Lover of the Light

Chapter Twelve: The Oddity of Change

One.

One, two.

One.

One, two, three—open.

Her eyelids felt heavy, like she hadn't slept in ages, just the way she remembers feeling when Harry and her took turns sleeping short hours when they camped out in the Forest of Dean. It was far more difficult this time to open her eyes, to blink with the weight her eyelids seemed to be carrying, but she eventually did so. The walls weren't those of a magicked tent and she didn't see the shadow of someone sitting outside keeping guard. She felt relieved that she wasn't back in the times of war.

It was dark where she was except for the flicker of a candle burning out on top of the white-marble nightstand that barely highlighted anything. The nightstand. Once again she felt relieved that she recognized something in the darkness, and if that nightstand with metallic knobs and the five cylinder vases containing five purple flowers on its surface was anything to go by, Hermione knew she was in her bedroom in the Zabini mansion.

She swallowed a knot of emotion as her eyes looked at the candle and the nightstand. Strange as it was, strange as she felt, Hermione was comforted by the idea that she was inside Zabini walls. She didn't think that would ever happen.

Wanting more comfort, wanting to be wrapped around it to shake off this feeling, this drowning sensation that she couldn't really identify in her half-asleep state, the brunette pulled her heavy body into a sitting position. That action of stretching out her arms to remove the silk sheets tucking her in tightly to the mattress was enough to make her body feel like it was about to explode with pain, but as she put pressure on her chest, she almost fainted.

Groaning, tears welling up in her exhausted eyes, Hermione managed enough strength to only outstretch her right arm toward the nightstand. Careful not to stick her fingers in the candle flame, she struggled for a few seconds until her hand felt the warmth of her wand.

Her wand.

Why did she feel so happy to have her wand between her fragile fingers? Why did the blood in her veins start pumping with excitement, like her magic was grateful for the wand now in her hold? She knew about the homey feeling a wizard felt with their wand, but this? She'd never felt so safe holding it during times outside of war.

"Lumos." Her voice came out in a scratchy whisper, a mumble of a word her throat barely allowed access to be spoken. Her throat hurt, like she'd been screaming, and her mouth was dry, like she hadn't had a glass of water in ages.

Ignoring the thought that told her she'd been unconscious possibly for days, Hermione would have bolted upright into a sitting position by what the light of her wand exposed if just breathing didn't hurt her chest and her bones didn't hurt by just being awake. A few feet away from her bed, not too far and yet not too near, in an armchair that hadn't been in the luscious bedroom the Zabinis had provided for her before, an open book balancing awkwardly on the armrest, was Draco Malfoy. A sleeping Draco Malfoy.

Pointing her wand to a nearby lamp, Hermione's wand-tip extinguished the light it had been conjuring when an automatic source lit up the room. Lifting her head as much as she could, she fixed her brown eyes at the blonde a distance from her. He looked so defenseless. There was never a time when Hermione reckoned she saw Malfoy look such way. He was always trying to put up a front; hidden behind walls of sneers, taunts, fears, and most recently, seriousness. But there, in that armchair as he slept, he looked like nothing he'd been showing the world.

He was reflecting what was on the inside.

The hand that was somewhat sustaining the book was clutching the pages of it, wrinkling them, and even possibly tearing them. His eyelids, though closed, appeared to be tightening; twitching from whatever it was that he was dreaming. His pale lips were slightly open, but she could hear the barely audible muffles of something frustrating.

She had decided her next action before she could even process it. Should she be doing it? No, absolutely not. It was forbidden unless granted permission by the Ministry. It would take up the rest of her energy, given her apparent sore and weak state. Not to mention it was downright rude and invasive.

However, she was also a curious one. And she wanted to know what Draco Malfoy dreamt of.

Taking in a shaky breath, wand slightly trembling in her fingers, she whispered, "Legilimens."

There was darkness, a lot of it. It was cold and haunting, echoing and shrill against the ancient walls with ancient portraits of previous ancestors. They spoke to him as they passed, narrowing their painted-eyes at him, but he ignored it all. Fear also plagued the darkness, and it followed him like a shadow every step he took. His chest was heaving quite rapidly, aggressively, and drops of sweat collected at the forehead; dampening the tousled white-blonde hair. He walked down that lonely hall like he was carrying a burden, a heavy and excruciating one that was sucking the life right out of him.

It was like he was walking to his doom.

He swallowed roughly, his silver eyes fighting to bring some sort of shield up, to hide his horror, anger and sadness, but he was too soon inside his destination and without a chance to guard his mind. His silver eyes scanned the ballroom, a ballroom once the pride of the ancestral and prestigious family, but that was before death and pure evil had come to it. There were two familiar women in the corner of the grand room, heads bowed as he entered. He didn't linger on their shadows for long when a malicious voice spoke and gleaming red eyes ordered for attention.

'This is a great honor,' spoke the slithering, cruel voice to the blonde boy with his head bowed, too afraid to look up. 'You are being granted a wonderful gift, Draco Malfoy. A gift that permits for you to please the Dark Lord and redeem your family's name in the process.'

The boy closed his eyes tightly, his hair and the shadows of the dimly lit ballroom hid the physical appearance of his fear. But he knew, they all knew he was terrified. Just like they knew it was no gift, it was no honor fallen upon him—it was a punishment. It was his death ticket once he failed.

'Present your arm to me, Draco.'

One of the women in the corner raised her head, and blue eyes overflowed with tears as a wand was taken out to brand the boy with the Dark Mark. And there hadn't been anything that Narcissa Malfoy could've done in that moment to save her son.

Hermione was ripped away from that dream as soon as Malfoy's eyes reopened and they found the ones of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named...

Almost a year had gone by and he looked like he'd gone through ten rough ones. Everything looked that way, everything felt the way. Every day was exhausting, every day was horrific, and every day was a terrible routine of fearing for one's life, yet anxiously hoping for that end.

Things were different that evening, however. A gang of Snatchers had caught the great Golden Trio and dragged them to Malfoy Manor. He had been asked, he had been pleaded with to identify the three captives, but he hadn't been able to do as his relatives requested. He hadn't a proper idea why he hadn't, not in that moment at least, but the chain of events that his lie had caused were worse than if he would've spoken the truth.

He knew that the moment the first Cruciatus Curse was cast and the shrill, gut-wrenching screams of Hermione Granger bounced off the walls of the drawing room in the manor.

Sympathy, guilt and hopelessness weren't in his repertoire of emotions—not like fear and deep depression had been lately—but he felt them strongly in the moment when his demented aunt cast and recast the torture curse on the brunette. He felt nauseating guilt fill his chest as he watched the girl squirm, beg, scream, and cry out at the horrendous and traumatizing pain she was being inflicted with. He felt sympathy, for her—for the Mudblood—and hopelessness as he fought down the inclination any decent human being would have in saving someone in such distress.

But he was Draco Malfoy, and he was a coward.

'That sword was meant to be in my vault at Gringotts, how did you get it?' Bellatrix was straddling her as she hissed desperately for answers.

The brunette cried, mumbling things that were eaten by her sobs.

'What else did you and your friends take from my vault?!'

'I didn't take anything. Please,' the muggle-born cried. 'I didn't take anything!'

He believed her, he really did—Bellatrix, however, didn't. The crazed woman pulled out her blade and began to carve into the girl's left arm.

Screams, louder screams, haunting screams echoed and echoed around the room, making him dizzy, making him desperate, making him cower further at the madness of it all. His feet wanted to move, his fingers wanted to reach for his wand, his mouth wanted to say a hex that would spare her, that would at least put everything on mute so he didn't have to relive those screams in nightmares, but he didn't move. He didn't move.

He hated himself more that night.

Shedding tears as she witnessed her torture from another angle, Hermione flew and dissolved away from Malfoy's memory of that night and landed in another occurrence. This one hectic from the moment she fell into it...

'Master Zabini!'

Punch. Punch.

'Master Zabini!'

Punch. Punch.

'Master Za—'

'Don't you ever fucking—' punch, punch, 'come back here again!'

He had lost his wand the moment he had walked into the destroyed and barren sitting room that belonged to Blaise Zabini. He hadn't known why he'd been there—more, why his father had insisted that he accompanied him to the Zabini Estate and continued to force him to interact with the Zabini heir when it was clear no friendship was ever going to sprout among the two Slytherins.

Zabini and he had been acquaintances for years, but they'd never interacted more than they needed to. They stayed out of each others ways and there never had been bad blood between them other than petty and normal rivalry among two arrogant boys. Yet, upon setting eyes on him the moment he stepped into his headquarters, the dark-skinned boy had launched himself and proceeded to assault him. Magic be damned with it.

Punch. Punch.

'I'll kill you, you fucking coward!' Punch. 'You and your family are going to regret it!'

If he ever was thankful to hear his father's voice, it was right there and then. He hadn't been eating well for two years now; he'd gotten lanky and weak, he knew that. Physical strength was out of the question in ways to get out of the brawl with Zabini. If he was going to fight back in any way it was going to be with magic, not by fists. So when Lucius appeared with Mister Zabini by all the screaming the house-elf he knew as Button was doing, he was spared by being beaten into pulp by his housemate.

Through his already swollen eyes, he knew it was his father that was attempting to pull him up to his feet, even as he coughed and blood splattered past his busted lips and from other slices around his face. He also caught sight that his father had a black eye, and neither of them had entered the Zabini mansion with any bruises.

'You're going to regret what you did to her, I swear it!' Blaise roared as his own father attempted to calm him; gripping him by the chest and pinning his arms to his sides as he thrashed about to get free.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what had driven her brother into an enraged state. And Hermione was certain that now, given the revelation of her being a Zabini, that Malfoy also knew why Blaise had attacked him that day...

Everything about him was being contained. He sat in a chair in the middle of a grand jury room, all eyes on him as he kept his bound hands on his lap. A Ministry Official was talking to another person on the floor, a girl who looked battered and tired, but her brown eyes were always firm and collected.

'Can you tell the Wizengamot what happened that night in Malfoy Manor, Miss Granger?'

The girl sighed. 'I've already repeated the events of that night, Mister Hale,' she spoke politely but straightforwardly. 'And I've written a statement about it.'

'Miss Granger,' the member of the Magical Law Enforcement, that was trying vigorously in convicting the Malfoy family for the past four hearings, stared coldly at the witness on the stand. 'You say that Draco Malfoy did not give you, Mister Potter and Mister Weasley away that night, but he was much an accomplice to your torture. And it is known and stated by researchers that the effects of the Cruciatus Curse can alter—'

'I don't not blame Draco Malfoy for being tortured,' the brunette interrupted, looking thoroughly upset and pale now. 'I blame Bellatrix Lestrange, who pointed her wand at me and gave me scars that I will forever carry. She's to blame, not Malfoy. And seeing as she's dead, I'd think the court should stop bringing that up.'

Draco gazed intently at the girl trying to give an accurate testimony for him to be spared from Azkaban, and he couldn't help but to look at her with flickers of respect. Actually, he couldn't help himself from staring at her at all.

That day, Hermione hadn't realized how much time Malfoy had spent with his eyes on her. Especially because she'd been purposely avoided him entirely...

'...if she could look at me now.' There was a loud chuckle. 'Look at me, Mother! I'm everything you hate!'

Sitting on the floor of a newly refurbished sitting room that belonged to Blaise Zabini, a place he'd sworn he'd never come back again unless it was to get even with the bloke and leave his face as bruised and purple like the latter had left his, Draco stirred a glass of Firewhiskey between his lazy fingers. He rose a blonde brow at his fellow Slytherin, staring at him through a hazy vision as he pointed a dark finger at the portrait of his deceased mother hanging on the wall straight across from them.

'She'd hate me if she saw me...If she knew my thoughts,' Blaise muttered with a snort. He lifted his own glass of liquor to his lips, sipping on the drink for a few moments before speaking again. 'That's why she doesn't move,' he mumbled, 'so she doesn't have to see me. Nor that I have to see her and what her Pureblood mania left her in the end.'

Silence rang among the boys for a few minutes while glasses were refilled and they both thought about things that had never been voiced before.

'Things are going to change, though,' Blaise continued through his alcohol-induced state. 'I'm going to get what I always wanted. I'm going to get my family, no matter the cost.' Tears appeared in his red-rimmed green eyes, but he did not shed them. He instead drank more of his Firewhiskey. 'Do you know what I mean, Malfoy?"

Lowering the glass from his mouth, Draco kept his brow raised as Zabini glanced at him with an assertive expression. 'No.'

Blaise snorted. 'You're free from all charges, Malfoy.' He leaned his back completely on a black armchair, sprawling himself on it in a tactless way that went against all the manners taught to him. 'There has to be something you want to fix now that the war is over.'

Maybe it was the two bottles of Firewhiskey that he downed with Zabini, or maybe it was the fact that the norm of protective and defensive walls were gone once Zabini started yapping about things that didn't make since but apparently pained him, that made Draco open his mouth. It was a simple thing he said, two words, but it had him feeling shocked that he even said it at all and it had Zabini bolting upright and looking completely sober.

'Hermione Granger?' Blaise repeated, low and angry as he eyed the blonde on the floor carefully. 'What about her, Malfoy?'

'I need something from her,' said Draco in a flat voice. 'It'll help me fix my nightmares.'

Blaise's brows scrunched together. 'What does Hermione have that you—'

The look of deep questioning that her brother had on his face was ripped away from her vision and replaced by blurs, twirls, swirls, and flashes of a light that hadn't been in the sitting room.

"Had enough?"

Inhaling and exhaling quickly, completely drained from the voyage she had, Hermione's brown eyes were agape when she met the awake ones that belonged to Draco Malfoy.

"I...umm..." She cleared her throat, coughing slightly as she tried settling herself in a less defenseless position on her bed. "Sorry."

Malfoy's silvery, hardened gazed watched her as she gritted her teeth and fisted her palms as pain shot through her as she still attempted to sit up. It was clear she did not want to be lying on a bed, sore and fragile, while a boy she considered her nemesis for such a long time looked down at her. She was proud that way, always aiming for excellence and respect—he found that amusing, yet admirable.

Hermione was embarrassed that she hadn't pulled out from Malfoy's dreams before he woke and got caught—which, she knew, was more likely to happen since the sensation of one's mind being probed wasn't easily ignored. There was just something enthralling about his dreams; something honest and clear about his memories. And honestly, how can she have not lost track of time if everything she'd known from Malfoy was what he wanted to portray. It wasn't like he was open, it wasn't like he said what he really thought, and it wasn't like she ever got to witness his true emotions through that blank mask he always sported.

"What do you want from me?" She asked before she could stop herself. She wanted to know, and she was high off Malfoy's vulnerable state that she couldn't let the opportunity pass. Besides, it'd been obvious to her for a while now that he, with the help of Blaise, were aiming to get something from her.

His infamous blank expression was pulled out. "I don't want anything from you, Granger."

"Don't," she hissed, her palms pressing down on the mattress as she'd managed only to pull her upper-back a few centimeters off of it. "Don't lie to me, Malfoy. I'm not stupid, you know. I've seen you and Blaise hiding about, whispering things about me. If you have something to say, be courageous enough to do so."

Her pained murmur and reddened cheeks gave him enough comfort that he chose not to respond with an insult. But because he felt that way, Draco couldn't help but to pay attention to the cold, trickling sensation of guilt crawl up his spine; reaching up past the base of his neck and clutch the back of his head.

He sat taller in his seat, gaining some sense of superiority at least. He didn't know where he was going to pull out bravery, especially if every part of him was a coward, and say what he needed to say. He didn't want to go around in circles and make a fool of himself, his pride would not allowed that; no matter who it was before him. So with a frown, with a deep inhale, and without another thought he said, "I need your forgiveness."

Hermione fell back down those centimeters of progress.

He took full advantage of her shocked silence to speak. This was going to be much easier without her interrupting. "I'm no good with apologies, Granger, since I've never had to give any, but I'd never...needed to give one as much as I need to give you one." This was absurd. "I treated you like filth since we were kids, ridiculed and belittled you, and I let things happen to you when...when I should've done something to stop them. All that hatred that I felt for you was actually mad ignorance, and...I'm sorry. I've felt sorry for a long time."

"I—"

"Things from the past don't change, and I understand that. I'm not trying to change that, I'm trying to change the now. I've never had the need to, but I suppose accepting mistakes and seeking forgiveness is a place to start," he continued, not stopping even when she attempted to say something. "My views on things have slowly started to change, and before your status changed to a pureblood, you showed me that all blood bleeds red."

His eyes traveled to her bare arm, the left one. For a single second, her eyes flickered to it too. The scars of MUDBLOOD that Bellatrix Lestrange had left her were still prominent, just less red and grotesque as the months went by. It still tainted her skin, it still was a reminder of that torturous night, but she refused to try and alter them. They were her battle scars. She had been proud of them then, back when she thought she was a muggle-born, and now, now as an alleged pureblood she was even more honored to wear them.

"I don't blame you for that night," she spoke quietly as she turned to look at the blonde. "You had no way of stopping it. War was about survival, and everyone had to do what they had to in order to survive."

He frowned at her. "Don't spare me, Granger. Don't use psychology on me by insinuating I did nothing only to ensure my own survival. Weasley and Potter escaped the cellar to help you, any decent person would've done so and I—"

"They love me," she interrupted him. "They put their lives on the line to help because they love me. Same as I will always do for them. And I'm not trying to spare you, Malfoy, I'm being honest. That's how I feel so don't victimize yourself."

That shut Malfoy up.

Hermione sighed. "I forgive you."

Their eyes met, silver and brown, and it was something unexplainable that made her feel dizzy. The clear surprise, the clear hope in his stare was overwhelming—it was like he felt, like he was human. The acceptance in her eyes, the gleam of honesty and forgiveness in them made him feel like a portion of the weight he'd been carrying for ages now was lifted. It gave him more air to breathe.

"Is that what Blaise was helping you with?" Hermione ended the silence. Once again, her palms were face down on the mattress and she was attempting to pull herself into a sitting position.

He didn't know where to go from now. He'd been waiting months to seek for Granger's forgiveness and now that he had it what was he supposed to do with it? What did he want to do with it? What was he allowed to do with it?

"He swore he had a way of making that happen, of bringing you around long enough until I could find a way to apologize." He stood from the armchair without a processed thought, walking to her. "Of course, I didn't know you and the git were siblings then so I didn't believe him."

Nothing came from Hermione's lips for a moment when one of Malfoy's hands was carefully, gently, placed on her shoulder and the other went to wrap around her wrist. And like she weighed nothing, like her bones hadn't been pushing her down like they were made of an excruciating steel, he helped her up so she could sit. His hand on her shoulder dropped, but the one around her wrist slowly unwrapped and traced down her own hand and knuckles, leaving tingles, until his fingers pulled up the silk sheets to cover her.

She had gooseflesh now. Swallowing down this sudden nervous feeling, she looked up at him through her lashes. A second of quiet passed, but she could hear her heartbeat banging against her eardrums, and she could feel his stormy gaze.

"What happened to me?" She blinked, ending all bizarre enchantment. "Why are you here?"

Malfoy took a step back to add distance. "I told you all your past accidents weren't coincidental, Granger." His blank mask was back on. "You were attacked again. Do you not remember the outing we took to New York?"

"Yeah, I remember that. Blaise, Parkinson, Greengrass, and Nott were there too, weren't they? I remember—" She stopped, a hand flying to her chest immediately. The place in her body that had been killing her with pain since she woke up. "Sectumsempra?"

The blonde nodded, slowly and gravely.

"How...Who could it have been? Who else knows that spell? It's an original. No one should—" She stopped again, her eyes tearing up now. "Blaise, Malfoy! Blaise! I remember him falling! Where is he? Where's my brother?! Is he alright?"

"Granger," he took that step back, moving forward and his hand once again placed on her shoulder. "Zabini's fine. He had a concussion and a few scrapes, but he's alright."

That settled her erratic heartbeat a bit. "Where is he then?"

"With your father in his office," he responded. "They've been hounding the Ministry since you were brought to the Zabini Estate. Deon is furious."

Hermione swallowed. "And...And Mrs. Zabini?"

"With my mother," he said simply. And it wasn't missed by Hermione that he was hiding something again. She gave him a glare, demanding for the truth. "She...erm...She sort of fell into a depression the four days you've been unconscious, Granger. Apparently she's been suffering of those episodes for years."

Spirals of depression over her, Hermione was sure of it. "Can you go get her for me, Malfoy? Tell her that I'm awake."

He didn't do anything for anyone, but Draco was surprised himself that he nodded his head in compliance. He dropped his hand away from her shoulder and turned on his heels, heading for the door. But before he could reach it, before the nonverbal was even cast to open the doors, she halted him.

"Are we friends now, Malfoy?"

He cursed in his head, frowning, but turned to look at her from an angle. Why'd she have to go back to the intimate and emotional conversation? Hadn't he suffered enough expressing his need for her forgiveness? "I didn't ask for your friendship, Granger."

She was aching all over, concerned, but she smiled. Actually, it was more of a cheeky grin. "Yeah, but you want it anyway."

                                                                                  XXXXXXXXXXX

The few hours that had proceeded after her eyes had opened were a whirlwind. Blaise had arrived stampeding through from the lower levels of the mansion until he reached her room, throwing the door open and almost of its hinges. He wasn't the epitome of his refined manners when he did so, nor when he launched himself on her bed and pinned her to the mattress by hugging her so tightly. It had taken Mister Zabini a firm order until Blaise released his sister and the parents were allowed to get a good look at her.

Mister Zabini had on a serious expression, but his emerald eyes danced with a light of relief when they looked at her face. He didn't do much talking those few hours, but he did squeeze her hand and pressed a kiss on the top of her head. Hermione found that she appreciated that more than anything he could've said.

The matter of Allegra Zabini was entirely different. As she'd grown dizzy and tired from all of Blaise's commotion and Deon's grave expressions, Hermione hadn't noticed when the two Zabini males had exited her room and left her alone with the Mistress of the household. Mrs. Zabini had lingered by the door since the moment she entered the room and hadn't made any attempts in trying to move forward.

As both mother and estranged daughter had looked upon one another in a deafening silence, Hermione took that moment to really look at Mrs. Zabini. She was still elegant and well put together, but her eyes and the lines on her face spoke much more than her class. The woman's honey-colored eyes had been almost bloodshot, exhausted, guilty, scared, nervous, and wet with unshed tears. The woman had bore the weight of a terrified mother.

No one had spoken, but it seemed like both had been on the same page in the moment when Allegra left her place by the door and approached the bed. And when she had, when she looked down at the girl who was too pale and had been on the verge of dying, Mrs. Zabini had released all the tears that she'd been holding captive. She cried silently. Hermione had known the woman was holding back, and somehow she could see what Malfoy had said about Allegra Zabini suffering from depression.

How could she not? She had lived life for eighteen years with a hole in her chest because she'd given up her daughter. A daughter that was constantly being persecuted and hunted down like an animal. She had given her up, handed her to the Grangers for safekeeping, and yet she had been in just as much danger—or worse—than if she would've raised her herself. Not to mention that after getting that daughter back, a daughter that didn't want to be related to her and let a block of ice grow between them, someone was still trying to off her.

Having had not known what to say in that moment, all Hermione found that she could do was grit her teeth to hold her pain and scoot from the corner on the bed where she laid and leave some open space. She had raised her silk sheets and silently asked Mrs. Zabini to climb on in. It took four seconds of confusion and more tears before the woman actually did so. The rest of that day had proceeded in dreams and the faint murmurings of an Italian song entering her eardrums.

Snap. "Granger."

Shaking her head from the occurrences of two days ago, Hermione refocused her attention on the present moment. She found that she was still in her room, required to be resting by order of a private Healer the Zabinis had hired, and that there were silver eyes staring at her blankly.

"I think she must've gotten brain damage."

"You think so?"

"Look at her. She looks disoriented."

"That's the same look the Weasel wears, maybe it just rubbed off."

A frown appeared on Hermione's face. "I'm fine, you idiots," she snapped at both boys inside her bedroom.

From a seat around a conjured round table, Blaise grinned as he put a pause on the game of solitaire Wizards Chess he was having. "Just checking."

Hermione sighed, but said nothing to her half-brother. Sometimes there just wasn't any point in scolding Blaise. "What'd you want, Malfoy?" She asked the blonde that was still before her; too close to her.

Malfoy extended a small vial to her. "Blood-Replenishing Potion, Granger. Every two hours, remember?"

She parted her lips, but she couldn't find anything to say to him. It was very peculiar that Malfoy had been practically compelled into her room since she woke. The only moments he hadn't been inside was when the Zabinis all came inside or when she and Allegra fell asleep together. Other than that, here he was. He was there when the Healer came twice to check on her, when Button or Mrs. Zabini brought her food, and every two hours when she needed to take her potions he was the one that brought them to her.

He was being attentive and she hadn't a clue how to handle it.

"Thanks," she muttered as she carefully reached for the vail. She figured, and was most likely correct, that it was the way he was going to deal with his guilt. He felt responsible for what happened, just like when Bellatrix tortured her. But he hadn't any authority to do anything about it, either times, and she didn't blame him. She didn't even think about him in those moments to be perfectly honest.

Malfoy nodded and headed to the end of the purple room, directly to the massive bookcase. "Ever going to tell Potter and Weasley about what happened?" He called with his back turned.

Hermione coughed mid-drink. "No," she scoffed at the ridiculous thought. "Harry and Ron need not to concern themselves with what happens to me. They're on holiday, for goodness sake. I'm not about to go dampen that with some petty matter."

"It's not petty, Granger, when it's clear someone doesn't like you and is out to get you." He explored a section, scanning the titles almost carelessly. "Ever the hero, Potter would do anything in his power to catch whoever is the one that's trying so hard to kill you. And if Boy Wonder's up for adventure, the redhead Sidekick is no doubt aboard, too."

"Eloquent, Malfoy."

The Slytherin turned his head to look over his shoulder. His silver eyes danced curiously for a millisecond, noticing the frown on the brunette's face before they dissolved into indifference. "It's straightforward, Granger," he said nonchalantly. "You can't pretend this matter's simple. Your father has assembled a small army of Aurors to watch your every move now, to scout every perimeter of the Zabini Estate every hour, and a case has been opened just for you." He turned back to the bookcase. "Seems that you're the only one taking this lightly."

"Mister Zabini tells me your father is assisting," Hermione retorted, narrowing her eyes at the back of the Slytherin. She could see from the place in her bed that Malfoy had been running a fingertip over the collection of books, and she also saw when he abruptly stopped and tensed. "He's fulfilling his Godfather duties, isn't he?"

Draco let out a silent exhale, un-tensing his back after her comment. "I suppose so," he said casually, like it didn't matter. "So, if you're not going to tell the Dynamic Duo, are you at least going to accept your new bodyguards?"

"As if I have a choice," Hermione practically said with a groan. "Deon and Allegra aren't going to let me go back to Hogwarts without them. And if I attempt to resist, I really do believe they'll tell Harry and Ron themselves. Not to mention my parents—my muggle parents, that is. All to get me to see reason."

Malfoy laughed a short laugh. "And we all know how easy it is to have Hermione Granger see reason."

"I just don't see the point!" She crossed her arms indignantly. "Hogwarts is safe. There are impeccable security spells on the castle, not to mention the ones extending beyond the grounds, the centaurs forbid access to anyone from the Dark Forest to the castle, and we have an experienced staff!"

As Malfoy moved to the middle of the bookcase he threw her an unimpressed expression. "You were already attacked there, Granger. Seventh floor, third corridor, remember?" She scowled at him, obviously not liking being corrected. "What's so hard about admitting that there's someone after you?"

"Because I'm tired!" She said it and there was no taking it back. Damn Malfoy. She didn't want to admit it, for heavens sake. She didn't want to go there. "Is that what you want to hear? I'm tired, Malfoy! I'm tired of being hunted down like I'm some animal! I'm tired of having to watch my back, of having to hide, in not trusting anyone. I'm tired of being hated. I'm tired of having to live my life being nervous of what's to come."

Silence.

He was tempted to not turn. He really didn't want to. He wanted to keep scanning the books, even after he already found the one he was looking for, and just wait out the awkwardness until she spoke about nothing important again. But he had opened the box of Bertie Botts Every Flavored Fucking Emotions and there was no going back. He grabbed the book and turned.

He avoided her gaze until he was close enough, using the short seconds as time to remind himself that he pressed her and this is what he got. So he didn't like emotions and wasn't good with conversation, too damn bad now, really. He lowered himself on her mattress, clearing his throat at how intimate the action felt.

"Nothing's going to come," he spoke in a flat tone. "Now that it's known someone's trying to hurt you,you're protected; you're being watched. They're going to get whoever's doing this, Granger. This isn't going to be your life."

She swallowed to buy her a moment of time. "That's not comforting, Malfoy."

Of course it wouldn't be. "Then, because you're you, that should be enough comfort," he continued simply. "If there's anyone that can survive anything, that can overcome anything...it's you."

She didn't know why, but tears began to fill her eyes. "Really?"

Malfoy nodded solemnly, surely.

There was more silence among the two, but this time it wasn't avoided with backs turned and eyes not seen. No, eyes met this time. Deep and intense, unknown and glittering, silver and brown found something on the ones before them that they hadn't spotted before. It was, even if for the briefest second, like they discovered the holiest shade of color in one another. Stormy grey never looked so inviting, so open, so true, and auburn never looked so appealing, so beautiful, and so reachable.

An eyebrow rose up and a pair of emerald eyes looked on with a bit of question. First off, Blaise didn't like being ignored. It was not okay for the two other people in the room to have made him background. Secondly, what he was seeing was an equation—a brand new one. There were old variables, but with different values now. Simplify them and add them together and what would one get?

Knock. Knock.

With a creak, the door opened. "Hermione?"

Removing his gaze away from the brunette, Draco turned once he heard a familiar voice. With the door open now, practically inviting himself in was Theodore Nott. He stood almost rigidly, exhaustion rimming his black eyes, and he wore a faint smile. He wasn't a master of emotions, but Draco could see guilt anywhere and Nott had it.

Hermione coughed uncomfortably. "Hey, Nott." She gave him a smile. She was worried about him, no one told him what had happened to Theo during the attack, and Mrs. Zabini had told her he'd been checking up on her since she was unconscious. As awkward as their situation was, Nott was sort of a friend.

"It's three now," he said, sounding just as uncomfortable as he looked.

"Oh, right," Hermione chuckled humorlessly. "Sorry about...this. I really can't do much about my appearance or the location so you get a cluttered room and me in my pajamas. Blame my Healer."

Blaise shot up from his seat, chucking his chess pieces. "You invited him here? Why the hell would you invite him, Hermione? He's the enemy, remember?!" His sister opened her mouth but he cut across her. "Leave it to you to befriend the enemy!"

"Get your knickers out of a twist, Zabini," Malfoy said with an annoyed tone. "Grab the game and lets go to your sitting room. Don't you have a new Rum bottle from the Caribbean you've been bragging about?"

Blaise kicked his chair but said nothing. He instead pointed his wand and began to assemble the game and undo the spell that made a book into the table he'd been playing on.

While Zabini did that, Draco rose up from the brunette's bed and looked down at her. "You should read this. I know you've already finished the book Allegra gave you to read two hours ago."

He handed her the book he retrieved from her own bookcase. She looked at the withered book, classic and ancient. Beautiful. "Jane Eyre?" She asked, sounding thoroughly surprised as she fluttered her eyes back up at him. "You've read this?"

"You haven't?" He retaliated.

She smiled. "No, I haven't."

"Then you have to," Malfoy responded. "And just to clarify, Charlotte Brontë was a witch, and a very talented and insightful one. She was a friend to the Malfoy family—of course that was before they knew she was a muggle-born. But here's a secret for you, Granger, we appreciate good literature now as we did in the 1800's, no matter who wrote it."

She giggled. Hermione actually giggled at something that came out of Draco Malfoy's mouth. Her eyes lit up, her lips stretched to a grin, and she actually felt warm with laughter and amusement. "Thank you."

Draco nodded and said nothing. Once again, he turned on his heels and headed to the opposite end of the room.

Zabini made the game zoom out of his sister's room to head to his own, making it almost collide with Nott's head in its path to do so. "Move it," he hissed, shoving their fellow Slytherin out the way.

Seeing as he was going to be the last to leave Granger's room, it was his call to shut her doors. And as he was about to, the manual way for some odd reason, he turned and witnessed Nott move and claim the seat that he'd taken on her bed as his.

"Recovering from an attack and in your wrinkled sleepwear, yet you're still as lovely as always, Hermione," Nott complemented the brunette.

She snorted. "How badly were you hit from that attack, Theo? Has your vision gone faulty?"

Nott's back tensed slightly. He disregarded her comment when he instead said, "you're my fiancee, Hermione. I'm always going to think you're beautiful."

Draco slammed the doors shut with incredible force. With burning anger that blindsided him out of nowhere, he stormed his way to Zabini's sitting room and hoped the liquor was already served.

Something was off. Something had shifted and he hadn't a clue what it was.