As soon as Draco had spoken the words, it was as if a dam had broken inside of him. He sagged against her, almost as if he were about to collapse. Hermione caught him and wrapped her arms around him in an attempt to hold him upright. He was breathing heavily in her ear, and his heart was beating erratically. "Breathe, Draco," she said gently, stroking her fingers down his spine as he had once done for her. "Just breathe. It's okay. I'm here."

"I can't do this anymore," he repeated, his voice hopeless. He sounded so young, so vulnerable.

"I know," Hermione replied, holding him tightly. "I know. You won't have to for too much longer."

Not if she had anything to say about it.

He laughed bitterly. "You and I both know that there's no end in sight to this hell that we're living in."

"I'm going to figure it out, Draco," Hermione promised. "We are going to figure it out." Because Hermione had no doubt in her mind that there was, in fact, a we.

Against her shoulder, Hermione felt Draco take in a long breath before exhaling shakily. "I need to occlude for a moment," he said quietly.

"Okay," Hermione agreed. "Go ahead." She did not release him from her arms, and she could feel the physical changes that accompanied his occlusion—he grew stiffer and sharper in her arms, and his body was colder. When she held him, she didn't feel Draco anymore. She didn't want to see his eyes or the blankness that she was certain was behind them.

After several minutes, the stiffness in his body softened, and Hermione could feel Draco slowly returning to his body, and to her. He exhaled again, calmer this time. "I'm okay now," he said after another breath.

Draco had just watched Hermione have her own mental breakdown, and she had just seen his. Despite his insistence that he was okay, Hermione refused to let him go. She clung to him. Draco didn't fight her and wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her just as tightly.

She wasn't sure how she was ever going to be able to say goodbye to him. "We'll figure it out, Draco," she repeated.

He nodded against her shoulder. "If anyone can figure it out, it will be you."

Hermione didn't dare remind him that she'd already failed once before. "Come on," she said quietly. "Let's go to bed."

Draco nodded again but made no effort to move. She suspected that he was simply too exhausted.

She forced herself to pull away from him, and he immediately shifted, pulling himself up straight and staring down into Hermione's eyes. His eyes were swollen and rimmed with purple circles. Hermione had known he was exhausted, but now suspected that he had also been crying at some point. She pulled him toward the bedroom.

Hermione was already dressed in pajamas and she instantly slid under the covers, waiting for Draco. With exhausted muscles, he removed his trousers and button-down before sliding into bed with her. He instantly pulled her into him, holding her tightly. He was asleep within moments.

She studied him for a long time—the tension that he always carried in his shoulders, the tense lines around his mouth, the purple bags beneath his eyes. And predictably, his wand tucked beneath his pillow, just within reach.

When Hermione finally fell asleep, she dreamed vividly of stabbing Voldemort repeatedly with a steak knife.

When she woke up, she wasn't surprised to find Draco had already gone. Aside from physical torture, Hermione suspected that Voldemort also punished Draco in more subtle ways—long dinner parties at Malfoy Manor, followed by early days at work, for instance.

And he was taking time from her and Draco, but of course Voldemort did not know this.

She skipped her shower and stared at the stack of books in Draco's closet. As she stared, she came to a sudden realization, and her stomach sharply dropped. Perhaps, the reason she couldn't find anything about identifying and destroying Horcruxes, was because no one knew anything. She probably knew more about Horcruxes than even the foremost expert.

Truthfully, if there had been any valuable information on Horcruxes, it had probably died alongside Harry Potter.

But she had promised Draco that she would try—that she would find a solution. And gods be damned, Hermione Granger did not break promises.

So Hermione read—page after page, book after book. She read, she devoured, and she studied. She felt absolutely useless, because even after several hours and the beginning symptoms of a migraine, Hermione had less than nothing to show for it.

Mostly, she missed Draco. Her time with him was growing short, and she wanted him to come home so she could wrap him in her arms and keep him safe from all the hurt that was constantly awaiting him in this world. She wanted to hold him and never let him go.

But that would never be possible, because Voldemort would find them here in this little flat. Draco would never be safe here—not ever, while Voldemort was still alive.

Come with me, her subconscious repeated.

He had seemed so—broken the night before. She wondered if now, maybe she could ask him? Maybe now he would come?

But he was a spy, and he had responsibilities and a sense of honor. Most of all, the Order needed him.

Except—the Order didn't even trust him. Draco had no way to communicate with them, and that made absolutely no sense to Hermione. How could he be an effective double agent when he couldn't even contact them?

In an attempt to give them an advantage, Draco had voluntarily submitted himself to physical torture and in exchange, they didn't give a single shit about him.

For years, her foremost loyalty had been to the Order. But then the Order had always been about Harry, her best friend—she had no choice, then, to be loyal to the Order. But—Harry was gone. Who was she loyal to now?

Draco, her subconscious said.

Hermione didn't know what or who to expect when it came to the Order now. Who was in it? Who was in charge? Who was there, and why didn't they trust Draco—the man she was falling in love with.

The quickness of her own thoughts shocked her. In love? Hermione questioned.

Yes, in love, her subconscious answered back.

Hermione was so deep in her own thoughts that she didn't even hear Draco arrive home. He startled her when he dropped to his knees in front of her, looking—if at all possible—even more exhausted than the previous day. "Anything?" he asked, pressing a kiss to her knee.

Hermione jumped and promptly slammed the book shut. "Yes," she said quietly. "But it's not good news."

Draco rested his chin on her knee, closing his eyes. He grimaced. "Tell me," he said after a moment.

"In the two years that I've been researching Horcruxes—I don't even—how could I have never realized this, Draco?" Hermione asked, then sighed deeply. "The reason I can't find any information about Horcruxes is because no one knows anything about them."

Draco didn't so much as open his eyes. "So we're fucked?" he asked, sounding resigned.

"No," Hermione replied fiercely, suddenly feeling a renewed vigor in the visceral absence of Draco's. "Harry, Ron, and I destroyed so many without any knowledge—what's one more?" Hermione reasoned.

"That was with Potter, though," Draco said sadly as he nuzzled his face against her knee. "He was always a lucky bastard."

"We always relied on dumb luck," she said as she ran her fingers through his hair. "It always seemed to work for Harry, though." She could feel tears prick in her eyes. She missed Harry so much, some days she forced her grief down so far that she couldn't even feel it. But when she thought about him, reminisced about him—gods, it fucking hurt how badly she missed him.

When she closed her eyes, she could still conjure a picture perfect image of the last time she had seen him, his glasses askew and his hair stubbornly sticking straight up as it always did, a sad smile on his face that she had only understood later.

Hermione forced herself to swallow. She was glad Draco's eyes were closed so he couldn't see the tears well in her own.

They were silent for several moments before Draco let out a long sigh. "Do you still want to test the Falsitiserum?" he asked.

"Yes," Hermione replied.

He sighed again, before pressing a small vial into her hand.

Hermione stared down at the vial in her hand. "Shouldn't I take Veritaserum, too?" she asked. "Just to be sure."

"I was hoping you'd forget that bit. Of course, I once again forget who I'm talking to." He rose and made his way into the kitchen, opening the cabinets and pulling two vials from the shelves. He downed one, which Hermione instantly recognizing as Pepper-up potion. He brought the other vial to her. "Veritaserum." He looked wary as he handed it to her.

Hermione pulled the cork from the vial and immediately downed the potion. It took only a few moments before reality seemed to shift on its axis. The world became soft and dreamy. She felt a sense of lightness she hadn't felt in years. Hermione felt herself smile.

"I'm going to ask you some questions. Try to lie to me, Hermione," said a voice.

Well, why would she lie? She didn't want to lie. She wanted to tell the voice the truth.

"What's your name?" asked the voice.

"Hermione Jean Granger," she answered instantly.

"What are your parents' names?"

She wanted to fight this one. This is one should she fight—she had obliviated them to protect them. The voice didn't need to know their real names. "Helen—and—David—" It was as if the names had been ripped straight from her brain. She couldn't fight the potion. She closed her eyes tightly, feeling like she was about to cry.

Draco stroked her hair. "It's just me, Hermione. It's me. Don't be upset. Trust me." Hermione nodded jerkily.

"Who are you named after?"

Shakespeare, mythology—the options were all there, but she couldn't quite grasp them. They slipped through her mind as quickly as they appeared, until only the truth remained. "A Song for Hermione," she said unwittingly. "It's a horrible song."

Draco laughed and uncorked the Falsisterum, he produced a spoon and tiniest amount of liquid into it. He brought the spoon to her mouth and Hermione instantly swallowed it, desperate to be free from the effects of the Veritaserum.

"What's your name?" Draco asked after a moment. "Lie to me."

"Millicent Bulstrode," Hermione lied easily.

Draco raised a brow at her. "What are your parents' names?" he asked.

"Sonny and Cher."

Draco nodded. "Last one," he said. "Where does your name come from?"

"Mythology, of course," Hermione replied.

Draco nodded and grinned at her. "How do you feel? The truth, if you please."

At Draco's question, her stomach immediately gurgled. "A bit nauseous," she admitted.

"Just a bit?" he asked, quirking a brow.

Actually, she felt downright sick. It reminded her of the time her parents had taken her to Brighton Beach on summer holiday. She had tried to read during the drive and gotten so carsick her parents had to pull over so she could be sick all over the side of the road.

"One of the unfortunate side effects, I'm afraid," Draco said with a frown. "Do you want me to make you some toast?"

Hermione shook her head, feeling nauseous as she did so. "Not right now."

He stared at her for several seconds before patting his lap. "Come here," he said. "Lay down."

Hermione fell into his lap, feeling the urge to vomit as she did so. She clenched her jaw to fight the feeling. Draco stroked her hair away from her face, and she curled into him.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I should've warned you that this was a possible side effect."

"You've poisoned me, haven't you?" Hermione groaned.

"I promise it will pass soon," Draco replied quietly, continuing to stroke her hair. "You're okay."

Hermione knew he was telling the truth, even as her stomach continued to roil. "How does it work?" she asked quietly. "If someone were to be caught."

"You mean how do they get to the Falsitiserum?" he asked.

She nodded, feeling nauseous as she did so. "Yes."

"Muggle pill capsules. The ones that you pull apart. I take the medicine out of them and fill it with Falsitiserum. A pill is supposed to be sewn into everyone's robes in case they're captured."

Hermione thought of the Order. When had any of them worn robes? Harry never had, so they hadn't either.

She wanted to vomit, for more than one reason.

"Hermione?" he asked quietly.

"I'm here," she said. "I'm just—thinking."

"About what? You're looking quite serious."

Hermione met his eyes, and he was staring down at her with a tense expression. She bit her lip and swallowed, trying to get the words right. "I'm leaving soon," she finally said, slowly. "Would you—would you consider coming with me?"

"Where?" he asked. "To the Order?"

"Yes," she replied.

"I'm afraid they don't want me, Hermione."

"I want you," she said quietly. "And if they want me, they have to take you."

"Hermione—"

She interrupted him, "I've been alone to two fucking years, Draco. They barely want me either—oh—fuck, I'm going to—" she couldn't finish her sentence, promptly running to Draco's washroom and throwing up whatever was left of the potions. Draco was instantly beside her, rubbing her back.

"Snape's recipe is garbage," she muttered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"It's rough," Draco agreed. "But it gets the job done."

When the nausea had finally passed, Hermione curled up in Draco's lap on the bathroom floor. "I'd like to go to bed now," she said quietly.

He wrapped his arms around her and chuckled. "Okay," he replied, pulling her up and leading her to her to the bed, where they curled up under the covers.

After several minutes of silence, Hermione once again summoned her Gryffindor bravery: "I wasn't joking, you know," she said quietly. "You should come with me."

"I don't think I can," he replied.

"Why?" she asked.

"Hermione, they all think I tried to murder Dumbledore. I will never be forgiven for that."

Hermione stayed quiet. Another piece of Draco's story. "But you didn't," she argued quietly.

"No one knows that," he replied

"I do," she insisted. "But I still—I don't know the full story."

He turned towards her in the bed and sighed. "I'll tell you if you really want to know."

"I want to know," she said fiercely.

He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Okay. Just a light bedtime story then?" he asked sardonically.

Hermione tilted her head on the pillow to stare up at him. "If you please."

Draco sighed and intertwined their fingers. He stared up at the ceiling for several moments before he let out another long exhale. "It was after the Department of Mysteries, as I'm sure you're aware. My father—" he broke off audibly, swallowing, "—well, he had already failed too many times before."

She squeezed his fingers, urging him to continue.

"I'm sure you know the story," he finally said. "He was supposed to steal the prophecy, he failed, and wound up in Azkaban." Absently, he began to play with her fingers. "He was very angry with my father. After my father was imprisoned, he held a meeting in front of all the Death Eaters, announcing that He had chosen me to become a part of His ranks. I had literally just turned 16." His voice wavered slightly.

Hermione kissed his bare collarbone, wanting to comfort him.

"I'd never seen Aunt Bellatrix look so proud, or my mother look so horrified. I—well, I didn't know what to think. I thought—maybe it was an honor?"

Against his chest, Hermione nodded. Of course, Voldemort had made it seem that way.

"Of course, I realized it was a punishment as soon as I was given my first mission: Kill Dumbledore." He laughed bitterly. "An impossible task for the most powerful wizards that ever existed, entrusted to a 16-year-old."

"He gave it to you knowing you would be killed," Hermione murmured.

Draco nodded and kissed the top of her head. "Yes," he replied solemnly. "My mother—" he broke off again. "My mother wasn't going to let it happen."

He paused for a long time, and Hermione knew he was thinking about his mother.

"She wasn't going to let it happen," he continued, a bit more fiercely. "She made an Unbreakable Vow with Snape—she made him vow to protect me—to help me—and if—when—I couldn't—he would—he'd kill Dumbledore."

Snape. It always went back to Snape and his murky loyalties. Every—single—time.

"Are you still awake?" Draco asked, when Hermione stayed quiet.

"Yes," she replied. "I'm listening. I was just—thinking."

"About Snape, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, here's where it gets interesting," he said. "The day we arrived at Hogwarts that year, Snape pulled me aside after dinner and into an unused classroom. I thought he was going to ask me how I planned to kill Dumbledore. But Dumbledore was there, Hermione, just sitting on top of a desk. I thought he was staring at his nails at first, but then I realized that his fingers were all black and kind of withered—and he was just staring at his fingers without a care in the world."

"When I mentioned the Horcruxes—the ring—that's how you knew he'd put it on."

He nodded. "I remember just staring at them both. I was terrified. Was Dumbledore going to kill me? Was Snape? I didn't know—" he cut off again. "Do you know what my immediate thought was when I thought I was about to be murdered?"

"What?" she asked.

"I wished I'd eaten dessert." He laughed.

Hermione didn't laugh back. She felt nauseous again.

"Dumbledore told me he knew I'd been instructed to kill him. He knew all of my plans—all of my instructions, Hermione. He just—nonchalantly told me to carry on with it. But I was to have private lessons with Snape every morning."

"Is that when he taught you—?"

"It's when he taught me everything," he finished. "I stayed up all night fucking with that stupid cabinet and then I'd study with Snape while it was still dark outside. I learned Occlumency and Legilimency and I did it with only two hours of sleep. He taught me potions. If I wanted to learn a potion, he made me write it down until I could brew it from memory."

"Like you do now?" Hermione asked.

"It's a useful technique," he said quietly.

"It is," she agreed. "I've never made a potion like the one I made with you."

"How so?" he asked.

Hermione furrowed her brow, trying to find the right description. "There was a flow—a rhythm. Potion making always used to feel tedious."

"In tedium, you make mistakes, simply because you're trying too hard. If you know what you're doing, you won't make mistakes."

"Is that a Snape-ism?" She asked.

"It is."

"Continue," Hermione said.

"A few months later, Snape pulled me into another classroom. Dumbledore was there, again just sitting on a desk, looking at his fingernails. Hermione, his hand was absolutely fucked. It looked like it was rotting. And he was so—nonchalant." He paused—swallowed. "He told me I needed to figure out where my loyalties laid, and he promised he'd keep my mother safe if I turned spy."

"So, you turned spy?" she asked.

"I did."

Dumbledore had used him. He had made promises to Draco he knew he couldn't keep—because he had tried to wear a Horcrux.

"The rest—you know. The night in the astronomy tower. I couldn't do it. So, Snape did. We ran. The end."

He didn't kill Dumbledore. But he had talked about murdering the Snatchers. "I have a question," she finally said.

"Ask it," he replied, kissing her forehead.

"Have you ever killed anyone?" she asked.

There was a long silence. "Yes," he replied. "Two. In self-defense. They were trying to kill me."

"You wanted to kill those snatchers," Hermione reminded him. That hadn't been self-defense.

"At my core, I am not a murderer. But I will kill for those I care about. And make no mistake with what I've said, Hermione," he said fiercely. "If someone is trying to hurt you, I will kill them."

She didn't want him killing people for her, but she understood. After all, hadn't she vowed to kill Voldemort for precisely the same reason?

"I've lost too many people to be soft now. The people I care about are not replaceable, I've found," Draco continued.

"What happened to your father, Draco?"

Draco swallowed audibly. "He broke my father out of prison. My father was so—grateful," he said bitterly. "It was pathetic. After everything He had done, my father just groveled at His feet. I loved my father, but I also hated him."

Hermione had long suspected that Draco's relationship with his father had been rather complicated, but she was surprised to hear that to some extent Draco hated his father.

"He killed him, a few days after the Battle of Hogwarts. I think that had been His plan all along, after He freed my father from Azkaban. He did it just to be cruel, I'm sure." Draco paused. "It's strange when I think back on. Surreal. We had just had a meeting—I don't even remember what about. I was standing right next to him, and when the meeting was over, I turned to leave, just as I always did. I assumed he was right behind me. There was a green flash out of the corner of my eye, and I heard him hit the floor. I didn't even have to turn back around to know it was him."

Hermione felt herself grow cold. Draco had said that Voldemort had murdered his father. Logically, she knew this. However, she hadn't even fathomed that his father had been murdered while he was directly next to him. The thought of it was positively horrific, and Hermione pushed the image from her mind, unwilling to even to imagine what it must have been like for Draco.

One minute his father had been there, and in the next he was dead on the floor.

Hermione held no love for Lucius Malfoy—she had always found him to be an elitist prick. But his son—well, that was a different story all together. Her heart ached for Draco. "Oh, Draco," she said quietly, not sure what else she could say. "I'm sorry."

"Mum lasted a year without Father. He moved into my house before my father's body was even in the ground. I think he killed her, too—poison, or a slow-acting curse. Perhaps it was just heartbreak. I have no proof. As soon as she died, I left the mansion. The magic there had become poisonous. I moved here," he said, motioning to his little flat.

Hermione couldn't say she was sorry again. She couldn't. "Fuck Him," she spat. "We're going to kill him."

"We are," Draco agreed, curling into her. "Together. I know we can."

Over the next week, Draco continued to work exhausting hours, and Hermione continued to read to no avail. During the day, Hermione fought the dread growing in her stomach. At night, she'd lay awake in Draco's arms.

The meeting with his handler was soon. How long until they had to say goodbye? Would the Order come for her immediately? Or weeks later, in the way they seemed to communicate with Draco?

She had lost count of the days two years ago, but when she woke one dreary morning and found Draco's face drawn and gray as he stared down at her, she knew it was the day.

The day she'd lose him.

"It's today? Isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes," he confirmed.

"Will I have to go today?"

Draco's expression hardened. "I don't know," he said quietly. "The Order is in charge of most of our interactions, as I'm sure you're aware."

"I'm not ready," she replied, burrowing into his chest and breathing him in. What if this was the last time?

His expression softened. "I'll make sure we get to say goodbye, Hermione," he promised. "I'll make sure of that at the very least. My loyalty will be contingent on that."

"I won't go," she threatened. "If they don't let us say goodbye."

He nodded and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'll let them know."

"It is non-negotiable," Hermione continued.

"Yes," Draco agreed.

They ate a small breakfast in silence, and the food tasted like ash to Hermione, her stomach rumbling in protestation. Draco looked very far away, and Hermione wondered if he was occluding. Hermione wouldn't fault him for it. If she could occlude, she would do it, too. As he washed their dishes the Muggle way, Hermione wrapped her arms around his torso and held him as tightly as she could. "When is your meeting?" she asked quietly.

"Soon," Draco replied, swallowing audibly. "15 minutes."

Hermione held him even tighter, if it was at all possible. "So soon?" she asked in a small voice.

Draco nodded. "We have to do it early, before I have to be at work."

"Oh," she said softly. What if he had to work? What if they didn't get a goodbye?

"I don't have to work today," he said, as if he were reading her thoughts. "I got Nott to cover for me."

Draco dressed in his normal outfit of black trousers and a stylish button-down. He swung his robes over his shoulder and pulled her into him with one arm. He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of her head before dropping his head down and finding her lips. "I'll see you soon," he said quietly.

Hermione fought the urge to cry as he apparated away, his grey eyes locked on her as he disappeared.

He returned in less than an hour. "We have an hour," he announced. He looked positively defeated.

An hour wasn't nearly enough time. It wasn't any time at all. Hermione fought down the panic that was slowly growing inside her. She couldn't waste the last hour she had with Draco. With shaky hands, she reached for him. He immediately took her hands, and Hermione pulled him towards the bedroom. Without speaking, they nestled beneath the covers as if to hide from the world. Hermione burrowed against Draco, missing the strength and the warmth of his body even as he laid beside her.

"You are best thing that has ever happened to me, Hermione," Draco said quietly. "I just want you to know that. That day I walked into the woods—that was the best day of my life, and I didn't even know it."

"It was mine, too," Hermione replied, raising her head and meeting his eyes. She kissed him, and he kissed her back.

An hour passed in the blink of an eye, as they both had known it would.

There was a distinctive pop in Draco's living room and Draco's jaw audibly clicked. He sighed, then pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. "That will be The Order then."

Hermione nodded but made no attempt to move. She did not want to leave. She had begun to cry.

"Come on," Draco said, rising from the bed. "It's time to go."

Hermione wiped her tears away with the back of her hand before taking Draco's own hand and following him into the living room. There, they found a bright white Patronus waiting, a wrapped Portkey dangling from its mouth.

a/n: no, but you really aren't ready for it.