A chilly morning breeze burst through the black and green-trimmed curtains, ruffling the bed sheets and creaking the windows. Streaks of light grazed the high ceiling and slowly crept down Draco’s four-poster, landing gently on Hermione’s closed lids.
Shifting away from her partner, Hermione’s eyes fluttered open and hazily scanned the room. It looked much more welcoming by day, though she thought that perhaps its air of foreboding last night had stemmed from their heated emotions.
Lazily standing, she dragged her feet to the nearest mirror and gazed intently at her reflection. What a mess you’ve gotten yourself in, she thought. Now what’re you to do? Harry and Ron are will go mad when you tell them…
Her thoughts were sincere, though she felt no regret for her feelings for Malfoy- not for a moment.
In fact, sense of peace had tenderly settled in her heart over the night, and she couldn’t help but smile broadly as she turned to watch Draco sleep. Walking over to him, she took in the sight of his serene features, lying quietly in shadow.
Hermione heaved a deep breath and turned around. She leaned against the mattress, arms hung loosely to her sides, and wondered what to do next. If she left, Draco would think she’d had second thoughts about him. If she stayed, Ron and Harry would come looking; and she did not want a confrontation between them and Draco.
Though, she thought miserably, I suppose that’s inevitable…
Then, Hermione felt a warm, soft hand gently grasp her own. She turned her head and saw Draco sitting up slightly, propped on his other arm. His brow was furrowed, his eyes full of concern and uncertainty.
“You alright?” he questioned sincerely. Their confessed love had provided a collective sentiment of relief, a temporary haven… but now that the embracing night had gone, he feared their sanctuary had as well.
Hermione offered a weak smile. “Course,” she said.
Draco nodded, looking around the room. Sitting upright, he let Hermione’s hand fall as he ran his own through his hair, then crossed his arms with a sigh.
“Well… umm…” he mumbled. “Some night.”
Hermione giggled nervously, and merely nodded her consent. Turning away, she fixed her eyes on the dark wooden floor.
Draco’s own eyes were shifting in an uneasy manner, from Hermione to his comforter.
“Err, listen, Hermione…” he took a deep breath and found himself no better at articulation during the day than at night. “It’s- we’re just… what’re we going to do?” he asked somewhat helplessly.
Hermione’s gaze didn’t wonder. She slowly shook her head and shrugged her shoulders with a distinct mingled feeling of love and doom. But desperately not wanting to lose him again, she heaved herself on the bed and fixed him with anxious eyes.
“You’re not… well, are you feeling unsure?” she asked hesitantly, hoping that he hadn’t changed his mind overnight.
“Unsure about...?” There was a question in his eyes.
Hermione lowered her head and blushed. “Us,” she murmured.
Draco’s heart fell; he didn’t want Hermione to think he would have spent the night holding her so intimately if he wasn’t sure of his feelings. Stretching out his arm and lifting her chin, he leaned in and placed a soft, delicate kiss on her lips.
Then he sat back with a smirk and watched the affect it had on her.
He couldn’t have answered her better. The corners of her mouth lifted in a shy smile, and though Draco was happy to see it, he was still very worried.
“Look, there’s still my father. He’s going to come after us when he finds out I’ve betrayed Voldemort.”
“How would he find out?” Hermione asked, still recovering from his tender kiss.
Draco snorted. “They have their ways. Not to mention Voldemort is probably using Potter as his little window into Dumbledore’s ranks.”
“But Harry’s gotten loads better with Occlumency, he can deflect-”
“To a certain extent, maybe. But he’s not on his guard twenty-four seven. Voldemort’ll break into his thoughts and learn that I’ve leaked information.”
Hermione shook her head, confused, yet inwardly marveling over the lack of fear in his voice. “But who’s to say Harry even knows?”
“Dumbledore will have told him last night,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Hermione sighed. She took in the scene one last time, savoring the image: Draco, the dormitory, the feeling of contentment she’d felt lying next to him, listening to him breathe… his softly thumping heart…
Standing up, she walked briskly to the door but turned to face him before opening it.
“I have to go talk to Harry," she announced. "He’s going to be very- well, he won’t be happy. And who’s to blame him?” she asked, clenching her fists. “It’s early… breakfast won’t be for an hour. Meet me in the Entrance Hall then?”
Draco nodded. Hermione, giving him a small smile, looked quickly to the floor and muttered nervously, “Love you,” and swooped through the door before he had a chance to reply.
“Harry?” Hermione had reached the Gryffindor common room in lightening speed; all her recent running through the halls in a panic had really helped quicken her pace.
“Harry, wake up before I come up there,” she yelled to the boys’ dormitory, her neck craned.
No answer.
Figuring it was probably a bit insensitive to be screaming for him while he rested from what was sure to be a horrible conversation with Dumbledore, she climbed the stairs to their bedroom.
The thick wooden door creaked a little as she pushed it open. Her eyes immediately fell upon a tuft of messy black hair, and she made her way over.
Slowly sitting beside him, Hermione gently nudged his shoulder and whispered, “Harry, wake up…”
Harry stirred under his covers, but didn’t wake.
Hermione leaned in closer, her mouth an inch away from his ear, and whispered again, “Harry, get up…”
Startled, Harry shot up and his head made contact with Hermione’s.
“Ouch!” she shouted.
“Sorry, sorry!” he stammered groggily. Trying to focus his hazy eyes on her, Harry asked, “H- Hermione? What’re you doing?”
“I came to talk to you,” she responded, wincing as she rubbed her forehead.
Sitting up a little straighter, Harry questioned, “Why? About what? Is something wrong?”
“Well, that’s what I came to ask you,” she spoke softly as she took notice of Ron’s red hair in the next bed.
Harry gave her a quizzical (and tired) look.
“Actually… I already know the answer,” her head dropped.
But when Harry continued to look confused, she said, “Oh, you are so useless in the morning. I’m talking about what Dumbledore had to say to you last night.”
Harry’s expression immediately darkened. If he had looked tired and worn before, he looked dead now. Growing more attentive, he sat up and stared fixedly, sadly at his hands.
“How’d you hear?” he asked in a low, uncertain voice.
“Dr- Malfoy,” she answered, still unwilling to add insult to injury and tell Harry about them. “I went to see him last night…”
“Well,” Harry sighed, “I’m not sure what to think of him. All I’m able to say is… that was… decent of him, to tell Dumbledore.”
“It was more than decent, Harry. It was brave, and you know it,” she said.
Harry, looking up from his hands, nodded. Then he looked intently into her eyes with an expression of sorrow that was so intense, Hermione felt compelled to take his hand gently in her own.
“What is it?”
“Hermione…” his voice trailed away. “We- I have to leave…”
“What?!” she practically yelled, roughly dropping Harry’s hand. Ron jolted out of bed and looked around the room frantically, eyes fighting to remain wide.
“What is it? The spiders? I told them to go, they won’t go,” Ron mumbled.
Hermione, ignoring him and trusting he’d snap out of it soon, asked again, “What do you mean leave?”
Harry sighed and looked away, fixing his stare on the window opposite.
“I have to go soon. Dumbledore… the Order is going to need me with them in London, when the Death Eaters attack. I need to practice… and…”
“Practice?!” Hermione shrieked. “Practice?! Harry, you’ve had more practice than any wizard your age! Dumbledore’s going to send you out in the middle of London to battle a horde of Death Easters and dementors?! Harry that’s- that’s suicidal! You can’t-”
“And in case Voldemort shows up,” Harry said.
Hermione stopped talking at once. She looked at him, tears filling her eyes once more. Oh, how sick she had become of the feeling of welting tears.
“But- but he won’t… he can’t… Voldemort wouldn’t just waltz around Lond-”
“He would now,” Harry whispered out of exhaustion.
“Why?” Hermione questioned, tears brimming her lashes.
“Me,” he said deadpan. Hermione stared at him.
“He’ll be close by all the battles now. In the first war, he always fought himself. There’s no Auror out there capable of killing him, he has nothing to fear. But… he expects me to be near the battles as well. He expects Dumbledore will have set it up so that if Voldemort does begin to fight, I’ll be there as well… to… to stop him,” his voice faltered at the end, leaving it plainly clear how ridiculous Harry thought it was that he- of all people- could stop Voldemort.
“If he’s there, I’ve got to be as well. No one else can kill him, Hermione… it has to be me.”
Stunned- utterly stunned at the perpetual misfortunes that laced their lives.
“Why London?!” she cried. “Why not Hogsmeade? It’s closer, and-”
“Voldemort wouldn’t be in Hogsmeade. London is more important… more people… more muggles.”
Tears were on the verge of spilled down Hermione’s cheeks. Ron was standing beside Harry’s bed now, looking at the floor. Hermione nodded in understanding before flinging her arms around Harry. She held him tight and spoke her confidence in his ear.
“You’re wrong about one thing,” she whispered. “He does you something to fear… you.”
Hermione could feel Harry’s pain emitting from his body. His body was tense and strained, and she could tell her embrace was taking all his effort.
Letting him go, she said, “Let’s not think about it right yet… there’s another week at least until we should worry. And even then, who’s to say Voldemort will even be there?” she tried to sound optimistic, and rubbed her tears away on the back of her hand.
Ron walked over and placed his own on Hermione’s shoulder.
“Let’s just- let’s get some breakfast, alright?” she smiled weakly. Harry didn’t seem to be buying her cheerfulness.
She couldn’t let him do this alone. He was her best friends… but she also knew what being a best friend to Harry now meant in terms of her relationship with Draco.
Tears finally streamed down her face, dropping on her robes.
It’s not fair, she thought miserably. Saying her next words would be an oath that would break her away from the gift- the person- she’d finally obtained last night.
With the distant, fading sound of Malfoy’s beating heart lingering in her ears, she spoke.
“Listen… we won’t let you do this alone,” she said softly, blinking heavily. “Me and Ron… we’ll go with you, we’ll always be there.”
With that, Hermione felt a heavy, burdening weight of guilt engulf her. She’d fought so hard to sort things with Draco… so hard… now she was leaving.
Harry turned his head.
“No, I can’t risk you getting hurt. It’ll distract me, and I-”
“Don’t pull that,” Ron said loudly. “We’re coming with you mate, whether you like it or not.”
Hermione managed another smile, despite her twisted emotions. “You think we’d honestly let you face this alone?”
Nodding in defeat, Harry climbed out of bed and mumbled something about breakfast.
And though her face would never show it, Hermione’s newly repaired heart shattered all over again with the horrible realization that following Harry would mean leaving Draco.
Her heart felt heavy as lead. None of them spoke as they traveled slowly down the Grand Staircase, barely capable of putting one foot in front of the other. Ron was still bleary with sleep, Harry much to distracted by the prospect of dueling with Voldemort, and Hermione… well, Hermione wanted nothing more than to snatch that time turner from McGonagall’s office and lie in bed forever, cuddled under the warm sheets beside Draco…
But she knew it didn’t work that way.
Her brief spell of euphoria had been snatched right from under her. Her body was trembling, shaking with cold fury-
IT’S NOT FAIR! her mind screamed. All of that confusion and turmoil, all her struggling- was for nothing? For one night, a few mere hours of happiness? Sniffling, Hermione wondered whether Draco had been right all along. For surely love could not feel so awful; maybe it was a mistake. Maybe they were a mistake.
Shaking her head fiercely, she said aloud, “No, don’t think like that.
“What?” Ron questioned.
Flinging her hand through the air as if swatting a fly, she mumbled, “Nothing, nothing…”
Her mind was racing, her heart was aching. Suddenly she found herself ashamed of her thoughts- she should be concentrating on Harry. If anyone had the right to be depressed and angry, it was him. Thousands- potentially millions- of innocent lives were at stake, and they all rested on his shoulders. This boy- her best friend- had to, in the end, do it alone.
And here I am, whining over a boy! Draco Malfoy, no less! she tried convincing herself.
But as soon as she saw him waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, she knew… this was more than a boy. This was more than a crush.
Her bright eyes gleamed and shimmered in the faint morning light that pierced the Hall from the high, colored windows. Harry’s face remained blank as he walked straight past Draco and made his way to the Great Hall. Ron, on the other hand, couldn’t hide his sneer. Draco, remembering Percy’s death, was able to keep his retaliating look of hatred off his face.
Then, noticing Hermione, his eyes widened and his body stiffened.
“H- hi,” he said.
“Hi,” Hermione answered. Draco was staring at her like he’d never seen her before. “What’re you staring at?” she asked bluntly.
Turning red, Draco avoided her gaze and turned his face. “Oh, nothing…”
“What?” she pushed. She wanted anything to help her delay the inevitable conversation that was going to ensue.
“You- you just look… errm... nice, is all,” he fumbled.
Hermione smiled sadly. “Thank you,” she spoke. “It’s just the lighting though… sort of dim out right now.”
“No,” Draco said firmly. “It’s nothing to do with the lighting.”
Hermione looked into his crystal-clear eyes, taking in every hue of soft silver she could find. She studied his lashes, his brows, his hair… anything to help her remember his features; for deep down, she feared that after the battle, she may never see them again.
Unknowing to her, a silent tear fell from her eye.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Draco asked, furrowing his brow in concern.
Hermione shook her head. She couldn’t tell him now… not now…
“N- nothing, just being silly…”
“You’re lying,” he said, looking intently in her eyes. “I can tell.”
Indignant, Hermione spat, “You’re calling me a liar?”
“No, I’m saying you’re lying right now. Not that you make a habit of it,” he replied calmly.
Avoiding having to tell him at all costs, she mumbled, “Let’s just get some breakfast, alright?”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Not now, please not now,” she cried. Her hands were trembling worse than ever. She thought that if she didn’t speak it out loud, it wouldn’t be true.
A stern expression plastered to his face, Draco grabbed Hermione’s arm and lead her down a corridor, his legs carrying him quickly past a long line of moving pictures.
“Draco, what-”
“In here,” he said, quickly pushing her in an empty classroom and shutting the door behind him more forcefully than intended.
His grip was growing almost painful as he dragged Hermione to the back of the class. Draco pushed her into a wooden seat in a corner, hovered menacingly above her, and folded his arms.
Hermione stared at the floor. It’s not fair! was all she could manage to think coherently. All that energy… all the pain… just to leave…
“Well?” Draco prodded impatiently.
When she looked up, he was startled to see her eyes red and bright. Her lashes were smudged together with salty tears, make them appear darker and longer. He was entranced and perplexed by her turmoil.
His gray-silver eyes narrowed in concern as little lines of concentration crept between them. What could make her so upset? he wondered in earnest.
“Hermio-”
“Please, can we save it for later?” she begged uncontrollably. “Please Draco! Just one day, I just want one more day…” she added under her breath, reminiscing on her quiet happiness that was eluding her yet again.
Draco heavily considered just going to breakfast; this- whatever “this” meant- was clearly upsetting her beyond articulation.
But the stubborn Draco- the one that silently lived on in his soul’s shadow- wouldn’t let it go.
“No, I want to know now,” he spoke clearly, as he lightly shook his head. “How can I help if I don’t know?”
“You won’t be able to help when you do,” she murmured.
“What?”
“There’s nothing you can d-”
“Oh yeah? Try me!” he nearly shouted.
His arms had been released from his chest and were now hung in front of him impatiently. His arrogance convinced him that he could solve nearly anything. Unless it had to do with his father or Voldemort, he’d easily survived every disheartening situation life had spat at him.
If only he knew…
Hermione took a deep, shaky sigh, her eyes still unfocused on the hardwood floor glistening neatly in the muted light. She wasn’t prepared for his reaction. She wasn’t even prepared for her own.
“W- we’re leaving…” she mumbled tentatively. And just those words- those two words alone- had crumpled her heart further. She’d said it. It was final.
“…what?” he asked, utterly confused. Leaving? he wondered. What’s she mean by leaving?
Whatever she’d meant, it wasn’t the response Draco had been expecting.
“We’re leaving… to London…” she answered solemnly.
Draco was confused.
“What? Why? When’re you leaving?” he pried.
Hermione shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Draco kneeled down in front of her. Hermione, her shoulders quivering, gently lifted her heavy head to face him.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” he asked.
“Draco…” she sighed. Her eyes were still red and swollen. Her hair seemed to fizz with electricity, as if it too felt indignant towards the world. Hermione’s usually rosy cheeks were damp, pale, and glistening. She could feel the heavens falling on top of her.
A moment passed as she just looked around Draco’s face- anywhere but his eyes.
“I’m leaving with Harry when he goes to London,” she finally finished.
His heart plummeted. The room felt suddenly cold, like an icebox, and Draco tilted his head and focused his eyes as if not quite hearing her properly.
“And why is Potter going to London?” he asked stupidly.
He knew. He felt it now. He was just grasping on to hope… hope that she’d relieve his worries.
But she didn’t.
“You know why, Draco,” she whispered.
His eyes widened and his teeth clenched. Standing up, he threw one hand to his hair while the other held him steady against a desk. It wasn’t cold now; it was freezing.
His anger was on the rise. His breathing became strained, forced, and his eyes darted quickly around the room.
There was nothing for it. He swore loudly, his curse echoing around the empty classroom and vibrating the aged, rickety windows.
Hermione whimpered, more tears escaping their confines.
“Why do you have to go?!” he yelled crossly.
“You know that answer too,” she mumbled.
“Oh, but I’d so love to hear it from your lips,” he spat sarcastically. “Tell me, is it because you love him?! Because he’s more important than everything you have here?!”
Hermione shot up from her chair and stood to full height.
“Of course I love him!” she shouted. He’d crossed the line with his tone. He was being insensitive and selfish, not caring for Hermione’s pain or Harry’s troubles.
But Draco had taken it the wrong way, as those who are in love so often do. His eyes were as round as saucers, his mouth hung slightly open.
“Y- you love him?!” he cried. The sorrow in his eyes killed Hermione, though she thought he was being inexplicably dense.
“Oh, don’t be stupid!” she yelled. “You know damned well what I mean!”
“Do I?! Hey, if it’s been him all along, go on, I’m not stopping y-”
“Oh, shut up! Of course I love Harry, he’s my best friend! MERLIN you’re such a prat sometimes!” she stormed. “You know I’m in love with you, so don’t try pulling this rubbish!”
If Hermione’s words hadn’t made his pale face flush, he would have remained angry. Instead, his heart only melted at the pained expression on her tear-stained face. Eyes scrunched, Draco heaved a half-sigh half-whimper, then threw himself into the nearest seat. His elbows rested on his knees, his head buried in his hands.
Hermione’s insides tingled with guilt and fury; her watery eyes stared longingly, hopelessly at the bruised and battered man before her. She’d felt so certain she could help him… heal him… love him.
But she was leaving. She had fought for his trust, and she’d only shattered it to bits like a useless glass. She had worked, struggled, and suffered to discover the truth- the man behind the veil; and when she finally did, she’d found a man nearly too broken to ever love…
Nearly.
She’d helped him feel again, helped him tear away from his guilt-ridden life. But now? Now she’d only broken him further, and that “nearly” no longer existed- he was broken, through and through, and there was no more room- no more savior- to help piece him back together.
Hermione hesitantly kneeled down in front of him, ever so slowly for fear she’d anger him through her sympathy. But Draco did not reject it this time, did not protest against her affection. He merely sat, his face still lost in his hands.
Reaching out, Hermione pulled him into a tight embrace and cried into his white-blonde hair.
I’m sorry, she thought painfully. I’m so sorry, Draco…
She felt as though she’d betrayed him. But she knew, in the depths of her tormented soul, that if she didn’t go- if she left Harry’s side for Draco- she’d never forgive herself.
Harry was her best friend; and she did love him dearly.
Choosing between two different types of love is a matter so horrendously agonizing, that often times there are no words to ease the matter; nothing spoken nor written can describe the terrible assault this dilemma plays on one’s heart. It's an unbearable variety of hurt, of gutted pain, and it's effect is so intense, everything around you becomes hazed by the sickening fog of emotional wounds.
It's a beautiful mystery, love is... so beautiful, it's terrifying; and it often leaves you broken. This isn't to say the love is in any way insincere or imagined; in fact, the worse if hurts, the more true it is. But the possible consequences of offering one's heart on his or her sleeve are never granted full force of impact. Only unspoken, unconditional affection can even begin the healing process, when it seeps through our vain exteriors and merges with the core essence of the loved.
And even then- even then- you are still left broken.