December 2002

The next time Hermione arrived at the shack, Draco appeared wearing only trousers and a shirt. She stopped and stared in surprise.

He quirked an eyebrow and looked down at himself. "I didn't fancy getting you tangled in my robes," he said with a suggestive drawl.

He stared at her for a moment with narrowed eyes before gesturing her forward.

"Given that you aren't necessarily training for skirmishes, we need to expand your combat abilities," he began in a clipped voice. "Vampires, hags, or harpies won't have wands, but they're experienced when it comes to attacking Wizarding folk. They go for close attacks that are difficult to fight off. Most wizards study defense against them assuming distance, but a smart hag will get you within arm's reach as quickly as possible. They know combat spells are difficult to perform close range. Werewolves may have wands, but most that run in packs prefer physical combat. You're—small." Hermione snorted, and Draco glared at her mildly. "You're going to be at a disadvantage in any fight. You need to defend yourself creatively."

"Alright." Hermione gave a sharp nod.

Draco's eyes glittered, and he loomed over her. "Now, suppose I'm a vampire. I'd be targeting the side of your neck. You don't have a dueling partner to cover for you. While you're fighting off a gytrash, I've closed in." He stepped closer until their bodies were touching. "What would you do now?"

Hermione whipped her wand upward, but Draco was too close for her to perform the wand motion for most defensive spells. Before she could back away and cast, his hand shot out and struck her wrist sharply. Her wand flew from her fingers and slid across the floor. She turned to dive after it, but Draco's hand closed around her wrist, and he jerked her back.

"Wandless too. Your move, Granger." He started leaning down toward her throat as though he intended to bite it.

Her left hand shot up to shove him away, but his other hand closed around her left wrist. She tried to wrench her arms free, but his grip was relentless.

"A word of advice," Draco said conversationally as she continued to try to tear herself free. "Don't leave your wrists open. Once I have you by the wrist, I have a considerable advantage; this a much easier hold for me to maintain than for you to escape from. The same goes for your feet. Be careful kicking above the knee. If you get grabbed by your ankle, you'll be on the ground in seconds. Stomping or kneeing is much better than kicking. Stomping utilises your weight. Stomp hard and go for the feet, ankles, or the side of the knees. Disabling your opponent is the key. A knee to the groin works on everything: wizards, vampires, werewolves—even hags hate it."

Hermione tried to knee Draco, but he used his hold on her wrists to twist her away and easily sidestepped her leg.

"See, once your arms are trapped, your options are limited, and mine are nearly endless depending on what I want to do to you next."

His lecturing was getting annoying. Hermione stomped on his foot and kicked him in the shins. He hissed faintly.

"Better. But if I were a vampire, you'd be drained by now. You clearly lack aptitude for fighting dirty."

He released her abruptly, and Hermione tore herself away and faced him. He stared at her seriously.

"Granger, if you are attacked, you will be outnumbered. Even if you aren't outnumbered, physically speaking, you will never be as strong as most Dark creatures naturally are. They will do whatever it takes to kill you. The fight will be stacked against you in every possible regard. Do anything you can to get away."

Hermione gave a short nod.

"Fight smart," he said coldly. "Be devious. When your opponent is stronger than you, it is crucial to use it against them. You will never be stronger than a werewolf, but they get lost in bloodlust and attack predictably. If you utilise that knowledge, you may be able to survive it. Also," he shot her a look, "pull your punches; this is a practice fight."

He returned her wand to her and attacked her again. And again, and again. He was relentless, and annoyingly conversational. He'd disarm her without even using a spell, and then proceed to trip her, or twist an arm behind her back and force her into a helpless position, while relentlessly drawling what she could have done better.

Hermione grew progressively more and more irritated with him, which he noticed and seemed amused by.

"I'm a hag," he announced with a smirk before attacking her for the twentieth time. Hermione shot off a series of stunners as she tried to stay out of his reach, but he rapidly dodged them and closed in. She tried to dive to escape him, but he caught her by the ankle. She whirled and tried to hex him, but he snatched her wand out of her hand and tossed it into a corner, and then proceeded to sit on her hips. "I would probably slit you open and start eating your organs at this point," he noted casually, sliding a hand over her stomach. "You're worse at this than you were at dancing, and you were an abysmal dancer."

"I've never done this kind of fighting before," Hermione said mutinously as she tried to wriggle free. "Do you have any idea how many kinds of hand-to-hand combat there are? I browsed through dozens of books, but I had no idea what type of fighting I was expected to learn." She glared and added, "I could stab you with one of my knives now."

He stared at her thoughtfully and then nodded. "We should use practice knives. I'll bring a set."

Hermione studied him in bewilderment. "Why are you in such a good mood today?"

Months of enduring his cold rage, and suddenly he was cheerful and conversational for no apparent reason.

He looked at her for a moment and then smirked. "Joie de vivre, I suppose. Or maybe I'm just unexpectedly fond of sitting on you."

Hermione eyed him dubiously and wondered if he was high on something.

He stood up and offered her a hand. She blinked in surprise and accepted it. Then she studied him.

He was strangely happy—borderline affectionate-seeming. Hermione was not. She felt on the verge of a breakdown just looking at him.

A month. She had a month. A month to find a way to control him.

Control him. Even if she could, she had no idea how she was possibly going to demonstrate it.

"After all, what exactly is he getting from having you? You aren't sleeping with him. He's teaching you to duel, he taught you occlumency. What benefit are you providing him?"

"What would you even say you are to him?"

Hermione felt as though she were going to have a panic attack. She stared at Draco in despair.

"Don't be afraid to use your elbows," he said. "When you're fending off close range attacks, punching won't have much force. Elbows are hard and ideal for close attacks. Better than something as ineffective as slapping."

"Slapping worked rather well on you," Hermione retorted.

Draco snorted faintly. "If you're attacking a thirteen year old, by all means, slap him."

Hermione scowled.

"Again," he said, after she had caught her breath.

He lunged toward her. Rather than try to bolt, she moved toward him and then side-stepped at the last minute. He pivoted and turned back, but she'd already hit him with a stinging hex and caught his ankle with a leg locker. He was too close for more spellwork. She tried to leap away but he grabbed her by the arm, knocked her wand away and dragged her to the ground with him.

Hermione kicked, scratched, and snarled as she tried to fight free, but he weighed at least fifty pounds more than her. She tried to wrench herself away, but in a minute she was entirely pinned beneath him.

"If I were a werewolf, I'd already have ripped your throat out," he said in a low voice. His mouth was near the base of her neck, and Hermione became abruptly aware that the length of his body was pressed against hers. His breath was brushing against the sensitive skin at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. His legs were between hers, and as she kept trying to get free, she kept bucking her hips against his.

He abruptly tore himself away from her and stood up glaring. His jaw rolled slightly, and his eyes were black.

"If you're ever fighting off a werewolf, I would not recommend doing it that way," he said in a tight voice as he pulled out his wand and removed the leg locker jinx on his ankle.

"How should I do it?"

"Use your head to break his nose, and when he lets go of your wrists, tear his eyes out," he said stiffly. "Go for knees, groin, eyes, ankles. As previously mentioned, you're trying to disable your assailant."

"Right." She picked herself up of the floor and stared wistfully at him.

"Again," he said. He attacked her again.

By the time Hermione apparated away, she was covered in bruises. Draco had knocked her down again and again as he'd lectured her on hags', vampires', and werewolves' preferred methods for attack.

She hid in the bathroom when she got back to Grimmauld Place and rubbed Murtlap Essence all over her body. She studied self-defense. She reviewed all her notes on Draco.

She didn't know what to do. She didn't know how to control him. She didn't know how to prove that she could.

She didn't know what he wanted. Her. In some way—for some reason—he wanted her. But she interfered with whatever else it was that he wanted.

She sorted through her memories exhaustively: turning them over, organising them, trying to find something to unravel.

She lay in bed at night and wondered if she were risking the war effort. Maybe she was compromised. Unreliable. Maybe Severus was right, and Draco was better off dead. Maybe if he was such a centralised figure in Voldemort's army, getting him killed and leaving a power vacuum would be the most effective use for him.

But she couldn't reconcile it. She refused to believe it.

She curled into a tight ball and felt as though she might die from the sense of despair she felt.

Each successive week when Draco trained her, she was distracted. She went through the motions, but she was uncommitted, and Draco noticed.

"Is there any point in my training you if you aren't even paying attention?" he asked, his expression irritated.

Hermione's mouth twisted, and the corners of her eyes ached. She looked away from him. "I just don't really see the point anymore."

He stared at her for several seconds, looking faintly aghast. "I thought you didn't want to die," he finally said.

"If I'm ambushed by a pack of werewolves, I doubt I'll survive it. If I do, I'll be in so many pieces I doubt it would even matter," she said quietly.

He shifted back and stared at her as though he were reevaluating something. "What's wrong?"

"I'm tired," she said, staring at the floor. "I am tired of this war. I'm tired of trying to save people and watching them die anyway, or saving them and then watching them die later. I feel like Sisyphus, trapped in a cycle for eternity. I don't know how to get out, and I don't know how to keep going anymore either."

Draco was quiet for a moment. "What happened to doing everything for Potter and Weasley?" His tone was tinged with disdain.

"The price keeps getting steeper. I don't know if I can keep paying it."

His expression tightened. "I suppose even martyrs have limits."

Hermione gave a listless smile. "Or bad days, at least."

She looked up at Draco, studying his reserved, mask-like expression and the intent way he watched her.

Give in. Give in. She urged him. She could see it in his eyes, he was so close.

But he refused to cross the line. To concede it. Whenever she tried to beckon him across it, his malice surfaced.

He was cruelest when he was vulnerable.

Perhaps if Hermione were more dogged, she could find a way to push through the pain, but he seemed to always know where to cut to hurt her most.

Whatever was holding him back—she didn't know how to sever it.

Her fingers curled, and she almost reached for him before pulling back. She drew a deep breath and forced herself to squash her despair and focus on the situation at hand.

"Right. I'm done moping," she said, straightening.

She grabbed her wand up off the floor and got into position. He stared at her thoughtfully for a moment before suddenly lunging toward her.

She sidestepped and shoved him past her, but he caught himself and spun back. His hand caught her wrist and forced her to drop her wand. She shoved her elbow into his ribs, wrenched herself free, and dove for her wand.

She snatched her wand up as she jumped back to her feet and managed to hit him several times before he closed in again. He grabbed her by the arm and tore her wand out of her hand again. She attempted to hook her foot behind his ankle, but he swept back and dodged it as he twisted her arm behind her. She jerked it loose with a quick lunge, and felt a flash of triumph before realising he'd let her go. Using the force from her escape, he spun her, caught her ankle with his own foot, and slammed her to the ground.

Hermione twisted, trying to wriggle free, but he had her wrists locked in his hands.

Hissing slightly with frustration, she stilled while he knelt over her.

"You're still trying to win by being quick rather than by being clever," he scolded.

He released her wrists and stood.

"Again."

Hermione was getting tired, but she still managed to last longer. She knocked him down twice, but she couldn't outlast him. As he tried to pin her down, she spun to the side using his momentum, and they rolled across the floor.

He still ended up on top of her in the end.

She nearly cursed with frustration.

"Better," he said, panting.

His face was less than an inch from hers, and he was staring down at her. His hands were wrapped around her wrists over her head.

She could feel his heartbeat.

It was January 21st. Next week would be the last time, and she was due to hand her memories over to Kingsley.

Draco, who worried about her more than anyone else did. Who had devoted time he couldn't possibly have trying to train her and keep her alive. Because he just wanted her to be alive.

Since he'd told her she could say no, he had never actually asked for anything from her. As he looked down at her, his expression was closed, but his eyes were intent; as though he were memorising her. Then his expression flickered, a flash of familiar bitterness.

And she knew.

He was waiting for her to betray him. He knew that she would. That she would always choose the Order first.

That was the thing that had always held him back.

He'd anticipated it since the very beginning, before the possibility had occurred to her. And he'd trained her anyway.

She couldn't understand it. What was the point to any of it if he expected to be killed by the Order? By her?

She stared at him. She didn't need a book to tell her what the expression on his face was. She could feel it, it was a heat in her abdomen, a catching sensation in her chest, and a thrum in her veins. The intensity with which he studied her. His fingers were wrapped around her wrists, and his thumb slid subconsciously along her inner arm as he looked down at her.

He drew closer. She held her breath. Then his expression hardened. He pulled his hands away and started to get up.

Hermione's hands shot out, she grabbed hold of his shirt, dragged him back and pressed her lips against his.

It was not a slow, sweet kiss. It was not a kiss caused by alcohol or insecurity.

It was borne from rage, despair, and desire so hot it threatened to burn her into oblivion.

It was possibly a kiss goodbye.

If and when Kingsley and Moody decide to expose Draco, we'll give you an hour to warn him.

Draco froze when her lips touched his, and she thought he might just shove her away. She felt his hand on her shoulder and braced herself as she deepened the kiss and tightened her grip on his clothes.

He wavered.

It was like something broke inside of him. Like a dam bursting, and suddenly Hermione was drowning in him.

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her savagely.

The heat was like wildfire.

The tension, the waiting. Months of expecting him to move on her. After being told it was why she was sent, a maiden tribute for his services.

But it had been a ruse on his part. Touching her, kissing her, "wanting" her. A feint to conceal his true intentions and motive. Demanding her had been the same form of misdirection that he'd taught her to use in occlumency.

A lie—

Until it suddenly wasn't.

She'd shifted herself in his estimation. Manipulated her way into occupying the very place he'd pretended she held.

She slid her fingers across his shoulders. One of his hands gripped her hair, tugging at the braids, while his other hand reached down and wrenched her shirt open, shoving her bra out of the way. He palmed her breasts hard enough to make her hiss against his mouth.

She kissed him deeply as her fingers slid through his hair and along the tendons of his neck. She dragged her nails across the top of his shoulders.

Despite how cold he acted, his name was apt; he was a dragon. He kept walls of ice around himself, but there was fire in his heart.

They tore each other's clothes off. His shirt lost several buttons as she ripped it open and then bit down on his shoulder. Feeling him, marking him. His body was familiar to her. She had already memorised its contours.

He dragged his hands up her body, along the curves he'd laughed at and dismissed as scrawny. He kissed across her breasts and tangled his fingers in her braids, pulling her hair until she whimpered and tilted her head back.

His mouth was at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and he kissed and nipped along her collarbone until he reached a point where she moaned gutturally and arched against him.

It was fast. Harsh. It wasn't a romance between them, but the collision of two opposing forces.

He pushed her legs apart and sank into her with a single, hard thrust. Then he paused and kissed her before he started to move.

Hermione bit back a cry of pain and forced herself not to stiffen or pull away.

It hurt.

She had known it might, if not done slowly. But the pain still caught her off guard. The abruptness of it.

Perhaps he'd assumed there had been others before him.

She was glad it hurt. She was whoring herself for the war. She had seduced Draco after he'd made it abundantly clear it was a line he didn't want crossed. She'd manipulated him because she wanted something from him.

It should hurt her physically to do it, the same way it hurt her mentally.

He was so much bigger his frame practically enveloped her. His hands were tangled in her hair so tightly she could barely even twitch her head as he met her eyes and moved inside of her.

His jaw was tensed. His expression shielded the way it almost always was. That hard flat line of his mouth.

But his eyes... the intensity in them as he looked at her was searing. In that expression, she could tell—

He was hers.

The realisation broke her heart somewhat.

She forced herself not to show any signs of discomfort. She moved her hips to meet his movement and clenched around him as she dragged her fingernails across his back. She locked her feet below his hips to drive him further in.

He hissed and dropped his head against her shoulder as he thrust deep inside of her. The angle of his movement, the intensity between them wasn't just his—she whimpered and gasped near his ear.

His pace faltered slightly, and he lifted his head. He slid his hands out of her hair, caught hold of her hands and entwined their fingers. He kissed her. Soul-searing kisses that made her chest hurt as she returned them.

He shifted his pace. Slower. The angle was different, the way their pelvises met as he pushed into her, and Hermione realised with alarm that it was tearing her sense of control away from her. Dragging her upward into fire she didn't know how to escape from or rein in.

Draco was kissing her. Hot. Bruising. Almost punishing kisses, as he gripped her hands and kept driving into her. The pain had dulled to a fainter throb amid the fire of sensation that laced its way through her nerves.

Several more, hard, deep strokes, then Draco's hips jerked, and he gave a deep moan and dropped his head down next to hers. His breath dragged across her skin as he panted near her ear and kissed her shoulder.

Hermione lay still beneath him. She was suddenly aware of the rough floorboards biting into her skin. That the room was cold.

The only thing she could think of was how relieved she was that she hadn't come.

Draco stayed pressed against her and still inside her for several seconds and then he abruptly tensed and pulled away. His expression was drawn, and he didn't even look at her as he snatched his clothing off the floor. He pulled his pants and trousers on.

Hermione slowly sat up, watching him carefully. He was growing progressively paler and paler as he redressed. His expression was both disbelieving and horrified.

"Fuck— " he said under his breath, dragging his hand through his hair.

He seemed strangely devastated.

He clapped his hand over his mouth and looked over, meeting her eyes. Whatever was dawning on him seemed to be giving him a panic attack.

He swallowed visibly, closed his eyes and pulled on his shirt. Then he opened his eyes. He seemed to have composed himself. He drew a deep breath and turned to her. His expression was tense.

As he looked at her, his eyes dropped to her legs and he blanched white.

"You were a virgin?" His voice was rasping.

Hermione glanced down. There was blood on her thighs.

"Yes," she said. "When you first gave your terms, it was assumed that was how you'd want me."

Malfoy looked like he was about to be sick. His jaw was clenched as he just kept staring at her.

"I—" his voice failed him.

"I—would have been gentler—if I had known," he finally said.

Hermione pressed her knees together to hide it and drew her legs closer to her body. "I didn't really want you to be."

He pressed his lips together. He looked strangely lost.

She couldn't understand how it added up. Why giving in and fucking her was somehow a decisive stroke.

Maybe it was. After he'd kissed her when they were both drunk, there had been a distinct line he'd drawn. One that he'd been furiously assiduous about maintaining.

If he'd expected her to kill him in the end, he may have found the idea of crossing it unbearable.

But it didn't explain everything else he'd done. If he expected her to sell him out, why climb? Why try to remove the Dark Mark?

It had to be related to the runes. If he'd been torn, and he'd clearly been torn, then it may have tipped the scales. Maybe he couldn't change course now. It was set. Obsessive. Possessive. She had him; possibly forever, if she was cunning enough to use it.

There was something ironic about seducing someone in the hope it might somehow save their life. Her mouth quirked faintly at the corner.

She gripped her knee; her hands were shaking faintly.

She'd gotten what she wanted. She'd grieve over the cost later, when she had space for it. She slammed her occlumency walls into place. She wasn't going to think about anything but the immediate situation.

She had him. For whatever reason, she had him. Now she had to find a way to take advantage of it.

He noticed her expression.

"You seem pleased," he said in a bitter voice, his lip curling, "to have successfully whored yourself. Happy to know you've got your chess piece locked in place?"

She didn't flinch at the insult. She closed her hands slowly into fists and then forced herself to open them. "That was my job," she said quietly. There was no point in trying to deny it. "You have to have known that was my mission."

"Of course," he said in an empty tone, looking away from her. His arms were hanging limp, and as though he suddenly didn't know what to do with himself. "I just—I never thought you'd actually succeed. I didn't want you—when I demanded you—I didn't actually want you."

"I know." She looked away. "I realised that everything at the beginning was an act." Her skin was hurting from the cold. The shack had never been heated, but she hadn't realised how cold it was until then.

He gave a choked laugh under his breath as he looked back at her. "Of course."

There was a pause. Hermione started pulling her clothes on. Draco looked away.

"I wasn't going to betray your Order," he finally said in a dead voice. "I was never going to. You were already losing when I came, and you're probably still going to lose now. But—I never really cared. I didn't turn because of that. I wanted to avenge my mother. I was perfectly willing to die in the process." He stared down at the floor. "Unfortunately, by the time I had an opportunity to offer my services, she had been dead too long. It wasn't a 'plausible' explanation."

The bitterness on his face was unadulterated. He rolled his jaw and looked up at the ceiling, tilting his head back. "I wasn't aware there was a time limit on grief."

He looked over at her, and his expression grew vicious and disdainful. His eyes were glittering. "Since that wasn't a plausible reason, I had to come up with something I'd ostensibly want from the Order. So—a pardon. But I knew that would hardly be believable either. I knew I'd need a contact; choosing a girl and acting like I had some sort of interest seemed like a pragmatic solution. A way to play into the Death Eater narrative." He gave a thin smile. "But most witches in the Resistance were too much of a risk; hot-headed and out in the field so often there was a good chance they'd get picked up in a skirmish, and I'd either get my cover blown or I'd be cycling through contacts constantly."

He swallowed and his mouth twisted. "Then I remembered you. I thought for years that you'd died, but Snape reported you were the Order's healer. When you occurred to me, I thought I'd found the perfect solution. You were kept in safe houses; there wouldn't be much risk of you being picked up or killed, and you were pragmatic enough that you'd go along if you thought you were saving your friends. It seemed like the perfect solution. When I said my terms were you and a pardon, they immediately bought it. Apparently the 'now and after war' line was absurd enough that you all found it believable."

He sneered. "As if I would have betrayed the Dark Lord for a chance to own you," he said, rolling his eyes. "I knew they'd send you with instruction to try to make me fall for you—to assure my services and ensure I wouldn't tire of you or change my mind. But—I figured, you'd been such a bitch back in school, and you'd hate me so much for killing Dumbledore, I was sure you wouldn't succeed. I honestly thought it would be funny to see you try."

He stared down at the floor.

"But you did—you outmanoeuvered me," he said. "Or maybe I was just too tired and grieving to keep pushing you away. It hardly matters. You won."

He sank down against the wall and shut his eyes.

Hermione studied him skeptically as she pulled the rest of her clothes back on. She wasn't sure what angle he was trying to play with this—concession? Confession?

The part about her was believable enough. It fit with everything she'd noted about him. But she was doubtful of his claim that his mother was his true impetus. She'd considered the possibility countless times and dismissed it.

"Really? You switched sides because your mother died?" She snorted loudly with disbelief as she stood up. "Her death was hardly your master's fault. And what? Before that you just ascended his ranks by accident? Didn't really notice for five years and then oh—golly, what? The anniversary of her death passed, and you got so melancholy you couldn't help but reach out to us?"

She was baiting him. She was sure it would piss him off. Maybe—if she goaded him enough, he'd actually tell the truth for once.

His eyes snapped open, and he grew pale with rage. "Fuck you, Granger."

Hermione flinched. The skin on her back and shoulders felt scratched raw in places, and her lower abdomen ached faintly. She could feel his semen pooling in the fabric of her knickers, and there was a stinging sensation between her legs. She swallowed and forced herself to ignore it.

"You are a Death Eater," she said coolly, crossing her arms as she stared down at him. "Do you expect me to forget what you've done? To imagine you became so high ranking because of that delightful personality of yours? You killed Dumbledore. You've murdered my friends. You torture people to death. And what? You think invoking your mother changes that? It's not a matter of having an expiration date on grief. If you expect us to believe you blame it on your master, perhaps you shouldn't have spent an extra year supporting him before deciding to come around to our side. After you started this war. After you chose to become a Death Eater."

He stared at her, his face twisted with fury as he reached down and ripped open the sleeve covering his left arm. Exposing the stark, black tattoo there.

"Do you even know why I have this?" he asked, his teeth flashing as he sneered at her. "Did you ever stop to think why?"

He stood up and stalked across the room toward her. "After you and your friends had my father thrown into Azkaban, the Dark Lord went to my house." Hermione's eyes widened as he continued. "I wasn't even home from school yet. When I got there, he was waiting for me. He had my mother in a cage, in our drawing room. He'd been torturing her for nearly two weeks."

His breathing was ragged and uneven. "Do you think it's a choice when the Dark Lord tells you to take his mark? You sold yourself to save the people you care about. Well, so did I. Did you expect me fail intentionally as a Death Eater when I wasn't even the one who would suffer for it? Killing Dumbledore and climbing the ranks was the only way to get her out."

Hermione felt herself grow pale. "I didn't know."

His jaw was trembling as he glared down at her. "After she died, I was being watched. The Dark Lord isn't a fool, he knew I'd waver after losing her. I had to re-earn his trust before I could risk doing anything. I'm not one of your friends. If I wanted my betrayal to matter, he couldn't anticipate it. If I'd reached out to the Order the next weekend, do you really think there would have been any question about who the spy was? It took time to get close enough to actually know anything important."

He turned away and his voice grew thick and hoarse. "She—she never recovered. The tremors—they never stop, not after that much cruciatus. I don't even know what else he did to her—before I got there—," his voice broke. He shoved his hair away from his face and seemed to be struggling to breathe. "The whole summer—I couldn't... I couldn't do anything but tell her I was sorry."

Draco turned away and leaned against a wall as though he were about to fall. "He kept her in the cage for months; she was still in it when I returned to school. After I killed Dumbledore, he let her out. But then he stayed and lived in the manor with us. She could barely handle it. She'd fall apart at any sound and just cower on the floor panicking."

He was breathing so rapidly his hands were shaking, and he kept talking, the words just pouring from him. "My mother—she—she was never very strong. She nearly died when she was pregnant with me, and she never recovered from it. She—was always fragile after that. My father always said we had to take care of her. He made me swear, again and again growing up, that I'd always take care of her. When the Dark Lord finally left the manor—I tried to get her away; somewhere he couldn't find her or hurt her again. But she wouldn't go—she wouldn't go anywhere without me."

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I was trying to take care of her. I was trying to keep her safe. I was trying to figure out a way to run—and then—she was burned to death in Lestrange Manor—"

His voice broke away, and he slid down the wall, shuddering.

Hermione felt something in her heart twist.

He'd always been fiercely protective of his mother, even in school. When anyone insulted his father he might get angry, but the faintest insinuation against his mother made him vicious.

The shocking transformation from school bully into a murderer capable of killing Albus Dumbledore suddenly made sense. Voldemort had dropped him into a crucible with the option of emerging a weapon or losing the only person he cared about; a person he felt intensely responsible for. Caring for Narcissa Malfoy had forged his deadliness; that cold ability to calculate and push the limits.

"I'm so sorry, Draco." she said, feeling faint with shock.

"I don't want your false sympathy, Granger," he snarled, but his voice was shaking.

He had probably never told anyone what had happened. Severus hadn't known. His friends couldn't have known. He'd been carrying it for years, trying to make amends as best he could. Then Hermione had come along and slowly and unrelentingly manipulated him into caring for someone else—into caring for her.

No wonder he had been devastated to realise it.

"I'm not lying," she said. "I'm sorry. I am truly sorry for what happened to her. And—I'm sorry I did this to you." She drew closer to him.

He looked so alone.

She placed a tentative hand on his arm, half expecting him to fling her across the room in rage. But after a moment's hesitation, he dropped his head down onto her shoulder.

She pulled him into her arms; he stiffened for a moment and then gripped her shoulders and sobbed. She'd never expected to see him cry.

"I can't—I can't—," he kept repeating the words as he shook.

Hermione didn't know what to do. She stroked her fingers through his hair and along the back of his neck as he kept repeating the words over and over again.

"I can't—I can't do this again—," he gasped. "I can't care for someone again. I can't—I can't take it."

Hermione rested a hand on his cheek and felt his tears slide across her skin and down her wrist.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Draco." She said the words again and again. She was apologising for everything.

For the first time, Draco Malfoy was fully human to her. She'd slipped through his walls and peeled away his defensive layers of malice and cruelty, until she reached the centre of him, and there found he carried a broken heart.

She could use that.