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Hermione Granger sees daylight again after two weeks. The guards make quick work of her, slipping cuffs around her wrists as soon as she steps out of her cell. They drag her from corridor to corridor and push her into tight spaces, away from any place that's too full of people.
When they cram her into an elevator, she catches a glimpse of herself in its reflective walls. She looks horrible. The food and light depravation have emaciated her. Her cheeks are hollowed, her eyes sunken and dark. Her skin is so pale it's nearly grey, and her hair is so dirty it's become matted. She realizes she smells too, but given that she's still dressed in her clothes from when they'd captured her, it would have been a miracle if she didn't smell like her chamber pot and the damp, moldy smell of the Ministry's underground cells.
But to Hermione, none of these matter. She doesn't care that she looks deranged. She doesn't care that her fingernails are still caked with dirt and blood. All she cares about is that she's one step closer to seeing him. The prosecutor had confirmed it himself. She had gripped the bars in desperation when Mr. Willerby stopped by.
"Will he be there?" she asked, reaching for him through the iron grates. He flinched away from her hands. "T-tell me. Please, will he be there? Will I get to see him?"
Mr. Willerby nodded. "He'll be there."
And that was more than enough for her. It still is more than enough for her now because she's bearing the onslaught of light and noise to her senses, and the chafe of the cuffs on her wrists just for him. The walk to the court room is slow and agonizing. Her guards shield her from view, towering over her. She senses they're moving discreetly for the Ministry's benefit. After all, her trial is the trial of the century.
The Golden Girl of the Trio.
The Brains.
The Mastermind of the terrors that took over Hogwarts.
It's no wonder there's a need to be discreet. There are many out there who would love to have her head.
They arrive at the doors of the courtroom after twenty minutes, and as she hears the clamor inside and the slow unlocking of the door's many chains, she holds her breath.
He's so close.
They can be together again.
When the doors open, she's already prepared for the noise. The stands are full to the brim with an angry crowd that's jeering and yelling. It feels as if someone has detonated a bomb inside her head. Her eardrums start to hurt. The guards tug on her chains and she limps forward onto the wooden chair elevated on a platform in the center of the room.
They push her down into the chair and as soon as her arms contact the wood, the cuffs disappear, giving way to thicker, dirtier iron manacles that strap her wrists. She's aware there is a bench full of high-ranking officials and magistrates in front of her, but the light above her is blinding, distorting her vision. The crowd quiets as a gavel descends thrice.
"Come to order." A booming voice says. She realizes it's Kingsley, who's now standing and addressing the crowd. "We are here to decide the case of Hermione Jean Granger, who has been brought forth for several crimes. We understand that the nature of this trial has garnered much public interest, but please, we implore you to remain seated and quiet for the duration of the trial."
"It is of utmost importance that we reach an end to the speculations and accusations today." The crowd titters as Kingsley sits down, and for the first time, as her eyes begin to adjust to the light, she sees the faces of those in front of her.
En banc.
Everyone has come to see her. Everyone wants to know how she's done it.
I'll tell you, she thinks. I'll tell you as long as you let me see him.
A thin witch to the side reads some words off a scroll of parchment, but she barely hears her. Her senses are back to normal, but the throbbing in her head hasn't subsided. Slowly, she looks to her left, scanning the crowd for him. Then, with an agonizing snap to her neck, she looks to the right.
He's not there.
She tries to fight the swell of panic rising within her, breathing in through her nose and sharply out through gritted teeth. He promised. He never breaks his promises.
Kingsley's gavel descends again so she turns her eyes back up to the bench. The magistrates, composed of several Ministry officials as well as high-ranking members of the Order are all looking at her with grim expressions.
"Well? Do you understand the severity of the crimes you are accused of Miss Granger?"
She nods once, twice.
"And do you understand that we are not here to accept pleas, but simply to reveal to the wizarding public your wrongdoings, and to serve you with the sentence befitting your betrayal?"
The words ring in her ears. What? What?
Not to accept pleas... serve you with the sentence...
Hadn't they brought her out to hear her side of the story? Wasn't he coming to clear her name? Where was-
"H-Hold on," she stammers. It's the first time she's used her voice in so long that it sounds agonizing to her ears, broken and raspy as if she's inhaled smoke.
"I-I was under the impression that I- I was here to clear my name- D-"
"Clear your name?" Kingsley says in shock. The crowd erupts in a chorus of jeering once again, but he silences them with his hand.
"Miss Granger, how can you expect to clear your name when we have eyewitness accounts of several students, as well as teaching staff from Hogwarts, and even Order members? Even I have a testimony to offer to this hearing. You cannot presume to say your story differs from the rest."
"B-but I- He promised-"
"Who promised?"
"Y-you're not listening to me-"
"We are all here to listen to the story of how you betrayed us, Hermione. There is no other story to tell."
Anger rises in her, boiling up her chest. She struggles against her manacles, but they burn into her wrists, keeping her on her seat. "You're not listening to me!" She yells.
"He promised to clear my name! He promised he would tell you everything!"
"Who promised you these things, Hermione?"
She pauses, gasping out breaths. It takes so much effort to say his name.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy." she says sharply, enunciating every syllable. "He promised to clear my name."
A heavy silence falls among the crowd.
"Ah." Kingsley says softly. "Of course, Miss Granger. How could we forget?"
A door to the right of the magistrate's bench creaks open, followed by the sound of shuffling footfalls. She sees a small group of guards, and finally, in between them, a head of silver hair, a pair of dark grey eyes, and the outline of a Malfoy.
Her Malfoy.
"D-draco," she says, clenching and unclenching her fists to reach out to him. She can't help the manic smile that begins to spread across her face. He looks good. Great, really. He's dressed in a clean suit. His face is no longer so bruised, but the cuts are still there. His hair is cleaner now. He looks better, healthier.
He looks safe.
"Draco- Draco tell them. Tell them so we can leave." she says rapidly, her hands trembling in excitement. But Draco doesn't meet her eyes. Instead, he looks down at the podium of the witness' stand where they've settled him. He doesn't speak.
"Mr. Malfoy, you are aware of the circumstances of this trial are you not?" Kingsley says to him.
Draco merely nods, keeping his eyes to his hands.
"Very well then. We can truly begin. Miss Granger, do you deny that you were aware Mr. Malfoy was a Death Eater?"
Hermione bites her tongue. To speak against Draco would be a betrayal. She would never betray him.
"Draco- Draco tell them," she begs again, ignoring Kingsley's question. "Wh-why won't you look at me?"
Kingsley raps his gavel once more, and at the sound of it, Draco looks up. Their eyes meet for the first time in so long and it's then that she feels it, the unquestionable hold and command Draco has, and has always had, over her mind.
He plunges into her mind like a warm knife through butter, quick and slicing, but painless. She hears his voice in her head, and it makes her reel back in shock. Her back hits the sharp wood of the chair behind her, and as she struggles, the iron manacles burn deeper into her wrists, singeing her skin.
Granger. His voice says. Do as I say.
"I will ask you again, Miss Granger. Do you deny that you were aware Mr. Malfoy was a Death Eater?"
Tell them you knew I was a Death Eater.
B-but why?
Tell them you knew.
"I-I do not deny it."
"Very well," She hears the scratch of quills on parchment, the low hum of an interested crowd.
"Do you deny that you were aware of his task, given by Lord Voldemort?"
N-no. Draco don't- Don't please I can't-
Tell them you knew of my task.
Draco please, I don't want to tell them- They'll put you in Azkaban-
Tell them, Granger.
"I don't... I don't deny it."
"Do you deny that you volunteered to help Mr. Malfoy accomplish this task?"
"I- did but-"
Tell them you did, Granger. Tell them.
I did but- you promised you would help me explain it to them. You promised that no matter who caught us- you said I would be safe-
Tell them you agreed. There was nothing more to it.
"I... yes. I volunteered."
"Why?"
Because you loved me.
I loved you. Yes, I loved you and I wanted to protect you.
Then tell them.
"Because I loved him, and I wanted to protect him."
"Do you deny that it was you who helped him fix the Vanishing Cabinet, and that it was you that developed the plans to let the Death Eaters and the creatures into Hogwarts?"
That-that wasn't what-
It was exactly what happened, Granger. That was what you did.
I did it to help you. Those plans- we did them-
No one knows the ins and outs of Hogwarts better than you do. That was your doing.
Tears begin to fill her eyes, but whether it's because of the searing pain in her wrists or because her mind is being flooded with images that she's never consented to, she can't tell. She struggles to speak and break away from Malfoy's gaze.
"Miss Granger-"
"I don't deny it." She says in a whisper. "But... but I did it because-"
Don't stray from my instructions.
Why are you doing this? I helped you. I loved you. Don't you remember?
An onslaught of memories counters his hold on her mind like a wave, plunging both of them under. Draco's gaze falters and he stumbles on the witness' stand. Hermione feels her legs weaken, and she begins to convulse in her seat, her mind ripping and fraying under the stress. She barely hears the screams erupt from the crowd.
"She's doing something to the witness! The evil witch!"
The magistrates rise on their feet, but Hermione's mind sees, hears, and perceives nothing except what she knows, what she believes.
The darkness of an alcove. Hushed voices. Malfoy's pained expressions. Her hands, trembling as they lift up the sleeve of his sweater to reveal the Mark on his arm, still red and raw from where it had been burned into his skin.
"How... how will you do it? He can't possibly expect you to do it. He can't!"
"He does. He does and I don't know how I can manage. You have to help me. Granger, are you listening? You have to help me."
"But how? How will I-"
"We'll figure it out but please, please I need to know. I need to know you'll help me."
Silence. Her heart beating wildly in her chest. The sight of Ron and Harry and Ginny in her mind, images of the countless innocents she'll betray. Draco's face, his expression, begging to have her in his corner.
"You're the only person who knows. You're all I've got."
Her fingertips reaching up to cup his cheek. "Alright. I'll help you."
Hands begin to grip her, pushing her back down onto the chair. Someone cups her chin and pries her mouth open, tipping a shockingly cold and thick liquid into them.
Veritaserum.
Her eyes fly open in shock, but she can't see, blinded by the light from above. Kingsley's gavel sounds worn out now, ruined by the number of times he's had to use it.
"Hermione, don't fight the Veritaserum. We will get the truth out of you today."
"Was it your handwriting in those plans we saw? Your belongings and your maps and strategies were left in the Room of Requirement. That was your handwriting, wasn't it?"
It was yours. It was your ideas. You thought of everything we would have to do to kill Dumbledore.
Another wave of memories.
The soft cushions of the Room of Requirement. Piles of books and scrolls of parchment. Maps of Hogwarts, littering the floor.
"Malfoy, he's not a fool. It will take more than poisoned mead or cursed necklaces to kill him. What else are your plans?"
"The Vanishing Cabinet. If I let the Death Eaters in through there, they can help me kill him."
"No... not just Death Eaters. It's not enough. The Order will arrive and they're powerful. You need more of them."
A pregnant pause. Draco bending over with his head in his hands.
"Creatures."
"What?"
"Vampires, werewolves. Other creatures in Voldemort's employ."
"What for?"
"You can let them in through the West wing of the castle. They can create a distraction for the teachers, while you're up on the Astronomy Tower with Dumbledore. If you summon the dark mark, he'll rush up there. But the teachers and staff won't be able to help him because they'll be too busy warding off the attacks on students below."
"Will it work?" he says.
"It has to."
You made the plans. You thought of everything.
"Yes it was! It was but I-"
There's nothing to it Hermione. It was all you.
"Do you deny that you were up there on the Astronomy Tower, that it was you that it forced Mr. Malfoy to kill Albus Dumbledore?"
A bewildered look flares in her eyes. Another guard cups her chin and forces Veritaserum down her throat. Her wrists are numb now, perhaps because the manacles have burned into her bones.
"Miss Granger. I must admit I did not see you in the equation. But I have noticed your closeness to Mr. Malfoy. Please reconsider-"
"Shut up!" Draco screams, pointing his wand to Dumbledore's chest. Hermione sways where she stands, unsure of her footing on the Astronomy tower's cobblestone floor. The howling wind. The darkness. The cut cry of screaming and explosions down below.
"This is simply not you, Hermione. Ron and Harry would never want this for you."
"Y-you don't understand." Her trembling voice, her shaking hands. Her wand, slipping from her fingertips.
"He'll kill Draco."
"We will offer him protection. As we will do for you."
"Don't listen to him, Granger. Just don't. Let's-"
"Hermione, you are smarter than this. Love will never force you into situations like this."
The sharp intake of her breath. Malfoy's anger, radiating next to her.
"I know what love is, professor. This is love."
"Avada Kedavra."
The sound of Dumbledore's last breath. His body, stumbling backwards and hitting the ramparts. The wind carrying his billowing robes. The thump of a body onto the ground.
"Granger- we have to go."
"It was you, wasn't it? That stunned and maimed those students when you fled from the castle? You stunned Hannah Abbott and cursed Ernie Macmillan, and many, many others. You put Professor Flitwick into a full body bind curse."
You had to. You meant to do it.
For survival. I only wanted to-
"I never meant to- I was running away-"
"And then you fled, did you not? You made it outside Hogwarts grounds and you apparated, but not before detonating an explosion that sent the entire Gryffindor dormitory in flames. So many people died that night! Children, Hermione! Your own classmates! Do you dare deny it?!"
Hermione's eyes roll back into her head, her body writhing madly under the power of Draco's Legilimency and the force of her own magic, fighting to stay afloat against the Veritaserum.
"Answer me, Hermione!"
She lets out an earsplitting scream that reverberates throughout the courtroom, and then her body goes slack.
The entire crowd is suspended in silence, sitting on the edge of their seats as they watch her body slide down from the chair, the iron manacles disappearing at someone's behest.
"Get her up." Kingsley says in a pained voice. The guards do as they're told, gripping her by the arms and shoulders to seat her properly. Draco's eyes never leave her, frantically searching for her own.
Hermione’s mind goes silent, filling with white noise. For a while, the voices try to outdo each other. Draco’s grip on her mind is strong, commanding her to yield. Her own consciousness fights back, but it wavers with each word from him, cowering into the corners of her mind. And then there is the Veritaserum, reaching in the crevices of her brain for the truth, grasping at her fuddled memories for something to say, something to confess.
And then, the silence stops. One voice emerges clear as day, deep and strong with a force that neither she nor Draco can ever deny.
Open your eyes, it commands her.
Her eyes flutter open instantly, adjusting once more to the brightness of the glass ceiling above. It makes her eyes water, but she doesn’t dare to shut them.
Tell them it was you that burnt the tower.
Her mouth opens of its own accord and the words fly out of her mouth. The crowd gasps at the darkness in her voice, and Draco becomes stunned by how flat and dead it sounds.
His mind still has a hold on her, that he’s sure of. But this… This new entity commanding her is not him. Not at all. He focuses his eyes on hers, but she doesn’t look at him. Her face is turned up to the magistrates, as if challenging them.
Her mind is convinced now, and the memories she’s holding on to begin to rewrite themselves. She sees it like a film in her mind, reversing and replaying itself to the instructions of this new director, in command of everything she thinks and says.
The memory rights itself.
She no longer sees Malfoy convincing her to burn Gryffindor Tower. She no longer hears him say, “If the tower burns, the Order will be distracted. No one else will come for us when we escape.” She doesn’t see the way he grips her arms and shakes her when she refuses. Instead, she sees herself, with her hands on Malfoy’s shoulders, telling him to set up the diversion for their safe exit.
“I burnt the tower. They had to burn.”
Kingsley clears his throat as if to overcome his shock. “A-and when you burnt the tower, you fled did you not? Into the wilderness?”
Tell them where you went.
“We went into the countryside. The dark forests where we knew no one would look.”
“And what did you do in those forests?”
Her memories reveal themselves to her.
Fields. The brush of thorns against her arms and legs. Trees forming a dark canopy overhead. The noises of the forest, the creatures, the uncertainty of the darkness. Malfoy’s hand in her own, tugging her forward, forcing her to run.
A cave.
The squelch of her shoes against the wet stone. The drip of water on the cave’s walls. Their labored breathing. Malfoy’s bewildered eyes searching every inch of her face, drawing themselves up to her mouth.
His mouth against hers, his hands hurriedly tearing off her clothing. The rough rocks of the cave walls scratching against her bare back as he shoves her up them, his mouth searing hot kisses onto her jaw, her neck, her chest.
The feel of his clothes, damp from sweat and blood as she tears them off him too. His chest, rising and falling rapidly underneath her palms. The heat of him in her hands, the smoothness of his cock in her fingertips. His groans into her mouth as she strokes him upwards once, then twice, then thrice as she feels wetness leak from his tip.
His words, mumbled against the skin of her shoulder as he fashions a blanket on the cave floor and as he settles her on it, cupping the backs of her knees with his hands. The cold brush of air against her legs, and the moment of pain and bliss as he first slides into her.
Their ragged breaths, his thrusts into her, erratic but deep, driving her to such highs she’s never known before. Her own nails digging into his skin, her cries of ecstasy into his mouth. His rough palm against her breasts, pawing and cupping. His teeth sinking into her clavicle as he hitches her thigh over his shoulder to drive in deeper and harder. His fingers finding her apex, drawing circles hard and fast against her until she reaches the edge, until she cries out his name in the darkness, until he empties himself into her with one last thrust, forceful enough to fill her with heat and wetness.
And then-
Nothing.
Because the scene re-writes itself.
She finds herself in the cave, alone. Because Draco has left her. Because he has gripped her hands tightly, examined the blood on them and whispered, “You have to stay here. You have to stay here so they don’t find you. I have to let them know I killed Dumbledore and then I’ll come back for you.”
“We killed Dumbledore.”
“Y-yes we…. We killed him. Stay here, alright? Stay here and don’t go out. I’ll set up wards. You have to stay safe. No one should find you.”
“Will you come back for me?”
“Yes, I’ll be back. Always. Come on, I have to set up the wards. Stay inside.”
And then Draco leaves her, and she waits, and she never has the time to figure out if he'd really left her just like that because the voice in her mind commands her to speak.
“I waited. I hid. I had to bide my time because I knew they were looking for me.”
She hears the uncomfortable murmurs from the people, but she pays them no mind. Her mind tells her not to.
“And then you turned up at Malfoy Manor with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley in tow. You were offering them to the Dark Lord.”
She almost denies it, but the voice in her mind grips her tongue.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted him to be pleased with me. I wanted Draco to be pleased with me.”
“But you did not succeed.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because…”
Because you were tortured, the voice in her mind tells her.
N-no, she begs it. P-please don’t make me- please don’t let me see-
But it’s too late, because the memory repeats itself now, this time with no changes, only with the intention to make her relive her worst nightmares.
“You came here, with Potter and Weasel, thinking that it would spare you?” Bellatrix’s cold voice rings in her ears.
She feels the draft of the Manor and the iciness of all its inhabitants as they stare at her, bloodied and dirty, with Harry and Ron’s unconscious and bound bodies at her feet.
“A muggle, serving Harry Potter to the Dark Lord on a silver platter.” Bellatrix walks over, tiptoeing and laughing maniacally as she bends down to examine Harry’s sleeping face.
“Y-you can take them.” she says, looking past Bellatrix’s shoulder to see Draco. But he’s not looking at her at all. His eyes are on the floor, and his mother, Narcissa, steps in front of him to shield her from view.
“You can have them. I-I just want-” you to come back to me, she nearly says, but Bellatrix’s deranged laughter stops her.
“Want? There’s nothing for you to want here, Mudblood! You dare ask for anything in front of real wizards and witches, Purebloods who you’ve stolen your magic from?”
“I-I never meant-”
“Greyback!” she shrieks. “Take this Mudblood to the dungeons. Show her what happens when she asks.”
Greyback approaches her, his fangs bared. “Alrigh’ then little bird. To the dungeons.”
She turns to run, but Greyback finds the back of her hair in seconds, pulling her and dragging her down the steps.
She screams, but Draco’s name never leaves her lips. He’ll be caught if she asks for help. She sees him spare her a glance, and for a split second their eyes meet. She tells him to come get her. Through her tears, she tells him she’ll wait.
“Because I was tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor.”
“And how long did this go on for?”
“I can’t remember.”
“And what happened after you were tortured?”
“Nothing. They left me in the dungeons. You found me after what seemed like… weeks. Maybe even a month.”
“So, you confess then? To all these crimes? You do not object to the fact that you coerced Mr. Malfoy into committing more crimes than Voldemort has forced him to do? You do not deny that you killed all those innocent children?”
She turns to look at Draco, who’s now staring at her in shock.
“You’re doing this on your own.” he mutters, realizing now that she’s deep in her own mind, controlled by other forces higher than his power.
She looks up at Kingsley, her face void of any emotion.
“I do not deny anything.”
The crowd bursts into chaos, screaming and crying out in anger. She knows the stands are filled with families, loved ones of those she’s killed. But emotions are beyond her. There is a hollowness in her chest that’s beginning to take over every inch of her.
Kingsley bangs his gavel, but when it doesn’t work, he points his wand to his throat and amplifies his voice.
“Enough! We must proceed! How do you plead to the crimes brought before you, Miss Granger?"
"Guilty, your Honor."
"Then let the records show that Hermione Jean Granger is hereby convicted of the crimes of murder, unlawful use of magic, specifically the Unforgivables, theft, arson, as well as the coordination of creature-led attacks on muggles and underage wizards alike. She is sentenced to lifetime imprisonment in Azkaban with no eligibility for parole. So ordered."
In the chaos that ensues, with the guards forcing her on her feet and slamming chains onto her wrists and ankles, she pauses, searching her own mind for the voice.
W-who are you?
Me? I’m you. I’m you, Hermione. This is all your doing.
An icy feeling spreads down her body.
How-
Was it really-
Was everything really my fault?
There’s no one else to blame, Hermione. This is all on you. You killed all those people.
The guards begin to drag her away, but she barely notices. She’s too caught up in the reality that she was responsible for the carnage, for the heartbroken families her victims now leave behind.
They lead her away from the magistrates’ bench where Kingsley is standing, looking at her in disappointment. She stares up at him, unsure of how to feel. A hand settles onto his shoulder and she sees, for the briefest of seconds, a tuft of orange hair.
She stops.
Ron.
He looks down at her, his face scarred and ruined. His expression is unreadable.
Someone walks up to Ron and her heart catches in her throat.
Harry.
But Harry doesn’t look at her. His jaw is clenched, his mouth drawn into a straight line. He’s missing an eye.
When Ron turns away from her, she realizes Harry has told him not to look. They disappear before she can even call out their names.
Her chains drag behind her as the guards lead her to a door. In her head, she’s still sifting through her own thoughts because her reasons have now become murky.
But why- why did you-
Why did you do it, Hermione? Don’t ask me. Ask yourself.
I-
Draco-
She feels a hand brush against hers as they pass by the witness’ stand. It’s the lightest of touches, one that she would never have paid attention to if she didn’t already know the feeling of those calloused palms on her skin.
She looks up and sees Draco staring at her with the most heartbroken expression. His mouth is open, but he says nothing, and those few seconds are all it takes for the dam inside her to break.
His eyes tell her everything.
He knows.
She gasps, and then her body begins to shake, her sobbing becoming so violent she sinks to her knees. Several pairs of hands reach out to her, but the force of her memories drag her under like a tsunami with an intent to destroy her.
She sees Draco in her memories, the beginnings of their relationship, the secrets they hid. She watches the way he touches her in the corridors, how he kisses her when no one’s looking, how his hand finds hers underneath tables. She remembers the way he talks to her, his voice soft and not at all cruel, how he corrects all his mistakes from years ago, how he confesses his feelings in the dim light of the closing library, in between old bookshelves with no one to see.
She feels his pain, and the anguish they shared over his Dark Mark, how she’d lifted his sleeve to find it sitting there, red and angry like he’d been touched by a branding iron. She remembers her own horror when she’d heard Harry had cursed him, how she ran to the hospital wing in tears. She remembers the way they’d steal to the Room of Requirement, how they’d sit in silence, wondering what future might be waiting for them, if it was possible at all.
She remembers the terror she felt up on the Astronomy Tower, how he’d taken her aside afterward to calm her down.
But most of all she remembers the grass underneath her palms, the gut wrenching feeling of apparition as they landed in the middle of a forest of darkness. She remembers looking at Draco, his own hands covered in blood and dirt.
Draco’s hands sliding up her arms comes into memory, his voice, tainted with worry.
“Granger? Look at me. Look at me. Are you alright?”
It’s almost as if she’s back there in the forest with him, almost as if his muddy palms are on her cheeks, pressing into her face. The look in his eyes feel too real to be a figment of her imagination. He was worried.
He worried for her.
He wouldn’t have just left her there.
He would never have betrayed her.
Draco’s hands pull away from her body, and the moment breaks. Her own eyes are filled with tears, that when she looks at him, she can barely see his features.
“Get a move on.” The guard says gruffly, but she stays put, holding Draco’s gaze.
He looks hurt too, almost like he did in that forest.
“I did it for you.” she says abruptly, her voice trembling and weak. “I did everything for you. Even this- admitting to all of this. It’s for you.”
“Granger,” he says, and she flinches, as if in saying her name he’s grating his nails against her skin.
“I was so afraid-” her voice begins to break as her tears flow down her cheeks. “But I said it was okay because- because we were going down together. We were doing it together. You said you would be there, but you never came back.”
“And now I’m alone.” Hermione says in a whisper. “I-I’m alone, aren’t I?”
Draco pauses, drawing in a sharp breath.
“You’re alone.” he says.
The guards take her through a door, down a dark hallway.
Draco stands, rooted to the spot, watching her go.