Maybe she was mental. 

Before, Luna never let the word sink in, tattooing itself on her skin for her own eyes or others to see. People could whisper, sneer, or spit the word and its synonyms at her, but she knew she glowed with the love her mother left behind. It breathed in every atom that composed Luna, repelling the darkness. 

"There goes Loony Lovegood—"

Sure, the war had turned parts of her purple and blue, torn flesh had spilled red, but that same love healed the outside the way it did the inside. Luna knew not to dwell in the dark forces that fueled the fight, but instead focus on the guiding light that was Harry's own love and loyalty. Conjuring her light and her intelligence the same way she knew her mother would have, Luna followed the path Fate had set out. 

"Did you hear what she did? Kissed a Slytherin in the middle of the Great Hall."

Down that road, she took Dean Thomas' hand in hers and continued on.

She knew it was love then, just not what kind. At the beginning, it felt like the same adoration she carried for all living things; her mother always told her to see the beauty beneath, search for the kindness of the thing or person, and let her light connect with theirs. 

"Right in front of her betrothed, too! You know, Dean Thomas—the war hero."

He had always been nice to her when he was dating Ginny. He never shied away from Luna's inquisitive stares; head tilt to the side, trying to read the wrackspurts floating around his head like they were Trelawney's tea leaves. Luna trusted Ginny's ability to fend for herself, but their lights had been connected years before Dean, as two little girls living only a hill away from each other, sharing scheduled games, giggles, and accidental magic before Fate claimed Luna's mother and Daddy hid his little moon away. 

"They were sorted together for the marriage law, but I heard they were kind of a couple before that."

After his relationship with Ginny ended, Luna thought she would share only passing smiles with him. His kind, brown gaze would be a little sad, but Luna would make sure to beam when their eyes met, telling him from the quiet distance that his heart would mend with time and the light he emitted would continue to glow like the stars they tracked for their Astronomy lessons. 

Voldemort and his Death Eaters fed darkness into their world, but love triumphed over fear even in the tiniest, duskiest corners. In them, Luna continued to tilt her head to the side, studying every bit of Dean Thomas, continuing to find reasons to find him beautiful inside and out, but, sat across from her, he was starting to do the same.

"He really fancied Lovegood. You could tell. Probably more than she fancied him. Had to, didn't he? Her being a little, you know, off."

When the Death Eaters had taken her to Malfoy Manor, she used to whisper stories about her time at Hogwarts to Mr. Olivander. He never asked questions or input comments of his own years at the school, but his fragile, paper-thin hand would press against her fingers when she paused, pleading her to go on and invoke a world far from the damp, cold cellar they were imprisoned in. 

After, when sweet, brave Dobby had given his life to save them, Mr. Olivander smiled at Luna from across Bill and Fleur Weasley's kitchen table and told her he liked Dean very much—he had been exactly as Luna had described him in her stories, kind, gentle, handsome, and with a strong laugh that could deflect any darkness. 

"Mind you, Thomas did deserve it. Did you hear what he did first?"

Luna never realized her stories had often been centered around him. She knew, of course, that he was in some of her best moments, especially ones out by the Black Lake, both of them painting the way sunlight gleamed across the water. They often painted Ginny, too, back when she and Dean were together, but even after they broke up, Dean and Luna found themselves sitting on the grass or under the shade of a tree, sharing half-used bottles of paint in comfortable silence.

It was then, both alive and a little bruised at Shell Cottage, that Luna discovered what kind of love she felt for Dean.

"It doesn't matter how in love a bloke is, does it? Loyalty and love aren't the same thing to most of them."

With the sand between her toes, cold, salty air braiding through her blonde hair, Luna turned blue eyes at Dean, wanting to marvel in the way the morning light shimmered off his rich, umber skin. 

He had already been looking at her, attempting to memorize the image of her on that beach, too. Red bloomed under his cheeks when their eyes met, but her fingers found his own, holding on tight as they stared back at the seaside, their souls flashing across the water like a lighthouse guiding other brave, kind beings to the right side of the war. 

"Rumour has it he shagged that Gryffindor slag. You know, the one Ron Weasley used to be with?"

It was then Luna discovered that Dean did not glow like those smaller, faraway stars—he radiated blinding, scorching light just like the sun. 

And her glow had already been connected to his, long before Death Eaters took them and tried to serve them their darkness to poison everything good they had inside. But love prevailed, even in the tiniest, duskiest corners.

"Poor Loony Lovegood. Imagine being as daft and naive to believe in a handsome boy with pretty words?"

Maybe Luna was mental—maybe she was daft and naive to think her mother's love living in her bones could withstand heartache of this magnitude. 

All she had to do was look at her father, at the madness and grief love could leave behind. 

That's who Luna was now. That's who they all saw, too.

"Levicorpus!"

Luna dropped her textbooks when the gossiping Ravenclaw girl shot out of her seat, dangling upside down by her left ankle. The girl's friends gasped, scrambling to retrieve their wands, but Lavender Brown came out of one of the library's aisles, a threatening finger pointed at them as her wand remained trained on the floating witch. 

"It's rude to talk about people behind their backs," Lavender snarled at the group of younger girls. "But it's even more cowardly to do it when they are within earshot and vulnerable."

"We weren't—"

"She's not just Dean Thomas' betrothed, by the way. She's Luna fucking Lovegood, war hero. And I'm the Gryffindor slag you were sneering about earlier," Lavender bit out, her own blue eyes darkening into navy shades when one of the girls tried to defend themselves.

In one of the near tables, a young boy clambered up to his feet, running in the direction of Madam Pince's desk. Yet, Lavender still said, "Not that it's any of your business, but I'm not a slag, either. And even if I did sleep with the entire castle, none of you get to judge me for it—not when the title of fiancee I carry was forced on me by the Ministry."

A Hufflepuff girl reached for the Ravenclaw's hand, pulling. "You're mental! Put her down!"

With a flick of her wrist, the witch came tumbling down onto the Hufflepuff just as Madam Pince rushed over. Lavender reached for Luna's hand, running at the direction of the doors, the latter's books and notes long forgotten.

Luna looked down at Lavender's fingers circled around her wrist. She had expected the touch to burn, to singe her skin right off with the same fingerprints that had touched Dean's body. She even expected the glimmers of Lavender's light to be drenched in red and black, but it was still pearlescent. 

"I can't take this anymore—" Luna was submerged in shadows before a murmured Lumos brought her sight back. She was forced into a crammed storage closet, Lavender locking the door shut behind her before turning to frown at Luna. "People can call me a slag all they want to, but I'm not going to let them reduce you to this. Because you aren't this, Lovegood. You're not some heartbroken girl who hides. You're the bloody moon—quite literally, too, so shine some fucking light on us!"

Luna closed her eyes, searching for air. "You—Dean—I can't."

"Luna, please," the next words came out as a delicate whisper, a soft tone girls like Lavender Brown had never taken to use with girls like her. "You know Dean would never betray you like this. He loves you."

"I saw—"

"I said Dean wouldn't. Not that I wouldn't." Lavender lowered her wand, her scarred face being consumed by the shadows of the closet. Even in the tiniest, duskiest corners, light could still shine no matter the size of the ember. Luna saw Lavender's eyes glisten, the blue in them the same color as the ocean at the cliffside of Shell Cottage.

During the war, Luna had come face to face with monsters.

They did not look like Lavender Brown. 

They did not look like teenage girls with trembling hands, pink in their cheeks, and tears forming gray clouds in their eyes. 

Monsters came in different sizes, shapes, and colors—Luna had seen that up close in the war, too, but they all tracked red and black where light lived, like mud ruining plush carpets. Blinking down at their feet, she only saw her own mismatched socks poking out from the tops of her trainers and Lavender's white, knee-high socks and perfectly-kept mary jane's. 

"You'd think," mumbled Lavender, "a war and a werewolf would stop me from searching for all the stupid things I used to fantasize about, but it only made me want them more. I didn't want what grief left behind. I didn't want to go around life like Ron, mad at the world, or like Harry, terrified what remained was going to disappear along with our dead."

Luna watched Lavender trace a fingertip down the scar etched on her face, the clouds in her eyes spilling their rain. 

She tilted her head to the side, considering the mark beneath Lavender's shaking hand. Luna hadn't seen it before—not like this, not for what it was. A blemish. An imperfection. She had seen a lot of her classmates do the same, covering scars left behind by the war they had survived: Harry grew his hair longer, black, untidy tresses obscuring the famous lightning bolt, right hand always resting on top of his left, hiding the i must not tell lies that Umbridge cruelly inflicted; Hermione wore long-sleeves even in the summer, a cardigan matched with a pretty dress, hiding the foul word Bellatrix Lestrange left from her own eyes, like if Hermione stared at it for too long, the mad witch would come back and plunge the dagger into her throat; the same could be said for Draco Malfoy, who kept his sleeves down and the collar of his shirts button to the top, stopping anyone from seeing the tattoo he thought he wanted, and Harry's unknown curse that almost took his life; skilled and stealthy as he was, Blaise could be heard murmuring glamour charms, a finger tracing his left cheek like he could still feel the jagged cut on his skin beneath the magic. 

Despite her mother's love wrapped like armor around Luna, she collected a few scars of her own. She would inspect the pink, red, and silver lines, but never thought them ugly. They were part of her story, fragments of moments Fate wanted her to remember, learn, and grow from. She sometimes painted vines and flowers from those scars, a blooming garden on her skin.

Even now, Luna still saw peonies flourishing across Lavender's face. 

"I've loved Seamus since we were twelve," Lavender said, her cheeks damp with rain. "I never knew if he was the one, but most years it felt like it. When the marriage law put us together, I thought this was it. The sign. My soulmate—but he didn't want to see me like that. He had a reason, of course, me and my passing fancies for anyone that smiled at me. I tried to convince him that wasn't who I was anymore, but I was wrong."

Squinting as Lavender raised her wand again, Luna saw the heartache in those clouds. She wondered if it felt just like her own, like bitter, unforgiving storms when she was so used to basking under the sun. 

"I kissed Dean." Lavender's cautiously reached for Luna's wrist again. "I kissed him when he showed me a scrap of respect and kindness when I was at my most vulnerable and I'm so sorry, Lovegood."

Luna blinked at the sob ricocheting around the narrow walls. It sounded like her own, like when she ran from her and Dean's chamber and straight into Neville's protective, comforting arms. 

"Please believe me, that's all that happened. I swear it," cried Lavender. "The second I realized what I was doing, Dean leaped away so quickly, his magic forced him across the coffee table, shattering inkpots and a teacup."

Green. 

It had been splattered like freckles across his collarbone that night—Luna had seen it despite marveling on his bare chest, her heart fluttering at the rose petals that grew from his own scars.

Green had also been on Dean's fingers when she took his hand in hers.

"Is that why—?"

"Yes," Lavender said as she squeezed Luna's wrist, "ugly green ink and day-old breakfast tea. It got everywhere. It took me a week and a potion made by Hermione to wash it out of my hair."

Luna let out a breath, her hands shaking. "Dean never finishes his cuppas. And I gave him those inkpots, he likes to draw trees at the edges of his parchment. He's quite good."

Lavender rolled her eyes, but still let out a cry. "I never meant to break your heart, Luna. Or anyone else's. You've always been kind to me, even when I never deserved it. I'm sorry I'll always be a vain, ridiculous, starry-eyed girl who melts under any form of affection."

She wanted to tell the Gryffindor that she was more than that, a war hero with peonies painted down her skin, a believer with rose-colored glasses that made the world better, a teenage girl with the light of Saturn radiating out, but the storage room opened with a loud bang.

The sun was on the other side of that door.

"Professor Flitwick asked for extra feathers for his First Years," Dean said, brown eyes wide and uncertain at the scene inside, "he said they were in here—What's going on?"

Fate's will.

Luna wanted to explain it to him, but she tilted her head to the side, reading those wrackspurts around his head like tea leaves. 

She saw half a moon and half a sun glowing whole together. 

"Mental. Absolutely mad."

"What?"

"Me," Luna told Dean, smiling at him as Lavender wiped at her tears, still managing to let out a snort. She raised a finger, saying, "mental for thinking you'd ever let me down—" a second finger went up, "madly in love with you."

"Lu, I—"

Lavender pushed her back into the shelves of the room, making space for Luna to skip right into Dean's arms. 

Luna would talk to Dean, would apologize for believing her heart wasn't safe in his hands, and then she would find Seamus, tell him he would be lucky to bask under Lavender Brown's light, but for now, she was home.

XX

It had finally happened.

Hermione Granger had finally understood what it felt like to be completely wrapped up around someone. 

For a lot of her youth, she thought her love for Ron had been that. Epic love. Something true. Maybe it had the inklings of it if Fate had wanted them to explore that pathway, but Ron had made the choice for them. At a new crossroads, Draco Malfoy presented his hand to her as she assessed what was ahead. While not afraid to navigate uncharted territory on her own, Hermione found that she did not have to do it alone.

Because Draco wanted to be beside her.

Hermione had been so skeptical to take his hand, lace her fingers through his and walk the unknown road ahead, but once she had⏤

"I'm such an idiot," she laughed, wrapping her arms around his waist as he charmed his hair to a perfect coif. 

In the reflection of the enchanted mirror in their shared bathroom, Draco raised a brow. "Clearly you think I am, Granger, if you expect me to agree with you on that self-assessment."

"I just mean," she started, a grin still pinned to the sides of her red-painted mouth as she ducked under one of his arms, tucking herself against the sink and his chest now, "that I could've been shagging you a lot earlier had I not been busy having standards."

Draco narrowed silver eyes, but his fingers skimmed up her knee before caressing the soft flesh of her inner thigh. "What will your fans say now that you've gone to bed with a Death Eater?"

Hermione hooked her leg on his hip, giving a helpful jump as he lifted her up on the sink. She wrapped her arms around his neck, one hand pushing him down to meet her mouth. Before their lips touched, she whispered, "That he's mine. Just as I am his."

She wanted to tell him she was an idiot for a lot more than that, but Hermione figured there would be more time later. More time to tell him, to discover pieces of him that he was used to hiding, fragments of his true, healing soul that wanted to be forgiven.

Later, she would tell Draco she was an idiot for thinking she would be unable to love him.

The words pooled in her mouth, however. She tasted them, like the honey he added to his morning tea and lingered on his tongue when she kissed him. Hermione was looking up at Draco as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, guiding her down the hill that led to the Black Lake. He was recounting the experimental potion he and Nott were working on, but all she could listen to was the bray of her heart calling out to him.

She bit her tongue to stop herself from saying I love you, you idiot, can't you see?

"I'm getting married!" 

Fortunately for Hermione, Blaise Zabini had an uncanny ability to ruin intimate moments between her and Draco. This time, instead of summoning a wandless hex to throw at him, she welcomed the sight of him running toward them.

Behind Blaise, guests dressed in their best ceremonial robes and fancy muggle attire found their way to long, wooden benches with expensive, sage-colored cushions. At the front of the gathering was an archway of branches braided together, white roses and blue hydrangeas floating overhead, like a calm whirlwind meshed with tiny lights. 

"Can you believe it?" he laughed once he reached Hermione and Draco. "Me! Getting married! I had plans of sleeping my way to my sixties at least, but here I am!"

Hermione rolled her eyes as Draco clapped the groom hard on the back. "Trust us, mate, no one thought this was a wedding that was going to happen. We all thought Chang would've handed her wand over before setting up that altar."

"Don't mind him," said Hermione, nudging Draco in the ribs with her elbow. "He's just bitter because he bet fifty galleons you and Cho wouldn't even make it to your wedding month."

Blaise scoffed at them. "Please. She can't live without me. I mean, she will be getting all of this." At this, he shimmied his hips. "You know what they say, Hermione. Once you go Blaise you can't stop the craze."

"No one has ever said that," Hermione told him, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "Although, there was something written in the girls' lavatory about you crying after sex with a certain Hufflepuff?"

"Oi," hissed Blaise, "Susan Bones is lying! She was the one who cried⏤and that had nothing to do with me, but rather her figuring out she didn't like penises!"

Hermione let out a huff of disbelief just as Draco laughed maliciously. 

Ever the suave Slytherin, Blaise composed his outrage as he smoothed out the front of his intricate, sage-colored robes with dusty-blue detail. "You know, Hermione," he said with a drawl, "I liked you better before you let Draco sneak his fingers under your dress."

"He has not⏤"

"Please," it was Blaise's turn to smirk at the two, Hermione's cheeks vivid pink and Draco's silver eyes the color of the dark side of the moon now, "don't try to deny it. Next time, wait until greenhouse four isn't occupied with Second Years learning about mandrakes. Although, I heard their cries masked yours."

In the distance, Mrs. Zabini turned away from her new husband, green eyes searching for her son. Draco was about to let her witness him plunder Blaise the muggle way, but nails sunk into his shoulder, holding him steady. 

"It's a happy day, Draco," said Pansy with a wide grin, lips painted in the same shade of red Hermione would not let him snog away. He tried to pull away, but her long talons only sunk further into the expensive material of his best man robes. 

Beside Pansy, Ron looked uneasy, his eyes flashing back and forth between the two Slytherins. 

"Our darling friend is getting married," continued Pansy, her dark eyes glittering. "After Daphne tore his heart out, he deserves to have made it here. Granted Chang sort of hates him on a good day, but Blaise's philosophy of there being a fine line between hate and a passionate shag has always been true, hasn't it? And⏤And....we all know there's a fine line between a passionate shag and love!"

Laughter tore out past Pansy's red lips, but that was not what had the others staring at her like she had just announced that she was going to dedicate her life being nice to others. Not only were the words she was saying wrapped in delicate, sickly sweetness, but she burst into tears, too. 

Blaise leaped away from the witch, wiping his robes like she had cried into the intricate material. 

"Fuck sakes, Weasley," Draco said, pulling Hermione away from Pansy, too. "Did you put a Cheering Charm on her?"

Ron began to look sheepish when Pansy happily exclaimed, "Oh, he did! And he is going to suffer for it later."

"It wasn't a very good Cheering Charm," explained Ron, wincing as Pansy's fingers intertwined with his squeezed a little too harshly. "I panicked before I cast it. She was a second away from murdering her⏤"

"Who cares!" growled Blaise, his arms waving in the air. "Parkinson is always attempting to murder someone. Can we focus on me? It's my wedding day! Even I can agree I never thought I'd make it here with Cho. Or in general. Granted, pureblood tradition mandated I carry on the bloodline, but then the war happened, and then Potter saved us with his oh-look-I'm-holier-than-thou Gryffindor shite, and I thought, hey, maybe Daphne will take me back since the Dark Lord is dead, but then over the summer I was in and out of defense trials, and I was so sure I'd go to Azkaban, or worse, my mother was going to make me marry a cousin or something, but then she gave me free rein of my own life, but then I thought, oi, Malfoy has the right idea, maybe we should let our bloodlines die with us, after all, who wants to marry a Death Eater, let alone who wants to forgive or love one, but then the marriage law happened and I got Cho? I mean, who saw that coming, right? If Fate, that horrid, wonderful bitch hated me as much as she had let on the past few years, then maybe I'd get sorted with Millie Bulstrode? Or Ginny Weasley at best, but then, bloody hell, Cho Chang. And, yeah, you're right, Pansy, she hates me on a good day, but she also kind of loves me because I can make her laugh. And sure, I'm a damn delight, but marriage? Who'd want to love a Death Eater? Let alone be married to one⏤"

Draco started to reach for Blaise just as Hermione asked, "Are you okay?"

"I can't get married to Cho Chang!" yelled Blaise, ripping his robes open and fanning air to himself. "Her ex-boyfriend died a hero and she gets a Death Eater as a husband? Cazzo!"

Before Draco could grab onto one of his hands, Blaise had darted off up the hill, a swirl of ceremonial robes flapping against the crisp wind.

"What in the bloody hell was that?" said Ron, brow furrowing as they all turned to look at the trail Blaise left behind, shoving Luna and Dean onto the grassy floor in order to escape out of sight.

"A turn of events," laughed Pansy. "Turns out Parvati Patil's Divination skills are not actually shit. She predicted Blaise would get cold feet."

"Did you make that bet, Pans?"

The Cheering Charm on Pansy did not allow her to smirk cruelly, but Ron could see the triumphant glimmer in her eyes. "All Seventh and Eigth Years wagered in Chang's favor," she told him. "Naturally, I did the opposite. I can always count on Blaise's emotional breakdown. Which reminds me⏤" she turned her grin at Draco. "I wagered an extra seventy galleons and Tracy Davies naming her firstborn after me that you'd go talk sense into him, seeing as I can always count on you needing to keep order. And right now, Draco, Mrs. Zabini looks like she might bite Mrs. Chang's head off if this wedding doesn't happen in the next fifteen minutes⏤and you don't want your best mate's big day being a disaster, do you?"

With a grunt, Draco turned to place a kiss on the side of Hermione's jaw before glaring at Pansy and Ron. "Reinforce that fucking Cheering Charm on her, Weasley. It's slipping."

Ron winced as Pansy's fingers once again twisted around his as a warning. 

"Who was Parkinson trying to kill that you needed charm work?" asked Hermione, her brown eyes following Draco up the hill. 

"Her father," muttered Ron, his free hand coming to scratch the back of his head. Hermione instantly recognized the lingering traces of bitterness in his gaze, the same shadows the horcrux brought out of him during their time on the run. "Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson were invited to Zabini's wedding. They decided to stop by while Pans and me were getting ready. She almost killed him with a comb and a hairpin."

Pansy laughed, the sound just as sickly-sweet under the misconstrued Cheering Charm. "Like I needed the hairpin. I could've done it with just the comb."

"I'm assuming they're not happy with your match?"

"Zabini doesn't know who'd want to marry a Death Eater," Ron mumbled, "but even Death Eaters don't want their daughters to marry a Weasley."

Hermione frowned; she knew what kind of inner-demons and insecurities Ron dealt with, but none were stronger than his feeling of never being enough. Those dark, belittling thoughts had tried to burned bridges before, ruin his relationships with some of the people he loved the most, and she couldn't let those insecurities get to him now. She reached out to take his free hand, but Pansy had gripped the back of his neck, making Ron turn to her.

"They'd be lucky to know the depth of a Weasley's love and kindness," she told him, "but they are unworthy of it. They are unworthy of knowing you, Ron. And I was, too, until I knew I was capable of loving you the way you love everything. To hell with them. To hell with being a Parkinson⏤I'd choose to be a Weasley in this life and the next. Got it?"

"Bloody hell," breathed Ron, his hands finding Pansy's waist as he pressed his forehead against hers. "I love you."

"Damn right you do," Pansy told him before crashing her lips against his.

Hermione smiled as she moved toward the hill. 

This was Ron and Pansy's moment, after all. 

A confession of love bravely declared by a Gryffindor to his Slytherin.

Sure, there would always be time later, but in that second, Hermione felt those three words come back, tasting them on her tongue.

And she was ready to give them Draco now.

XX

On any given day, Draco would have jumped on the oppurtunity to physically maim Blaise Zabini any way possible. Now, however, as the groom-to-be paced back and forth, burning footprints into the worn carpet of the cabin McGonagall lent him, Draco wished Blaise would put himself together before he punched or cursed him. 

"Cho Chang," he hissed out through clenched teeth, shaking his head, hands gripping on to the sides of his ceremonial robes. "Out of all people. War hero with Death Eater. Cazzo."

"Zabini⏤"

"Cho Chang," Blaise said again, gasping for air, his left hand now clawing at his chest. "Can't do it. Won't. Gotta give up my wand now. Only fair."

"Blaise⏤"

"Chang," he groaned now, tugging at the collar of the blue button-up he wore beneath his sage-green robes. "Bloody gorgeous in the morning when she wakes up. Peaceful. I'll miss that. Miss her. Deserves better, though."

"Mate⏤"

"Cho Chang," whispered Blaise, sadly, longingly. "We could've had beautiful babies. No. Can't. Death Eater babies⏤OW!"

Draco reeled his hand back from Blaise's face. A little bit of his smarmy attitude tried to surface at the sight of his friend blinking widly from the impact, his dark cheek growing red. He controlled the need to smirk; instead, he narrowed silver eyes as he pushed Blaise down onto an old wooden chair inside the dusty cabin. 

"Thanks," murmured Blaise, holding the side of his face. "I needed that."

With a wave of his wrist, Draco conjured the bottle of firewhiskey Nott and Goyle had snuck into the cabin the night before, the group of old friends drinking to the first of them about to get married. Had he not been impatient to get back to his chamber and wait for Hermione to come home, Draco would have stayed and seen the slow spiral Blaise was about to embark on.

"Where's this coming from?" asked Draco, handing Blaise the bottle after removing the cap. "I thought you made your peace with Chang."

Blaise swallowed a large gulp, grimacing. He opened his mouth, but before he could say what he was intending, he tipped the firewhiskey back for another drink. 

"You don't think you can ever love her?"

"Fuck, I'm freaking out because I think I can!" Blaise exclaimed, clutching on to the neck of the bottle like he thought it was his own. "Or maybe I already am. I can't fucking tell at this point, mate. All I really know is that she deserves better. I mean, I'm trying my best, but what if it's never enough? Diggory was a saint."

"You're not Diggory⏤"

"I know that!"

The same way Draco had summoned the firewhiskey, another wave of his wrist had made it disappear. Blaise was shaking it too violently for his liking, and had he made the stupid choice of throwing it at Draco, the latter would not hesitate to make the Chang-Zabini wedding into Blaise's funeral.

"That's not what I meant," said Draco, his silver eyes narrowing further. "You've said it yourself⏤she needs to stop living in the past, but so do you. You learned from your mistakes, so bury them now. You don't need to continue to carry them. They might have given you the mark, but you never were one of us. I promise you that, mate."

Blaise closed his eyes, tilting his head back as he sucked in a breath. 

He was cracking, Draco could see. The same way Pansy had done because of Weasley, Blaise's mask of perfection, of I-can't-be-touched, of nothing-can-shake-me was ripping at the seams, exposing what was beneath. 

They all played so many parts throughout the war⏤with their families, with their peers, with each other, with themselves. Sometimes they looked in the mirror and couldn't find who they really were now. Whatever it was, it always felt like a shell. Another broken relic inside of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy that needed fixing. 

Enter Ron Weasley.

Enter Cho Chang.

Enter Hermione Granger.

"Don't, Draco." Blaise's eyes came back to life. "I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. If I have to bury my past, so do you."

"It's not the same."

"Isn't it?"

Draco's hands balled into rattling fists at his sides. "You were a reminder that the Dark Lord could take pureblood heirs for his cause. I was a punishment."

"You were a kid, mate. We all were." Blaise stood, his composure slowly stitching itself back together. "You deserve Hermione. I promise you that."

"Zabini⏤"

"You love her," Blaise said after cutting off Draco with a loud snort. "I know. Fuck sakes, the whole castle knows. You think the mandrakes were the only ones that saw you two make out? Moaning Myrtle has been telling everyone she caught you and Hermione in the prefects bathroom, something about slippery fingers. She's absolutely devastated, poor thing."

Draco barred his teeth. "I don't love Granger. I can't."

"Denial," Blaise sang out the word, grinning now. He started adjusting his robes, smoothing out any wrinkles he might have caused in his earlier panic. "I know the idea is terrifying, mate. Look at me, I was about to give up my magic two minutes ago. Love makes people stupid. Imagine me as a muggle? Granted, I could survive based on these cheekbones alone, but all that physical work it takes to be one? Not for me, thanks. But you and Hermione⏤"

"Granger," growled Draco, pushing Blaise back a step. "She's not your fucking friend, Blaise."

With emerald eyes just as narrowed, just as sharp as the silver ones glaring back at him, Blaise was unafraid to shove his friend back, too. "This is handmade silk from Italy," he snarled, dusting off Draco's fingerprints from the intricate material over his shoulder. "And I've already told you, get your head out of your arse, Malfoy. Your plan to use Hermione was always going to fail."

"It didn't fail! I got her to fall in love with me! She almost fucking told me so herself out there. I have Granger right where I need her."

"And where does she have you, mate?"

Draco lunged; his fist flying to collide with Blaise's jaw. 

With skills that secured him his place in the Slytherin Quidditch team, Blaise dodged it like a bludger coming at him. He shoved Draco back into the withered, threadbare couch McGonagall seriously offended all of his refined Zabini sensibilities with. Using those same quick reflexes, he managed to land his own punch, right beneath Draco's ribs, forcing him back onto the cushions. The distraction allowed Blaise the chance to pull out his wand from the pocket sewn inside his robes, the end glowing with a stunning spell he was not afraid to use against his best friend.

"You love her." The words were not formed like a question or a statement, rather threat. 

You love her, so fucking admit it.

You love her, so fucking do right by her.

You love her, so fucking let yourself do so.

You love her, so fucking be happy.

"I can't," said Draco, but Blaise could read the grey in his eyes. 

I love her, but I can't forgive myself.

I love her, but I can't ever be anything other than a Death Eater.

I love her, but I can't be the one for her.

I love her, but I can't tell her that. 

"You're wrong," Blaise told him, putting his wand down and extending his free hand out to Draco. "You'll always be wrong about that."

Reaching out for the help, Draco winced as he stood. He wanted to tell him there was a small, innocent, unmarred part of himself that knew⏤that sliver that knew he could love Hermione Granger as she deserved, with an entire heart and with all his soul. 

But he did not have much heart and soul left. 

"You fucking punched me, Zabini," he said instead. "Consider it a wedding gift or else you'd be dead right now."

"If you touch the silk, you get punched. It's that simple," Blaise told him, rolling his eyes as he threw an arm around Draco's shoulders, leading him to the door. "I will still be wanting to peruse the Malfoy vaults for my wedding gift, of course. It's not every day your best mate gets married to a girl he might actually fancy, is it?" 

"Maybe letting you become a muggle will be the best gift to Chang."

Laughter carried Draco and Blaise back in the direction of the Black Lake, arms around each other like they were still carrying the weight of what they were leaving behind in that cabin. 

They also left Hermione there, too, sitting beneath the cracked window, her hand pressed against her shattering heart, every one of Draco's words turning it to dust.