible.
Hermione was very aware that Voldemort was currently staying as a guest at Malfoy Manor and, for the first time, really thought about what that meant for Draco and his family. Surely the fond memories he'd made growing up with his mother were far and gone in the current state of things. She doubted his house had ever felt truly warm and love-filled, not like her own childhood home. But now, any semblance of warmth had surely been snuffed out by darkness.
She felt sorry for him, momentarily, and wrestled with feelings of pity. She imagined Malfoy Manor, cast in the haunting shadows of the Wiltshire forest, would be dark, lit only by candles and the light of Unforgivable curses. The furniture was probably old, stiff, and ornamental- like those couches at her Aunt's house that no one was allowed to sit on– and, unlike the halls of Hogwarts, the portraits that lined the manor walls were probably centuries-old Malfoy ancestors with nothing but insults and shame to spew as you walked past.
When Draco had first mentioned flying his broom over the garden as a child, she had pictured the inviting and lively garden she'd come to love at the Burrow– full of magical creatures and vegetables that need regular tending. Now, she realised, that had been such a silly idea. She doubted any member of the Malfoy family had ever knelt down in the dirty soil, trowel in hand, to upturn offending weeds. No, that sort of thing was for House Elves, of course.
Then there was also the matter of his father. She'd had the displeasure of meeting Lucius a few times and came away worse for wear from each interaction. He was a loathsome man with questionable beliefs; a man who was weak. Hermione had been witness to some of his greatest failures. The Chamber of Secrets, the Hall of Prophecies. He'd probably been one of those spineless men who chained onto Voldemort as a young man straight out of Hogwarts and presented himself, a piece of clay, ready to be moulded into the perfect, obedient follower. That and centuries of passed-down pureblood aristocratic superiority that demanded the way he parents.
Draco Malfoy's childhood, she reflected, must have been incredibly miserable. She knew this but hadn't allowed herself to truly think about it deeply. He was a product of his environment, she had seen that in the way he treated her through the first three years of school. Anyone who grew up in his home would have grown up to be the biggest prat on the planet.
But now? Now it wasn't so trivial, was it? Now he was a teenager, a young man. War was approaching, lives were already taken, his father had failed, the Ministry was falling, and Lord Voldemort was back.
Draco's body streaked across the sky in a blur, broomstick tucked underneath him, his old black and green quidditch cloak waving in the bitter wind, and it reminded her of the haunting vision of dementors.
She pictured his face, thinning and pale, a look of distress emanating from his eyes, dark circles emphasising the exhaustion that marred his whole body. She noticed a greyish tinge to his skin and expensive clothes that had begun to hang loosely on his frame.
She thought of the last few days, sitting a few tables away from him in the library. Their routine of tea and Dobby had continued after that one afternoon he hadn't come. However, in the days that followed, he seemed distracted and even shaky.
She'd watched as he furiously scribbled notes in coloured ink, then froze, dropping his quill. He'd sit for a moment, stretching his fingers, before drinking from his teacup with an unsteady hand and returning to work.
How could she have been such a fool to miss all of the signs? Had she really been so caught up in her own life, her own problems, that she had failed to see how stressed Draco had been all this time? How shaky he seemed in the last few days? He'd been jumpy and easily startled.
While she'd been so consumed with their relationship and their feelings for each other, she'd missed the key clues that he had not been whole and happy. In retrospect, she could see it all so clearly.
Breath hung in her throat, unmoving. She watched Draco's flight through the now frosting window, her body now heavy.
Her heart sank into her shoes as she realised, at last, that maybe he'd never had a choice in the matter.
A/N: Well, it was only a matter of time before she figured it out, right? Questions: Does Hermione deserve Draco's forgiveness? Does he deserve hers? Next chapter: Term resumes, students return, Ron has something to say to Hermione... And Hermione has something to say too Draco. Disclaimer: All publically recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of J.K. Rowling. Thanks to my beta readers the_shitshow_must_go_on and Cleo26. Many thanks to anyone who takes the time to read this story, OxfordElise