"Different sides," she repeated in a solemn tone. "You still consider yourself one of them, Draco?"
That was the question…
He swallowed away the clot of angst in his throat and bit down hard on his tongue. It was the question he'd been asking himself since he had been forced to run from Voldemort; for how could he truly be part of a side whose leader wanted him rotting in a shallow grave? The question had grown louder and dominant since Granger had started to invade his senses. Everything was monumentally fucked up, and she seemed to be the only steady and, dare he think it, good aspect of his pathetic pseudo-life as a prisoner. He may detest the way he reacted to her and yearned for her company, but there was no denying her presence soothed his fractured soul.
Salazar, forgive me for that.
But he couldn't help it. She was the first and only person to make him challenge the beliefs that had been engraved into his skull. How could he realistically follow the psychopathic ideals of that creature when he'd put a price on his head? How could he really believe that Muggle-borns were inferior when Granger was the brightest witch to stumble into Hogwarts for decades? How could he…How could he pretend that those prejudices still made sense, no matter how bad he wanted them to?
"Don't you?" he asked her absently, removing his bare arm from under the blanket to display his Mark. "Doesn't this make me one of them?"
Hermione frowned at the ugly and twisted blemish on his snowy skin and was surprised to find that it didn't bother her anymore; not on him anyway. Perhaps it was the slightly softer edge to his voice tonight, or the defeated slump of his shoulders, but she felt like pushing the boundaries with her struggling companion. She shuffled a little closer and carefully reached out to stroke her fingers across his still-healing flesh, and felt encouraged when he didn't immediately snatch his arm away from her.
"That Mark doesn't define you," she said gently, catching his confused eyes purposefully. "The same way my blood does not define me. You define who you are, Draco; your actions and your thoughts-
"And if I don't know who I am?" he questioned, his voice quivering slightly. "What if I am…lost?"
A scary bout of affection soared in her chest. "Then just do what feels right," she urged eagerly. "And the rest will follow."
Draco's brow creased and his distant stare fell to her calming fingers, still softly teasing the sensitive scar on his forearm. Just when Hermione thought he was beginning to absorb her words, he snorted and pulled away from her too-tempting caresses.
"You Gryffindors are so quick to seek the good in people; to assume people can change," he scorned with questionable mirth. "Some people are beyond change, Granger-
"Not you," she protested quickly. "Not you, Draco."
Doubt flickered in his ashy glare, but she could see he was determined to resist her tonight. "You should go," he told her, nodding his head towards the door.
She contemplated telling him that she wanted to stay; to surrender some of her pride and admit that she felt safe with him, and that she'd never slept better in her life than when she had been locked in his arms. But the prospect of him laughing in her face and rejecting her made the cold scratch across her skin, and she decided not to push her luck. Leaving his bed, she headed out of his room, but paused in the doorframe.
"They're just labels, you know," she mumbled, keeping her back to him so he wouldn't see the first tear roll down her cheek. "Slytherin, Gryffindor. Pureblood and Mudblood. They don't dictate how we should live our lives."
Behind her, Draco fought hard to ignore the quickening thuds against his ribcage. As she disappeared, he glanced down at his Mark again, and could still feel the lingering tingles from her touch. He felt so alone at that moment; almost aware that the flimsy remains of his stubborn prejudices were starting to shatter and crumble under the weight of her words. He knew that her absence, even if it was only for a couple of days, would do damaging things to his muddled brain.
As if to confirm that he had finally yielded to the somewhat blissful beginnings of madness, he waited an hour before he crept soundlessly out of his room, and found himself outside of her door. He toyed with the thought of murmuring her password and slipping inside, but he had no idea what he intended to do.
You pathetic twat…
.
.
"Michael and I agreed on the eleventh of December for the Christmas ball," Hermione explained. "I know it's a little earlier than usual, but you mentioned that you might have some problems with the transportation for some students this year."
"Yes, that's true," McGonagall nodded. "I've decided it's wise to send small groups of students home for the Christmas holidays over a week or so, just in case. I'm not sure using the Hogwarts Express is a good idea either, but there are alternatives. The eleventh works well."
Hermione sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Do we have to continue with this charade, Professor?" she asked wearily. "It seems silly to have a ball when we are at War-
"You know I want to keep spirits up," the headmistress said evenly. "Hogwarts is acting as a haven for now, and I would like the students to feel safe here-
"But they-
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