"Thanks a lot, Ron," bit Harry in a pointed, sarcastic tone. "You sent her back to the snakes. You never know when to keep your mouth shut, do you?"
Ron, still trying and failing to charm away the sticky orange mess down his front, recoiled. His wand hand froze mid-wave, as his bushy eyebrows furrowed in Harry's direction. "What the bloody hell do you mean, Harry?"
Harry huffed, loudly, earning a glare from Ginny, who looked just as perplexed as her brother. "I mean," Harry started, "she was perfectly fine this morning. Happy. Cheerful. Back to her normal self. And then you had to go and mention Malfoy again and now she's running right back to him!" He was breathing fire. Harry gestured across the room where Hermione stood awkwardly as a hoard of Slytherins got up to move to eat somewhere else.
Harry's scowl deepened as he turned back to look at Ron, who slumped. "He's not good for her, Ron. He's a Death Eater. I know it. I don't have proof, but I just know–"
"Oh, shut it, Harry, will you?" Ginny's sneering interruption cut sharply.
"Ginny?" Harry fumed. "Listen–" He opened his mouth to argue the point further, but she slammed her hands to the table as she stood up, staring him down, fierce as ever.
"No you listen, Harry. You think she was fine this morning? Normal? Happy? You're barking."
Neville quietly reached between everyone with his wand and vanished the stain on Ron's shirt in an attempt to break the tension. Unfortunately, once Ginny got going, there was no stopping her, really. Harry was much the same.
"What?" Harry all but shrieked. "Of course she was fine. She– she asked us about our holiday. She laughed when–"
Ginny was defensive. "She's not fine, Harry. She's pretending. She's trying. She's–" She broke off searching for the right word. "She's denying."
"Denying– trying what?" Harry shook his head, his tone still disbelieving, and looked to Ron for help, for backup. But Ron was no use and just sat there watching his best friend and sister argue back and forth.
Ron was reminded of the way his parents argued with one another and decided to stay out of it.
It was Ginny's turn to huff and look at Ron. "Denying her feelings," she explained. "Trying to move on. Trying…" She looked over her shoulder and found Hermione fiddling with the hem of her sweater, a nervous tick. Ginny let out a breath, her anger simmering. "Trying to be fine," she finished, eyes landing softly on Harry.
"But why would she break up with him if she still has feelings for him?" wondered Neville.
Ginny looked down at her feet, her anger now completely cooled down and responded as she took her seat once again. "Maybe he broke up with her?" she offered.
Ron scoffed. "Now that is bloody mental, Gin. Did you see him at Slughorn's party? I heard about it. And you didn't see him that night when he came up to the tower looking for her."
"He what?!" The shout came from both Harry and Ginny, but Ron ignored them and continued.
"He was drunk. Desperate." Ron shrugged as if it wasn't a big deal. "He wanted to ask if she still wanted him to be her date to Slughorn's party."
Harry, Ginny, and Neville all spoke at once.
"You're joking," said Harry.
"They're both complete wrecks, aren't they?" mused Ginny.
"What did you tell him?" asked Neville.
Ron shrugged again. "I– I punched him."
Harry grinned, Ginny grimaced, and Neville looked down at his plate.
"Maybe they broke up because they had to. Outside forces?" Neville speculated in the kind, gossiping way only he could manage.
Harry spoke next in a more reasonable tone but was still quite obviously frustrated. "No, he did something, I'm sure of it."
Ginny interrupted again, shrugging. "Maybe." Her eyes caught Harry's again. "But maybe Neville's right. Maybe they like each other and it just isn't meant to be. Timing… social pressures–"
Harry joined in condescendingly, "Blood prejudice, Voldemort–"
Ginny let her head fall back and let out a long, infuriated groan, managing to make Harry stop talking. "Leave it, Harry!" she pleaded. "Draco Malfoy is not a Death Eater. You said it yourself, you have no proof–"
"But what if that's why they broke up?" Harry shot back. "What if Hermione found out what he's up to and that's why she left him?"
Neville shook his head in disbelief, "Even if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named recruited Malfoy, it doesn't matter, does it? We're at Hogwarts. We have the best security and the best headmaster. Besides, Hermione wouldn't do that. She wouldn't keep quiet if she knew something like that, something so important. She would tell someone," Neville reasoned.
"Not if she loves him," Ginny quipped.
Harry was harsh and direct, "Loves him?" He barked out a laugh that made Ginny recoil in confusion. "Hermione doesn't love him," Harry insisted. "She's not stupid."
A bitter silence stole the group in the wake of Harry's statement. Ron's solemn expression returned, shoulders hanging. Neville shrugged and threw his hands up, bowing out of the argument entirely, avoiding conflict. Ginny looked over her shoulder and rose to stand, gathering her bag.
Harry followed Ginny's gaze and, after watching Hermione for a moment, released a resigned breath as he relinquished the argument with a bow of his head.
They watched Hermione swipe at her cheek and knew she was crying. They could see parchment in her hand like an armour, her hand shaking subtly with nerves, but her shoulders set with confidence. If Harry looked hard enough, he thought he could almost see traces of wetness streaking Malfoy's cheeks, which was incredibly sobering.
There was no argument for the way he was looking at Hermione. Focused. Attentive. Sad. Hopeful.
Soft.
Harry swallowed and reached out for Ginny's wrist in an attempt to pull her back down to sit. An unspoken apology. Resignation. Forfeiture.
Ginny looked at Harry's hand on her wrist and, after a beat, sat down. An unspoken apology accepted.
"Sorry, Ron," Harry murmured.
Ron shrugged, "S'alright, Harry. You're half right, aren't you? I never know when to stop talking. I– I meant it as a joke, for a laugh. I didn't stop to think…"
Ron trailed off, but Ginny finished the thought for him, "You didn't think how the truth of it would make her feel."
"How the truth would make any of us feel," Harry added.
"Are they…" started Neville, but he abruptly stopped.
They all looked on as Malfoy rose from his seat, taking up what they all knew was Hermione's new favourite book (she'd gotten it for Christmas), and walked step for step with Hermione clearly leaving the Great Hall as a pair.
"Are they back together, just like that?" Ron wondered.
"Sure looks like it, doesn't it?" Ginny reasoned.
"Do you think this is going to be good for her?" Neville worried. "It was so hard to watch her fade and… and crumble when they split before."
"Maybe they're not back together," Ron hoped. "Maybe they're just talking?"
"Maybe she's taking him to Dumbledore, turning him in," suggested Harry.
Ginny leaned across the table and swatted Harry atop the head.
Again, Ron noted just how much the action reminded him of his parents.
"Don't be ridiculous, Harry. We're tired of hearing what you think about Malfoy. If Hermione is happy with him, let her be happy."
"But she isn't happy, is she! She was crying!" he defended.
"It's painful, Harry, to love someone and know you can't be with them." Ginny looked at him challengingly, firmly, and she didn't back down when he looked away.
He could still feel her eyes on the side of his face.
Ginny's cheeks had a pink tinge to them as she continued. "Maybe they love each other and life is getting in the way of their happily-ever-after. Obligations. Family. This bloody war. Maybe they're both overthinking it. Maybe they're both too proud to say it. Maybe it's just complicated! We don't know, do we?"
Ginny shrugged, and, once again, stood and began gathering her things in a rush to leave. Harry could see that the red in her cheeks was deepening.
"But it's hardly unusual," She continued. "Isn't it the oldest story in the book?" She looked at each of the three boys and, noting their confused expression, explained.
"The sad truth is that so many people are in love and not together, and so many people are together and not in love."
She took several steps away before turning back, an uncharacteristic look of sadness plaguing her face. Her eyes darted quickly to Neville and Ron, both of whom looked as uncomfortable as she clearly felt.
Ginny bit her lip before her eyes found Harry's green ones with shy steadiness. "I thought you knew that, Harry."
Harry swallowed hard as he watched Ginny leave. He couldn't say anything to try to make her stay this time. All the words he could have said were stuck in his throat and he swallowed them down. He couldn't reach out to her again and pull her back down. His arms were frozen, and heavy, and possibly not even attached to his body anymore. He felt like she took all of the oxygen with her as she walked away from him and pushed through the double doors of the Great Hall. His lungs, along with the rest of his now-heavy body, begged him to go after her, but he couldn't. Wouldn't.
She's with Dean, Harry reminded himself.
But Ginny…? She couldn't possibly mean…?
Could she mean what he wanted her to mean?
"What was that about?" Ron asked Harry, taking an unbothered sip from the pumpkin juice.
Harry shrugged and picked up a slice of toast. "I don't know," he lied, then added, "Since when have any of us ever understood girls?"
When Draco agreed to join her for tea in the kitchens, she knew there was a chance that this could all end in misery. Again. Draco knew the same. Still, they couldn't deny that there was something between them; a sort of pull. Something he always did to her, and she always did to him.
When you love someone, truly and deeply love someone, you lose control over everything. You surrender yourself to your feelings. The myriad of them. Because love, when it is real, is blinding. It's hungry. Starved. It's better than anything else you've ever known. Once you have it, it's part of you. And you need it. And you'll do anything to keep it close.
As far as Hermione's concerned, loving someone means taking the risk that they might fuck up your nicely ordered little life. They might hold your heart in their hands and water it, nourish it, making it grow. They might steal it from your chest and never give it back. They might treat you tenderly and kiss you with passion, then turn out to be a Death Eater.
They might break your heart into more pieces than a porcelain teacup thrown at a cold stone wall. They might piece it back together with gold, making you stronger than you were before. They might pour you a cup of tea like they pour out their woes. They might set you on the counter to steep and come back when they're thirsty. They might hold you in their hands and bask in your warmth. They might burn your tongue when you indulge too soon.
But Hermione had taken several sips from her teacup as she stared uncertainty into Draco's eyes. And, well… She was fine. Better than fine. She felt like this brew of Dobby's camomile tea was his best yet. She hadn't realised how badly she had needed this exact warm cup in her hand. She wanted to down herself in it.
And the conversation that accompanied the tea? The company?
Well, does she even need to say it?
She'd meant to start with a platonic conversation in the kitchens over tea, but that quickly morphed into walking to charms class and sitting beside each other. And if they sat together in charms, what was working together in potions? And if they managed to work together in potions without anything terrible happening, why not sit together at lunch? And if the world was still standing, and neither of them had classes the rest of the afternoon, then maybe, it was probably fine to share a table in the library while they studied.
It had taken no time at all for them to fall back into old ways. The routines they'd created together weeks ago felt so natural as if this– being together– was exactly what they both needed. It was what Hermione needed, anyway.
They weren't dating, no. That much was certain. There was no touching or kissing, either. But they weren't exactly just friends. There was too much between them to call this friendship. Hermione searched to find a word that would describe what they were, but she couldn't. They were just… around each other… a lot. Constantly. Because they needed to be.
The hours of the day ticked by and, contrary to the way the school seemed to buzz with gossip about them, Draco and Hermione felt inexplicably calm in each other's presence.
So, when dinner hour came to a close and Draco turned to look at her with a nervous look on his face as they exited the Great Hall, she took a breath, ran a hand through her long and messy curls, and asked if he would come with her to talk. A serious expression had stolen her features, so he would know– he had to know– that she wanted to actually talk. About the hard things. About all of the things they'd left hanging unsaid between them for the last several, painful weeks.
For a moment, as his silver eyes bore into hers, she thought he might turn to leave. Their day of... Whatever this was… gone in an instant. But then his hand twitched, and she bit her lip, waiting for his response.
But Draco didn't say anything. The colour of his eyes seemed to swirl, but she was probably just imagining it. After another beat, Draco nodded, tilting his head casually toward the staircase.
They both knew where they were going. They didn't have to talk about that.
They walked in silence, ascending staircase after staircase. Draco's hands trembled again and noticing it, she considered taking his hand in hers. He caught the way her eyes watched him and, either embarrassed or ashamed, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and kept walking.
Hermione paced three times in front of the empty wall across from the troll tapestry.
As the door appeared, Hermione stepped in and Draco followed wordlessly. They both took a moment to look around, to consider their surroundings with sentimental eyes. It felt like ages since they'd spent time there. And, like returning to Hogwarts every September first, it felt like coming home.
At the same time, it felt like something was missing. The air was cold. The couch cushions looked stale. The office, once so warm and comfortable like the Gryffindor common room, now felt like that third-floor corridor that was only used by first-years who got lost. Like something was missing. Something like breath, breathing, laughter, and conversation.
Hermione wondered if this room would be able to return to the sanctuary it once was. Would the warmth return once they talked, once they forced everything out into the open space between them? Would the comfort return in here, in their private space, the same way they'd fallen back into step with one another since that morning?
Or, maybe, it was all for nothing, Hermione feared. A ruse. A last good day. A happier ending for them but still that: an ending. Maybe there was no point and this whole day had been foolish. Hermione, again, acting out of rage, disregarding reason, because of something Ron said.
She bit her lip, hard, and fought the urge to turn and run. This was a bad idea. She shouldn't have said anything that morning. She should have left it all alone, left Draco alone. She should have handled her worries, her fears, and her insecurities in private and made more notes.
It was harder now, in private, with the heart-racing scent that was so Daco wafting from beside her. Harder to think. Harder to ignore.
Draco released the breath he had been holding and chanced a look at the witch beside him. She was biting her lip again, the way he knew meant she was debating something, and followed her gaze to the couch, same as it ever was. Draco could pull dozens of images from his memory, each one showing Hermione with a book or three, lounging across the upholstery.
Decisively, Draco strode over to the couch and took a seat on the far end of it, leaning his back against the armrest and kicking his foot out to rest on the table in front of him. He sat deliberately, leaving Hermione the option of sitting on the other end of the couch, far away from him, or the choice to lean against him, tucking under his arm as she'd done so many times before.
He hoped for the latter but knew even as he imagined it that it was wishful thinking.
After a beat of contemplation, Hermione joined him on the couch, sitting at the other end, leaving an empty cushion between them. She took off her shoes and tucked her feet underneath her, facing him fully. When their eyes met, the tension in her shoulders melted considerably, instantly.
Without warning, as if there was ever warning, his trembling fingers returned, shaking, vibrating with the remnants of the Cruciatus Curse. He moved to hide them, but Hermione reached out and took hold of them instead, steadying them. Her eyes were full of emotion.
Her brown eyes were beautiful, as always, when she looked at him. Serious and caring. So full of feeling.
She felt so warm, and she held him so gently. "Tell me about the tremors, Draco," she spoke softly.
Draco looked down at where their hands joined but didn't say anything. His hand had stopped shaking, but she hadn't let go. She hadn't stopped looking at him.
She spoke again, this time with sadness, almost whispering this time. "Was it– was it the Cruciatus Curse?"
There was no point in denying it. In the same way, there was no point in saying it out loud. She already knew. She already knew and had known for some time. He knew this, but he felt shame and embarrassment all the same.
Her sweet voice filled the air, and he might have felt her scoot a touch closer to him. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it, Draco, but if you do… If you do, I'm here. You can tell me."
He cleared the gruffness and emotion out of his throat before speaking. "And if I don't?" His tone was soft and sombre. A faint smile crossed her features, and she set his hand down with care.
"If you don't…" she looked down at her lap as she thought, fiddling with the hem of her skirt between her hands, "If you don't, you can tell me the real purpose of the vanishing cabinet… Or why you took the Dark Mark…" She hadn't looked back up at him, but she didn't have to. Her voice lilted up at the end, hopeful, mischievous, as if she was smirking.
The edges of Draco's mouth curved upward and let out an amused huff. Hermione looked at him questioningly. "It sounds like a lose-lose situation for me, Granger. I don't like any of these options."
She laughed lightly and shrugged. "I think you and I have a lot of things to discuss. It's more of a matter of deciding where to start, isn't it?"
She was right, of course. But where to start?
"Well, I suppose it all comes down to my father," Draco started, looking at his hands. "He… when he failed at the Department of Mysteries, we were done for. Humiliated. We… Mother and I, all of us, were lucky to be alive. Voldemort was furious. And I think that I became the spectacle of it all, the warning for the whole lot of Death Eaters. If you fail, your family will become food for the fire. Azkaban may have seemed like a safe haven at times for some, but knowing your family would be tortured, used, and killed while you sat generally unharmed in a cell kept you falling in line with whatever Voldemort wanted.
"My father had failed miserably, and so, I was chosen. Chosen. Voldemort made such a huge deal about it. I was chosen to take the mark. I had to pretend like I was honoured, but I knew. I knew it was a death sentence even then. I didn't want to. But what was I to do? I could take the mark or I could be killed then and there? My mother, too. Merlin, my mother… See, I had no choice. None at all. She's the real reason I did any of this. I wasn't fully lying to you when I told you the purpose of the cabinet. I need to protect her. She's… well… everything… is fragile. It's been clear from the start that for my father's failures, Voldemort intends for the Malfoy line to end with me. Full stop. And the Dark Mark? These tasks he's assigned me? It's just further torture and humiliation. A tiny glimmer of hope that makes my ultimate failure all the more hilarious. No one expects me to be successful.
"These tasks you've been assigned…" said Hermione, "You mean the cabinet?"
Draco hesitated. "Yes… but there's more than just the cabinet."
"I see." She played with the hem of her skirt again.
Draco tucked one foot underneath himself, half turning to face her.
"The cabinet… It's just a piece of the plan. The ultimate goal," Draco swallowed hard. His fingers were shaking so much again that he was tempted to sit on them. He wrung them in his lap. "He ordered me to murder the Headmaster."
"Oh, Draco." her eyes were on him, concern written all over her face.
"Dumbledore! As if that's easy. As if I could possibly, actually, kill anyone, let alone the most powerful wizard that's ever lived." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up. "He ordered me to murder Dumbledore and then as if that wasn't enough, he added that they wanted to watch. I need to fix a broken vanishing cabinet, let a slew of crazed Death Eaters into my school, and let them watch me kill the headmaster. It's…" He pulled at the ends of his hair again and leaned forward so his elbows rested on his knees, head in his hands.
"It's awful, Draco. There are no words. It's awful what you've been asked to do. I'm so sorry for what you're experiencing." Her hand was warm on his thigh where she placed it. He felt it burn him as she held it there, comforting.
He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling again, but her hand didn't move. She kept it there for a moment. Two.
"Draco…" Hermione started, shifting in her seat. "Did this… Did you…." She bit her lip. He could see in the way her face scrunched up that she was searching for the best way to say it. "Draco, tell me what you had to do with the cursed necklace"
Katie Bell. Hermione hadn't said her name, but the thought of it floated there between them, all around them, unignorable.
Trembling hands covered his face.
"Fuck," he whispered, then broke. "Fuck!" Draco threw his hands down and, leaning forward, anger poured from him. Anger at himself, mostly. Anger at his father. At Voldemort. At this situation.
"I didn't want to do any of this, Hermione! Any of it! I hate myself for what I did to Katie. It makes me sick. I make me sick. But I had no choice! He was going to torture my mum. My mum! I– It– Fuck, no one was supposed to get hurt! You have to believe me, Hermione, I would never – If I had a choice, I wouldn't…"
He was standing now, arms waving about, but to Hermione's credit, she didn't shy away. She continued to look at him with eyes smouldering with sympathy. "I know, Draco, I know," she promised. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin upon her clasped hands. "Tell me how it happened. How did it happen?"
She wasn't criticising. She wasn't condemning. She was… comforting. Empathising. Listening. Loving.
Draco let himself slump back onto the couch. "I used an unforgivable, Hermione. Salazar, I can't believe I even managed it. I… Madam Rosmerta, from the Three Broomsticks? She's under the Imperius Curse. I'm surprised it sticks if I'm honest. It's light. But still… They call it 'Unforgivable' for a reason, don't they? Borgin, from Borgin and Burke's, you know? He delivered the cursed necklace to her. And she… I made her, I mean, hide in the ladies' toilets and curse the next girl that came in to bring it to Dumbledore." He looked at Hermione, who was thoughtful, but unreactive, just listening. "And I know," Draco continued, "I know it was a stupid plan. Moronic. Completely terrible. But… But… He was going to torture us. There wasn't any time for a better plan. And, honestly, I don't know if I could have come up with one. The pressure…"
He looked exasperated. He looked as if he'd been rung out. He couldn't look at Hermione now. Just couldn't bear to see the horror, the look of disappointment in her eyes. He deserved it, he knew, but he couldn't face it.
Her voice was steady and sure. "Well, the good news is, Katie's projected to make a full recovery. Alicia Spinnet was just mentioning it last night in the common room. She went to visit Katie over the holiday. Katie… Well, she hasn't woken up yet, but her healers expect she'll wake up in the next few months. If it is anything like muggle injuries, she likely won't even have any memory of the incident."
He could have kissed her then. She was always baffling him with the magnitude of her kindness and grace. Her eyes were on him again, glowing with a warmth he'd missed more than life itself.
She had a way of looking at him, of making him feel like he could tell her anything. And he wanted to. He did. He was.
He hadn't really decided to divulge the depth of his inner torment, but the words tumbled out of his mouth anyway. "By my own father's hand," he'd said. It was a low whisper and scratchy on his throat. She was silent for a moment, and he thought, maybe she didn't understand what he meant, the question he was answering, but after a beat, he knew she understood everything because he felt her stiffen and her eyes went wide.
Draco scoffed angrily at the absurdity, the fresh pain. Fresh blood boiled in his veins. feeling emboldened now that he had someone to share this with, he spoke louder now. "I was Crucioed by my own father, in the back parlour that overlooks Mum's gardens, while she watched… While everybody fucking watched."
His hands started to shake again, spurred on by the memory and anxiety about how Hermione might respond. She was looking at him with such concern and tenderness still, and he ached to touch her.
"Will you…" he began carefully, "Will you come over here and sit with me?"
She was moving before he even finished the sentence, wrapping her arms around him, leaning her knees over his legs, and burying her head against his chest. Instinctively, his arms wrapped around her and pulled her in closer. He heard her sigh a pleasant sound at the movement, nuzzling her face into his sweater. Her hair was in his face, the smell of it filling his lungs, when softly, ever so softly, he felt her left-hand trace soothing paths along the ridges of his stomach.
They stayed like that for a while, not needing to say anything else.
"When you were there, when it happened, who else was there?" Hermione looked up at him and stopped feeling the contours of his stomach while she spoke. Now that she was finished, she looked away again.
"Everyone. Him. I was summoned," Draco spoke in a low voice. He almost told her about the pain of being summoned. It was impossible to forget, after all. But that's not what she asked him, so he figured he'd spare her.
He thought for a moment, debating how much to tell. All of it, he thought. Why not? It felt so good to share these things. He felt safe in her arms, in the quiet, in their room.
"My aunt, Bellatrix." Hermine inhaled deeply but didn't move from her spot leaning against his chest. "A few other Death Eaters had been summoned, too. MacNair, Mulciber. My father, of course. My mother had been kept from me, I think, hidden at first… she came when–" He trailed off, not sure how to say it. He moved on instead. "Lord Voldemort was there, with his monstrous snake."
"Nagini."
Draco quirked his head, angling it to catch her eyes. "Yes, how do you know about Nagini?"
"Attacked Mr. Weasley last year," she explained, shaking her head, eyes wide. "It was awful."
Images of Professor Charity Burbage hovering above his dining room table floated through his mind. He shuddered.
"Awful," Draco repeated. "Understatement of the century." He felt Hermione's smile through his shirt. It was a small gesture but warmed him all the same.
"Snape was there, too," Draco added after a bear. "He brought me from Hogwarts."
Hermione sat up off of him so fast, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Professor Snape?"
Confused at her reaction, Draco shrugged. "Of course, him. Do you know any other Snapes?"
"But Dumbledore trusts him!" Hermione looked incredulous.
"Well," Draco shrugged again. "Voldemort does, too."
Hermione melted back into Draco's chest, though a bit hesitant.
"What do you think of Snape?" She asked after a beat. "Where do you think his loyalties lie?"
Draco hadn't thought about the possibility of Snape being loyal to anything but the Death Eater's cause. He always knew that the man was spying through the Order, but it never actually crossed his mind that Snape might actually be loyal to the Order of the Phoenix.
He thought about what Snape had seen in his memories… And he'd said nothing.
"I actually don't know," he admitted.
"I'm going to be wholeheartedly bothered if Harry has been right about him this whole time," Hermione ranted.
Draco chuckled, but his mind was spinning through thoughts, piecing together the puzzle that was Severus Snape.
"Snape knows about you. He knows about you, but he didn't say anything to Voldemort. He knows… He knows I went to Dumbledore, too, and he didn't say anything about that either.
Hermione sat up quickly again, turning to look at him again. This time, her eyes were soft. Glowing. Beautiful.
"You went to Dumbledore?" she asked.
"Yes. And he was completely unhelpful." He shook his head in annoyance just thinking about the interaction with the headmaster.
"What do you mean?"
"He bloody told me to carry on as I was!"
"What?" She shrieked, disbelieving. "That can't be right. He wouldn't–"
"Believe me, Hermione, I analysed every word of what the old man said to me at a level you would be proud of. He told me to keep going. I told him I wanted out. I wanted to protect my mother. He told me to keep trying to kill him. I'm not crazy. I thought I was, but he insisted. 'Do the wrong thing to achieve the right end.' He compared it to Wizard's Chess and talked in circles, but he told me to keep doing what I was tasked to do."
She ran her fingers through the tangles of her hair. "He didn't help you at all? He didn't make any sort of plan to protect you?"
"Not one bit of helpful information," Draco pressed. Hermione started pacing. "Well, he did, I suppose tell me that everything would be better if I came clean and was fully honest with you, and here I am, so he wasn't entirely unhelpful."
Hermione stopped walking and smiled. "Wait, in all of this, you felt inclined to tell Dumbledore about me?"
Draco adjusted how he was sitting on the couch, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees again, and smiled shyly back up at her.
"Well–
"Wait, did you say that Snape knows about us, too?! How did he– You told him? And Dumbledore– What does he– Snape knows… And he didn't say anything?" She alternated between pacing and stopping to stare at him now, thinking through everything he'd just told her.
"Legilimency," He answered as if it was obvious and not at all worrisome. "And to tell them anything is to tell them about you," Draco added. "With me, everything comes back to you. You're the centre of everything"
She looked at him carefully and stopped walking. He could see her breath rising and falling in her chest. Tentatively, Draco reached his hand out to her, and she took it, stepping slowly back toward him and resting back onto the couch beside him. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he rested his cheek in her curls, breathing her in.
He wanted to bottle up how safe he felt in that moment, how seen, how cared for. He wanted to bottle it up so he could drink it later when loneliness, fear, and self-deprecation left him parched.
They were both quiet for a time until Hermione broke the spell.
"Professor Snape," she hummed curiously, "When he was going through your memories, how did he react?"
Draco let out a low chuckle. "Well, that's the thing about Snape, isn't it? He didn't seem to react at all."
Her disbelieving scoff vibrated against his chest, and she moved to lay her head in his lap so she could look up at his face as she argued with him.
"Oh please," she quipped. "He's the most disagreeable man I've ever met. He is unhappy and angry about everything. He sends more judgement burning from his eyes in one glace than Pansy Parkinson does." Draco laughed at that, the truth. Hermione's lips curled upward as she pressed on her point. "He searched through memories of you with Dumbledore and and with me. He had to have some sort of disgusted reaction?"
Draco rested his arm across her abdomen and leaned his head back against the couch cushion as he thought through the experience, searching for scraps of details he'd forgotten, then remembering.
"With everything to do with the cabinet, with Dumbledore, he was stoic and expressionless. Like watching me discuss my plans and my task with Dumbledore didn't phase him at all. It was…. You would think he would react to that, in some way, at least. When he was in my mind, I could feel him. Not physically, of course, but his emotions whenever they were extreme, I think."
Hermione nodded her understanding, then asked, "What emotions did you feel? And when?"
Draco ran his hand through his already messy hair and thought for another moment. "Actually, Hermione, I think he had a reaction about you more than anything."
She was shocked. "About me?" Her eyebrows knitted together. "Why's that, you think?"
Draco shrugged. "I don't know."
"A blood purity thing?" She guessed.
"No, couldn't be. He's a half-blood himself."
Her eyes went wide like saucers. "He's a what?" She nearly shrieked, lifting her head off of his thighs in the process.
"Half-blood," Draco repeated coolly.
"You're joking."
"Why would I joke? It's not like it matters."
Hermione sat up, pulled her leg underneath her and turned to face him, sitting. A wild look in her eyes scared him a bit, but he wouldn't admit that.
"But it might!" she defended. "What is his motivation for joining the Death Eaters if he isn't in it to suppress the rights of Muggles and Muggleborns?"
Draco's blood ran cold, stung by her words, even though she hadn't directed them towards him. "I don't know," Draco clipped, hoping he didn't sound as annoyed as he was. Maybe his family was going to be tortured, or he'd been coerced, he wanted to say. But it wasn't helpful. Hermione was here. She cared about him. And it wasn't his motivations that were under scrutiny here.
Draco sighed and thought back a moment. He had to have heard his father talk about Severus before. Lucius seemed to keep tabs on all of the Death Eaters and their families. "Oh, well, he hated his father," Draco recounted when it came to him. "His father, Tobias, I think, was hard on him. Abusive, probably. Most of the Death Eaters came from tortured homes. It's why they're all so violent and unhinged, and why they are inclined to follow an abusive madman."
The truth hung between them. And again, neither of them needed to voice what they were both thinking.
Hermione laid back down on his lap, comforting Draco with her closeness. Draco brushed the hair out of her face and tried to think of something to say to change the subject, but Hermione wouldn't let him. She was too curious.
"Are all purebloods a walking anthology of genealogy? How do you know so much about Professor Snape's family tree?" She said it with a joking tone, hoping to bring some humour and levity into the conversation that had taken an accidental too-tense turn, but it only half worked.
Draco smiled softly at her attempt all the same.
"Sort of, yeah. It is something most pureblood children are taught by their tutors when they're young."
"Wait, really?"
"Oh, definitely," he assured her. "To pureblood families like mine, the Sacred Twenty-Eight, if you will, ancestry and bloodlines are supremely important. Almost more important than real history or early charm mastery. I could go back 10 generations for any of the other prominent families right now if you'd like. Or tell you how some of the prestigious Sacred Twenty-Eight families 'sullied' and 'ruined' their bloodline– My father's words, not mine," he added defensively.
Hermione swatted away his comments as if he hadn't needed to say them, which he appreciated.
"So, back to Snape," she said, "His father was the muggle half of his parentage?"
"Oh, yes. And if he was cruel, it's probably what drove Severus into hating muggles with such anger."
"That would track," Hermione agreed. "Who was his mother? Any relation to anyone we know? Any relation to you in some round-about way that would make him feel inclined to protect you?"
"No, we're not related at all," answered Draco. "The Prince Family line is the only Sacred Twenty-Eight family the Malfoys have not crossed with, actually."
"Prince?" Hermione repeated.
"Prince," Draco repeated. "His mother was Eileen Prince, daughter of Ambrose and Ada Prince of Northamptonshire—
Draco would have continued, but Hermione shushed him, her eyebrows furrowed in contemplation again. She was making all sorts of contemplative sounds, all of which were music to his ears. He leaned his head back against the couch and felt himself relax.
She was in an inquisitive mood and Draco was not going to do anything to pull her out of it. He missed this too much. Missed her like this. The way her eyes fluttered shut and her eyebrows furrowed, as if behind her eyelids were copious handwritten notes that would help her figure out whatever puzzle was plaguing her.
"Tell me again, Draco," she pleaded several moments later. "What emotions did you feel when he was searching your thoughts. Any specific memories you can recall that he seemed to focus on.
"He was intrigued by the blue light spell. The diagnostic one we always did on the cabinet. Actually, he told Voldemort he was really impressed with it. He said that that particular spell was only taught in auror training. Is that true?"
"Well, it might be," Hermione shrugged and explained, "I found it in a book."
"Of course you did."
Her nose crinkled when she smiled this time.
More of the memories of Snape's Legilimency assaulted Draco's brain and he flinched at them. Hermione had noticed. Draco sighed. "Snape also fixated on the memory of us on the Astronomy tower… When we kissed."
It was awkward to mention. They both felt it. "What did Snape seem to feel or think about that. Could you tell?"
Draco pondered it. "I don't think he expressed anything then." A laugh escaped on Draco's exhale and he wasn't able to stop it in time.
Hermione pointed her eyes at him. "What?"
"It's nothing," Draco evaded.
"No, it's not. Tell me."
He couldn't deny her when she looked at him that way. She coaxed it out of him. He had no control anymore. Whatever Hermione wanted, he would give her.
Draco swallowed. "Well, at the time… At the time, I was certain that I was about to be killed. I felt hopeless. Like there was no way that Snape could have seen what he'd seen and not tell Voldemort, or my father. And I thought… Well, I thought that if I was about to be killed, perhaps Snape had replayed that memory over and over because he was allowing me a little bit of joy in my final moments."
Hermione was stunned silent.
"I didn't mean to make it sound so completely tragic," Draco added casually, brushing it off. "I just figured that if that was the last memory that flashed through my mind before the Killing Curse, that, well, it would have been the best send-off I could have imagined, don't you think?"
"Oh, Draco." Hermione snuggled into him.
Draco ruined the moment when the very important memory of Snape's fury hit him. "Oh!" he blurted. She looked up at him, eyes bright and big and beautifully brown. "Right before Snape pulled out of my memory, he felt really, really angry. Furious even."
"Really?" Hermione asked.
"Yeah, it was weird. I don't know why."
"What memory was it?" she asked.
"That's the thing. It was nothing all that special, really. It was from that night when you had your huge row with Weasley, and you'd run off to the bench by the lake, remember?" Hermione nodded. "And you had hit me in the shoulder because I had said something prattish, probably, and I called you violent, and you… Oh, what did you say?" he pondered aloud. "Oh, you said, 'I simply have a low threshold for tolerating stupidity.'" Draco had put on his best Hermione impersonation voice making her giggle madly.
"I do not sound like that!" She cried, hitting him in the shoulder again with another quintessential Hermione swat.
"You surely do! That was perfect!" he defended. Draco's laughter roared along with her.
"Oh please," she said, dramatically flopping her head back into his lap. She feigned annoyance, but Hermione was still giggling and Draco beamed.
"What do you think Snape cared about that moment for?" She asked steering them back to the discussion at hand.
Draco took a breath. "That's exactly what I don't know. It's weird. For him to see so much of everything else and not react, and then that… That's what makes him so emotional. The memory made him… I don't know… sad at first, I think. He seemed really, really desperately sad when he watched it."
"Are you sure it was sadness?"
"Well yes, I'm pretty sure. He was really, really sad, and that couldn't possibly have been my sadness, because I love that memory. It's one of my favourites! He was sad. I'm sure of it. and then all of a sudden, he was furious. And then it felt like he was proud of me. For what, I don't know. It doesn't make any sense at all. He was sad, and angry, and proud, and then completely and undeniably rage-filled. Like the kind of Snape rage where someone is surely getting detention every day for the rest of the school year. Or expelled. He was miserably angry. On the inside, at least. He didn't show anything at all to the room. But I felt it. I felt his fury, and that's when he pulled out of my mind."
"That's so odd," Hermione agreed. "That doesn't make sense at all."
"I didn't think so either."
"Do you think he'll keep your secrets?" she asked him nervously.
Draco sighed, "Maybe? Or, I hope so, at least. If he doesn't, I'm done for." He said it like a joke, but it was a terrible one.
"Maybe he wasn't phased by the Dumbledore part because his true loyalty lies with The Order," Hermione speculated, hopeful.
"Maybe."
"It would make sense, wouldn't it?" She tried.
"I suppose it would, yes."
"Do you think we should trust him?" She asked.
"I can't decide that for certain," Draco answered. "I wish I could, it would make all of this so much easier if I had at least one helpful adult I could trust."
Hermione frowned now, back to being annoyed at Dumbledore again. She sighed and gripped his hand, squeezing comfortingly. "Well, you can trust me. We'll figure this out, Draco. Together. You and me. We'll figure this out. We're not adults, and everything is so… so complicated… but–"
"But also incredibly terrifying?" He teased.
"Yes, terrifying," she allowed with a look. "All of those things. But you and I? We're smart. The smartest in our year. Probably the smartest students in the school, honestly. And because it is important, because it is terrifying, we'll be able to figure this out. I know we will."
"So confident, are you?" Draco's tone made it clear that, while Hermione was confident they'd find a way to both save Draco from the perils of death, protect his family from torture, and prevent the murder of Professor Dumbledore, he certainly was not.
Hermione's smile faltered slightly. Draco recognized the amber streaks of sadness dull the warmth that had been in her eyes.
"Of course I'm confident. We will get through this, Draco. I'm absolutely certain."
"How?" He wanted to know.
"Because we have to," she reasoned squarely. "There is no choice."
That sentiment sounded all too familiar, but this time, it hit Draco's ears in a new way. On her voice, with her passion, and that stare of hers boring into his with such heaviness and sincerity… It felt good. It felt hopeful. It felt light.
"Thank you," he whispered as the back of his head relaxed against the couch cushions. He let out a long breath.
Hermione squeezed his hand again, tighter this time. She wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were shut and her face was turned up to him; she looked so relaxed that it made him feel so, too. He could study her like this, count her freckles, memorise the angle of her nose and the curve of her lips.
Her lips. They parted, briefly, and then she closed them again. Like she was going to say something, but decided against it. Salazar, he wanted to run his thumb along the curve of her lips and pull the words out of her. What was she thinking? What did she want from him? Anything, she could have it. Anything.
Before he could stop himself, his free hand was moving slowly toward her cheek. His thumb was centimetres away from her swollen red lips. Swollen, he figured, because she'd worried them between her teeth so much, her anxious tell.
The pad of his thumb was just about to make contact with her rosy lips when they began to move again.
"Thank you for opening up to me, Draco." The words purred from her softly, nervously. His hand was frozen in place, hovering above her skin. "Thank you for letting me in," She said. "We will find a way to make everything work. We will. We have no choice. No, I have no choice." Her eyes popped open then, and Draco quickly let his hand fall away from her. Her eyes were faintly watery when they locked on his own. Her voice was low when she continued. "I don't want to lose you, Draco. I won't."
The words hung, heavy, between them.
Finally submitting to the desire of his hands, Draco let his palm cup the cheek of her face, his thumb softly caressing her warm skin. His eyes were full of gratitude.
'I love you' he wanted to say.
But he didn't.
"Have you been seen by a healer? Since… Since…"
"Since I was summoned home in the middle of the night and tortured by my own father?" His hands stilled their ministrations of tracing circles through her hair. "No. I haven't seen a healer. I can't really, can I?"
Silence hung for a moment.
"No, I suppose you can't."
"It took Pomfrey–"
"Madam Pomfrey–"
"Sorry, Madam Pomfrey," he emphasised sarcastically. "It took her the whole night to sort out my nose. What bloody curse was that, Hermione? I need to write it down."
"I got the idea from you, actually." She sounded smug. "Remember when you cursed my teeth in fourth year? That was terribly rude, by the way."
He frowned at the memory, and then a smile broke as he focused on the humour with which she brought it up now. He rested his lips on the crown of her head as if to kiss her there.
He thought about it.
He didn't.
"I'm sorry I was so cruel to you, Hermione. Truly."
"I know."
"So, the Irishman. Did you kiss him?" He asked bluntly.
"Draco!"
"I have a right to know."
"No, you absolutely don't."
"You took him on a date, Hermione. Our date. I need to know."
"It's hardly your business. And we weren't–"
"Hermione, if you're trying to make me more jealous by riling me up, don't. I'm already green in the face. Jealousy is oozing out of my ears. Did. You. Kiss. Him."
"No."
"Good." Draco let out a breath. "Now was that so hard?"
"What spell was it that you used this morning, in the great hall?"
Hermione's head tilted, eyebrows furrowing, spilling her curls behind her shoulder where they spread across his legs.
"What spell?" She asked.
"You did it nonverbally, I don't know. You waved your wand and then it seemed like no one nearby heard our conversation. How was that possible?"
She rolled her eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh, but she answered anyway. "It's called Muffliato."
"What does it do?" pressed Draco.
"It makes everyone within the spell's radius experience a low buzzing in their ears. It's quite annoying actually."
"Sounds like it," he nodded, subconsciously reaching up to rub his ear in sympathy. "Really helpful for keeping things private though," he speculated.
"True," she agreed, though tentatively as if she didn't want to admit it. "It has its usefulness."
"Where did you learn it?"
"It's not in any of the textbooks," she deflected quickly.
He looked at her inquisitively, trying to figure out what she was hiding. Her expression didn't give anything away, and he gave up quickly.
"Will you teach me?" he asked.
She let out an annoyed breath but said, "Sure."
"You showed up at Slughorn's party with a black eye. What happened? Was it Zabini?"
Draco snorted.
"I honestly don't remember, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't Blaise. I think I gave Blaise a good few well before I got mine."
"You got in a fight with Blaise and someone else? On the same day?"
"Blaise made an untoward comment about you. He had it coming."
Hermione huffed in amusement and disapproval. "You probably had it coming, too, I expect."
"You're probably right."
There was a smile on her face now. He could feel it against his chest. A beam of pride and a trickle of warmth ran down his spine. He pulled her closer to him.
"You looked absolutely stunning the night of Slughorn's party, Hermione. That dress… You were… just absolutely beautiful." Draco paused, turning thoughts of that night over in his head. He bent his chin down to kiss an apology into the mess of her honey-brown hair, an apology for the events of that night, his foolishness, and all of his failings that led up to it, but he stopped himself. His lips rested in her hair, but he kept it chaste. His arm was wrapped around her already, but now he began rubbing tiny circles with his thumb where his hand rested atop hers.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, barely audible. "I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry I wasn't honest with you sooner. I'm sorry for a lot of things. But I'm mostly sorry for every way I've ever hurt you."
She didn't move from his chest as she laced her fingers with his, pulling his arms to encircle her completely.
"I'm sorry, too, Draco."
They were sitting across from each other now, each of them leaning against opposite armrests, legs stretched out mingling with each other's in the middle. Her legs were constantly in motion. Her two feet wrestling with each other, jostling his thighs in the process.
He wasn't complaining. He liked feeling her presence. He liked how it affected him. How she was comfortable like that, with him.
She'd taught him the Muffliato spell, then as if the action was mindless and easy, conjured a jar and filled it wordlessly with the most beautiful bluebell flames he'd ever seen. The flicker cast shadows across their faces that made the room feel more real, and gave their skin a soft blue glow.
It reminded him of the disappointing glow from the diagnostic spell they'd seen so many times.
Her legs stilled, and though he hadn't been looking at her face, he could feel that her eyes were on him. "I need to ask you something that I probably don't want to know the answer to, but I need to know," she said at once.
Draco's heart fell in his chest. If she was preemptively nervous about how he'd answer, this couldn't be good. He waved his wand in front of himself and watched the soft trails of blue sparks follow the tip's path through the air. He was stalling and didn't meet her eyes.
To his displeasure, she pressed on.
"Draco…" He looked across to her, and her eyes were pleading. His shoulders dropped as he said down his wand on the table.
"What do you need to know?" He asked.
Her chest rose and fell with her breath. "I need to know if you've made any further attempts on Professor Dumbledore's life."
Glass was breaking somewhere. Shattering.
He was frozen.
Her eyes were unwavering, but not cold. The upturn of her lips was slight, but encouraging.
He could do this.
"I–" He began but stopped. She knew the answer already, didn't she? He took a breath. "I put another plan into motion after I met with Dumbledore. I didn't see another choice," he defended. "It's what Dumbledore told me to do, wasn't it?"
To his surprise and great relief, she didn't condemn him. She didn't yell, or glare. In fact, she softened.
"Will you tell me about your plan?"
He took another breath and adjusted his legs so that they were even more intertwined with hers. He picked up his wand again, resuming the blue sparks he'd played with before.
It was easier if he wasn't looking at her.
"I got a poisoned bottle of mead," he began, accepting the inevitable, "and I–" He paused and met her patient eyes. He swallowed. "I had an owl deliver the bottle to Slughorn from Rosmerta at The Three Broomsticks, sealed and everything. Nobody checks stuff from Rosmerta," he explained sheepishly. "And I confounded him into thinking it was the bottle that he'd purchased as a Christmas Gift for Dumbledore. So, you know, he would give it to Dumbledore and at some point, Dumbledore will drink it, and, you know… Die."
Fuck.
It sounded so foolish, so childish when he said it. He was embarrassed to admit that this lousy excuse for a murder attempt was what he'd decided on. But Dumbledore approved half-assed murder attempts, didn't he? Draco's blood started to run warmer in his veins. He'd gone to Dumbledore for help, hadn't he? And Dumbledore told him to keep 'stumbling down the wrong path,' so, you know? This was what Dumbledore wanted! This was–
Hermione's legs untangled from his, halting his spiralling thoughts. She sat cross-legged now, and leaned forward, resting a hand on each of his shins imploringly.
She didn't look sad. Or Mad. Or disappointed. She looked calm. Again, he was blown away by her grace.
"Draco, I understand that you felt that you had to do something. I understand why you've done this." The pressure from her hands on his shins was gentle and grounding. "But," she said, "I'm worried that someone else is going to get hurt… Like Katie did."
Draco stole his legs back, folding them up and sitting taller. He let her hands fall to the couch.
She was right, of course, she was. Of course she bloody was. Of course, someone would probably get hurt. Of course! But what was he to do? The Dark Lord was impatient, expecting him to do something. If he hadn't put the plan in motion, he'd probably be dead right now!
Not probably, certainly!
He tossed his wand aside again and opened his mouth to defend himself. Only, she stopped him, crawling on her knees across the one empty couch cushion to set her hands on his knees, her face breath distance from his.
"I'm wondering, Draco," she bit her lip again, nervous. He was still stunned silent. "I wonder if it is too late to take it back?"
"Take it back?" He asked, confused.
She brushed her wild hair out of her face and began tying it up with an elastic.
"Yes, I wonder if… What would happen if you took it back? The bottle," she clarified. "Voldemort knows you did this, doesn't he?"
Draco nodded.
"Then haven't you already gotten the credit for it, so to speak?"
Draco blinked. "I don't understand."
"Well, the purpose of doing this was to show Voldemort that you were attempting your task, right?"
"Right…?" Where was she going with this? He wondered.
"Well, then If Voldemort already knows you've done it, and He's spared you for the time being because you've followed orders… Who's to say you can't stop it from going any further? You've already bought yourself more time. What would happen if you… take back the bottle?"
Draco stared at her in disbelief.
"And what do you think I should do with this poisoned bottle of Rosmerta's finest, Hermione?"
She removed her hands from his knees and scoffed. "I don't know. That's not the point!" She let out a sigh of frustration, then reached out to grab his hands. He let her. "How would Voldemort know if you stopped this plan before it took hold?"
He had to admit, it was a brilliant thought. How would He find out? And when? He'd at least have until He was summoned next, but he figured he had a while before he'd have to worry about that again.
But how would he get it back? He wasn't one of Slughorn's pets like Hermione. And he couldn't just walk into his personal office like Potter. He'd need a plan. Oh, Salazar, another plan.
If he managed to take the mead back before anyone drank it, he'd be absolved. He would redeem himself. He would return to a state of equilibrium.
But how?
As if reading his mind, Hermione smiled. "Let's talk about it in the morning after we've had some sleep. It's too late to make any smart plans right now."
She was right. It was well past curfew now, though neither of them had thought about leaving.
"Do you want me to walk you back to Gryffindor Tower?" asked Draco.
"Not quite yet," was her response.
She tapped on his criss-crossed legs, motioning for him to open them up. He quickly obliged, allowing her to scoot into the crook of his body as he wrapped his arms around her.
"I wasn't lying when we started this," Draco professed later, " when I brought you into this mess." His eyes begged for her forgiveness and her trust, a sorrowful expression consuming his usually sharp features. "My mother… She's the reason I keep trying to fix the cabinet. The reason I haven't given up."
He paused and ran his fingertips gently down Hermione's arm.
"The reason I can't," he added.
"You need to save her," vocalised Hermione in understanding.
"I need to save her," he agreed.
"I'm sure you will, Draco. If you need to, then we will."
He didn't miss the way she'd said "we." Still, his muscles tensed as he pondered the mountain-sized challenge ahead of them.
"I don't know how," Draco admitted, allowing his vulnerability and worry to show.
"You don't have to know how right now," Hermione comforted. "Do you think she would–" She bit her lip, seemingly nervous to ask the question. "Do you think she would run? Like go into hiding or…" she paused cautiously, "switch sides?"
Draco thought for a moment, his mind considering his childhood, years and years of his mother's devotion to his father, the support she gave her husband that, for so long, had seemed endless, infinite, and unwavering.
Then he thought of the night he was tortured. His mother's pleading, begging, and screaming. He thought of her letter from weeks ago, the letter that had convinced him to go see Dumbledore and her promise of unwavering love.
"I think she would. For me, or with me." His shoulders relaxed with the realisation. "I think she'd run if we could manage it. If I asked her to. She'd do it. I think she might do just about anything… for me."
Draco was surprised at his own admission, but the analysis wasn't untrue.
He took a deep inhale and let it out slowly. "I think," he started. "I think any remaining fragments of devotion she held for my father dissipated the moment he tortured me."
So many things could change in one moment.
At that, both of them knew that nothing needed to be said. The silence was comfortable. Heavy, but comfortable.
"What was it like?" Hermione asked in a whisper.
"What was what like?"
"Torture."
Draco hesitated, thinking.
He rested his chin on her head. "Exactly what you imagine. It's… It's… Unforgivable for a reason."
They'd been sitting together, arms wrapped around each other for some time now. Hours, it felt like. And even though they could not possibly get any closer, Hermione pressed her face into the warmth of Draco's chest even more. Her left hand gripped his hip tenderly.
Draco felt her silent tears spread a small spot of wetness through the fabric of his shirt. He pulled her closer, too.
"This is my confession," he whispered into her hair. "As dark and as broken as I am, I will always find enough light to adore you to pieces, with all of my pieces."
"You're not broken, Draco."
He huffed in disagreement.
"If you're broken, then I'm here to stitch you back together… with threads of gold." She smiled into his chest, wiping away a tear. "Broken, but stronger, and more valuable."
"Hmm," he hummed, lifting his chin and kissing her hair above her ear.
Amongst the heavy rise and falls of their breaths, love remained completely still.
A/N: I am so so so so soooooo proud of Draco in this chapter. And Hermione. And them. There were a lot of easter eggs of new arcs and things for Draco and Hermione to think more about. Harry & Ginny anyone? Pondering Snape's loyalty? It all has its purpose and its plan.
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Disclaimer: All publically recognisable characters, settings, etc. are the property of J.K. Rowling.
Thanks to my beta readers the_shitshow_must_go_on and Cleo26. Any remaining typos or mistakes are my own.
Many thanks to anyone who takes the time to read this story, OxfordElise