for you i would ruin myself a million little times

Grief flooded her lungs.

Hermione thought seeing Harry jump out of Hagrid's arms—completely alive—would allow her to fill her body with air, but their victory had a bitter aftertaste. Every time she took a breath, it thickened on its way down, scraping, burning, until it turned to ash. She was gasping, but Ron wanted her close. He had already pulled out a needle to try and sow her to his side, connecting their ribs with unconquerable gold thread, but Ginny had caught Hermione's panicked gaze. She pulled her brother into the shattered circle of Weasleys, arms caging each other in, trembling hands taking stock of those who remained.

She knew they would count her as a Weasley until the very end, but Hermione had belonged to the Grangers first. She had a loving, kind mother and a stubborn, intelligent father with an expiration date on those memories. A date that had been past due weeks ago. She knew the risks that came with tampering with someone's mind, but keeping her parents alive while she helped save the wizarding world from Voldemort did not feel like a heavy price to pay. Not when it had been the only option. Yet, the searing pain of their loss rattled her bones, making itself known, making itself felt, when she saw Harry's dead body across that destroyed courtyard. In that short, agonizing time, Hermione had lost everything; she wanted to cross the distance, take Harry from Hagrid and curl herself beside him, letting the earth reclaim them until they were only memories that no longer ached.

While Harry had lived, once again bleeding and sacrificing for others, Hermione remained hollow. She knew she would eventually try for a smile and a tender, comforting gaze when Ron once again pulled out his needle, murmuring promises of healing and their blossoming affection as he bound them together, and she knew, with Ron pressed to her side, that they would climb the broken staircase to Gryffindor Tower and find Harry, all three of them huddling together to seek warmth while trying not to crumble further by the deafening silence—but she needed a moment to herself before all of that. Just for a minute, Hermione needed the freedom not to pretend she was capable of seeing a new world bloom from the darkness and bloodshed that had defiled their childhood.

Hermione never expected to find Draco Malfoy doing the same.

Fury never came. That was the first thing she noticed when she walked into that old, broken Potions classroom and saw him there. It was not uncommon for Malfoy to stir up hurricanes inside of her, especially when there was a mudblood always accompanying a ridiculing sneer or look of disgust. She had not counted on the familiarity and comfort of hating (pitying, even) him because the world that remained had not left any traces of herself that Hermione could latch on to; instead, something like relief brewed chaos in her bloodstream.

She took a step inside that dungeon because Malfoy was not holding on to a flickering hope, breathing magic over the spark like it could ignite into a wildfire that would somehow devour the darkness that was left behind. No, he sat among the rubble and ash staring at his ghosts like he knew they would always be around, shadows always accompanying his own.

It was the truest thing Hermione had seen in the aftermath.

Magic and cement would be poured over the skeleton of Hogwarts School, building walls just as high, just as winding, the dead would be buried under damp, plush soil, tears washing away the pain for the sake of love, for the sake of preserving treasured memories, and their government would start scrubbing at all the black and red, gathering criminals, gathering debris until it was all hidden away and it all felt like a nightmare they could wake up from.

You shouldn't be here, Granger.

That was the first thing Malfoy had said to her in over a year. She was hardly surprised by the emptiness of each word that left his dry, bruised lips. If Hermione could hardly conjure up old grudges, how could he? How could he when he had lost his very soul to this war?

She was not afraid of his demons. She might never understand, forgive, nor forget them, but she could acknowledge them. She could acknowledge that Malfoy was granted each haunting evil against his will. She could acknowledge that his choice was stolen, the last embers of his light being snuffed out by a madman with impossible expectations and the master he served.

Hermione could acknowledge that what was left of Malfoy mirrored her own—absolutely nothing.

He must have seen the same.

He must have been so desperate for someone with scars to see his own, too. That was the only way Hermione could make sense of Malfoy allowing her to get close enough for her fingertips to wipe at the blood still sticky against the side of his forehead, her cut-up hand then sliding through his blonde, matted hair.

I can't breathe out there, she confessed in a murmur, her palm pressing against the nape of his neck. His shoulders were still rigid from when he first noticed her at the door, but he now gritted his teeth at her warm, nervous touch. Their hope isn't real.

Did my aunt carve out what was left of yours, then?

Hermione's hand slipped away from him, her nails scraping at the tender, dirt-covered flesh, but he caught her wrist. She had faced-off against Malfoy often enough throughout the years to know what color his eyes were, but there was a new depth to the silver glimmer in his glare, like seeing the suffocating darkness beneath the thick, icy sheet of a frozen river in the middle of an unforgiving winter.

She had seen it that night in Malfoy Manor, too. Right before Bellatrix Lestrange's curse had wrapped around her terrified, fragile body, forcing her to curl into herself on his expensive, bloodstained carpet.

He had looked at Hermione like he regretted everything that would come next.

He had looked at Hermione like he regretted everything that had come before.

But time was a complex, impossible thing even for wizards, so Malfoy closed his eyes at the ghosts that formed from the things he could not change. She saw him accept the weight of that, knowing even back in his drawing-room that he would never be able to wash off the red from his hands, nor would light ever break past to heal what remained of his black, twisted heart.

Maybe that was why she kissed him.

Maybe that was why, with his fingers still gripping onto her bruised wrist, Hermione closed the distance that had always existed between her and Malfoy—because, in that small moment of freedom, time did not matter. All the previous versions of themselves had vanished, revealing only the vessels the war had hollowed out.

If he was shocked or repulsed by her left hand slithering back into his messy hair, Malfoy did not show it. When she tugged on the blonde strands, he pulled on her wrist, his own rough, sliced hands moving to her hips. His tongue fought its way into her mouth like he had not spent years trying to get her to shut up; all while Hermione swallowed up the growl of desire he let out like she had not spent years relishing the groans of displeasure the end of her wand or wit caused.

She thought he would taste like the acerbic scent the castle was wrapped in, but instead the lingering sweetness of crisp apples brushed against her tongue. For a second, Hermione wondered if Malfoy would be able to distinguish the honeyed hope Ron had left on her lips when they kissed in the Room of Requirement, back when she shared in his dream that they would make it out of this war with fault lines instead of unrecognizable fragments. Hermione had grown into her love for her best friend, but when Malfoy stood from his seat on a broken desk, pushing her back against the surface, affection nor guilt tried to fight their way into her heart or head.

Don't, Malfoy grunted against her jaw, one of his hands moving from her hip to stop Hermione from pulling his belt from the buckle. I'm not taking that from you.

Taking what? she demanded, hooking her leg around his, making those silver eyes flash before his teeth nipped at her skin. There's nothing left of me, Malfoy.

Maybe Hermione should not have tempted him.

Maybe Hermione should have saved her virginity for clean, adoring hands, lit candles and rose petals decorating the room instead of debris and ghosts, but what if it would never be real? What if she never filled herself with faith and righteousness again? What if she ended up like those grieving, hopeful people on the other side of that door, desperate to believe the sun was going to burst gold and warm after this ruthless storm?

Regret could arrive, bruising her bones further than the purple and blue mess they were now, she knew that, but nothing felt more achingly real than Malfoy's fingers caressing down her cheek only to then wrap around her throat.

Take your knickers off, Granger, he commanded in a deep whisper, shock licking up her spine when she felt a wildfire start in the places she used to hear the girls in her dormitory giggle about.

As naive as those same girls thought her because her experiences came from reading about them, Hermione had been well aware of what would happen next. Her fingers did not tremble as she undid the buttons of her tattered jeans; she knew, as Malfoy continued to leave a trail of teeth marks down the column of her neck, his own fingers helping her pull down her zipper, what she was about to give up—what she was about to feel.

It had all been technical terms before; Hermione could still recall the texture and print of the pages in those biology and human sexuality textbooks she borrowed, never blushing when Madam Pince raised a brow at her, but she felt herself scorch pink now. Malfoy had his face buried in her knotted waves, breathing in smoke and grief, but his long fingers found her center, making her jump, making her hold her breath.

Come for me.

It sounded like a plea.

Hermione was not too sure if it had been because Malfoy's quiet voice distorted into her gasping, her fingers tugging on his hair just as the leg she had wrapped around him pulled him in closer. He had been staring at her face as he led her to pleasurable heights, but when she started to descend, he looked down, unbuckling his belt before undoing the zipper of his trousers.

When he started to guide himself to her entrance, she pushed up from the rickety desk, coiling her arms around his broad shoulders to flush herself against him. He tensed at her embrace, but Hermione did not let him hesitate. She tilted her hips, allowing the velvety hardness of his cock to slide in a fraction. She dug her nails in him after he let out a groan, finally allowing himself to slip all the way in.

She counted to twelve before Malfoy stilled.

Hermione knew he would be able to feel the resistance of her body against his foreign intrusion, but she had not counted on the way he would look when he pushed her back, jaw clenched as he glanced at their bodies connected before meeting her eyes.

There's nothing left of me, Malfoy, she repeated, careful fingertips caressing the cut on his left cheek. Not really. And if this counts as something, then you can have it.

Throughout the years, there had only been two times Hermione wished she knew how to read Draco Malfoy. The first had been in their Second Year, back when he first called her a mudblood. She, of course, had not been entirely sure what the slur had meant then, but once she knew the hatred that shadowed it, she wanted to know why. Why did Malfoy loath her over something Hermione could not control? How could he think she was unworthy of her magic when she out-performed students with pedigree and practice? Then, in their Sixth Year, she found herself once again pondering about his inner workings. She hadn't bought into Harry's suspicions, but even she could see Malfoy was withering away. She wanted to know what a pureblood heir had to take on with his father in prison? And did he regret his family's place in all of this?

Now, as something attempted to melt the ice in his gaze, Hermione wanted to know why, for a fleeting second, he looked at her like she was giving him more than just her body.

Yet, like those times before when her mind was riddled with questions, Malfoy would never be a source for answers. When he slithered his hand back to her throat, she was hardly surprised that he then hid his face against her shoulder when he started to move.

Maybe it was guilt.

Maybe he did not want the burden of taking something else from her, not when his family had already chipped away at her peace, safety, and innocence since the moment she stepped foot into the wizarding world.

Harder, she told him.

Harder because there was no place for that remorse here.

Harder because having Malfoy inside of her was the most alive Hermione thought she will ever feel after all of this.

It was not Malfoy letting out a groan or the feel of him pulsing inside of her, spilling sticky heat that she felt down her thighs already, that told Hermione he had finished. It was the soft, unconscious feel of his lips kissing the side of her jaw. It was his hand loosening around her throat, slipping down to her chest, resting above her heart as he took a deep breath in.

In that time when he was pressed against her, buried to the hilt at her center, did he feel real, too? Did he feel the flame of life spark deep in his bones again? Did he think that maybe they could both survive with their ghosts and their scars inside that old potions classroom, too?

I'm going to Azkaban, Malfoy said as he pulled himself out of Hermione, breaking past illusions so the reality of their outside world could trickle in. I'll pay for my crimes, Granger. You can add this to the charges, too.

I'll be at your trials, she told him as she slid her underwear and jeans back on. I'll testify in your defense. As will Harry.

That frozen depth of darkness was back in his silver eyes when he looked at Hermione. He had accepted his ghosts; he had accepted the blood on his hands and the black taint of his heart, and maybe he did not want her nor anyone else to try and clean it off his ledger.

You were wrong for a lot of things, Malfoy, she spoke once he started to head for the broken door, but the biggest crime you committed was being loyal to your family. You can't be blamed for what they taught you.

His shoulders were rigid again, that haunted silence filling the dungeon, but he then turned to look at her. He was guarded when he said, I never wanted you to die.

I know, she murmured, sinking down to the vacant seat on that old desk he had left open. I don't blame you. For any of it.

"Mummy?"

Hermione turned from where the Floo had burned emerald to look at Scorpius tugging on the hem of her Auror robes, wide, curious eyes staring up at her before looking back at the stranger standing in front of their fireplace.

She had gotten lost in the past.

The moment she told Malfoy the truth, the version of him she often fought with herself to keep hidden away broke free.

Hermione had felt him pressed against her again—felt him inside of her again, smelling like grief and bergamot, tasting like crisp apples and regret for the things he could never change. Since his return, she had wondered when he would corner her under those familiar shadows, long fingers wrapping around her throat. To kiss or kill her, she wasn't sure which he wanted. Still, the reckless thing in her chest wanted him to allow her to reacquaint with the feel and flavor of him, but her logical, reasonable mind had roared with satisfaction when he took a threatening step forward, baring sharp teeth. Immediately, the files she'd been clutching slipped from her grasp as she shot out a Protego and crouched into a defensive stance.

After all, this was what Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy were good at—violently reducing each other into singular atoms.

She had hypothesized his rage, but never the demand of where is he? that left his mouth as he took another step forward, ignoring her wand rising an inch higher and closer to his face. In all the enraged outcomes she had prepared for, Malfoy believing her within seconds of Hermione's confession left her rigid. Especially when the unrelenting silver of his eyes began to melt, rattling the memory of their one fleeting union, making it come alive.

Somewhere in the stretch of her silence and his rage, they ended up here. In her home that still smelled of her morning tea and the brine of Scorpius' beach toys, a growing musk of bergamot and expensive aftershave trying to wedge itself in the open space between that comforting scent.

"Scorp," Hermione had to clear her throat twice, urging her voice to unstick itself from the back of her tongue, "this is...Draco Malfoy. He's...um, Mummy's friend."

She could feel Malfoy's glare burning a hole at the side of her head.

"Mummy's friend?" Scorpius repeated, tilting his head to the side as he looked back at the man by the fireplace, moonlit eyes meeting moonshine. "Like Uncle Harry?"

"Something like that, sweetheart," she muttered, placing a tender hand on Scorpius' chubby cheek.

"Is he important like Uncle Harry? Because you always say Uncle Harry's important."

Like the coward she was, Hermione gently maneuvered her child between herself and Malfoy. The murderous glint in his cold gaze had melted away the second they marveled at Scorpius. She kept expecting outrage, confusion, or wrath to burst out of Malfoy like wings on the Angel of Death, but there was only growing awe.

She wondered what he was thinking when he looked at Scorpius. Was he trying to find other similarities than the obvious ones? Did he see the little crease between her—their—son's brows, one he wore when he was concentrating on his tasks or when he knew he wasn't going to get his way? Did Malfoy see it and wonder who Scorpius got it from, himself or Hermione? Did Malfoy see the constellation of freckles on her—their—son's cheeks? Did he want to take a closer look and run a gentle fingertip over the spots, trying to connect them together and figure out what star they formed? Did Malfoy see the sharp angle of her—their—son's jaw below a layer of boyish softness? Did he recall when he had looked the same at Scorpius' age, and wondered if those cutting features would appear around the same time Malfoy had grown into his own?

"I like your ring," Scorpius shattered the silence, pointing a finger at Malfoy's hand. "It has dragons. I like dragons. Teddy and I painted some on Auntie 'Dromeda's wall once, and she wasn't happy. Huh, Mommy? Auntie was really cross."

"I told you," Hermione said as she braved a look at Malfoy, "Andromeda minds him a few times a week. She homeschools the boys—but you two cause more mayhem than you actually spend time studying, don't you, Scorp?"

Never one to not use that angelic smile that too often persuaded Hermione into giving him a chocolate biscuit before bedtime, Scorpius beamed at her. Something about the light he emitted had Malfoy stepping away from the Floo; Hermione saw him sliding his family's crest off his long, pale finger as he crouched down to be as eye-level to her—his—son as possible.

She watched Malfoy swallow twice, run the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, before clearing his throat. "Here," and still, there was a roughness in his voice that had nothing to do with that outrage, confusion, or wrath she kept expecting him to use as weapons against her, "you can have it."

Scorpius blinked at the thick, platinum ring in Malfoy's outstretched palm. He extended small, excitable fingers to the shiny object, but stopped. He looked up at Hermione, that little crease of concentration appearing as he then narrowed eyes at the gift. Before she could tell him it would be all right if he took it, Scorpius was racing to his toy chest. Hermione brought a hand to her temple, rubbing at the left side as he sunk his head and half his tiny torso in, his little arms flailing about as he searched among his possessions.

"Extension charm," she murmured when Malfoy raised a brow. "I limit the number of toys I get him, but no one else seems to heed my warnings. Theo and Blaise are especially horrible at spoiling—"

The rage was back.

Hermione grimaced at the slip as Malfoy stood back up to all his overwhelming height. She could feel his hand wrapping around her throat; this time, she was absolutely sure he was going to squeeze until every ribbon of air her lungs had died imprisoned there, but before he could tower over her, claim her life as his, Scorpius returned.

"Here! For you, Mr. Draco!" he declared as he wedged himself between Hermione and Malfoy, his little pink palm holding out a big pink seashell. "Grandad and me saw this sea thingy leave it, and Grandad said he was looking for a bigger home, but that this one was special because it helped the thingy get big! I was saving it to get big, too, just as tall as Teddy, but you can have it now!"

The corner of Malfoy's mouth twitched before a smile took over. Hermione blinked at the expression; she had seen him in various degrees of darkness, but light flickered out of him now like sneaky, morning rays of sunshine through an open slip of curtains. She had seen the glimmer before, back in that Potions classroom, back when he had finished spilling his seed inside of her, leaving a tender kiss on her jaw before he let his ghosts take him prisoner.

"Thank you, Scorpius," Malfoy murmured, his hand engulfing her—his—son's little one. When he slowly released it, Hermione watched him hesitate before tracing a thumb over Scorpius' forehead, pushing aside his tousled, white-blonde curls. "And don't worry, I think you'll be as tall as Teddy in no time."

"I hope so," Scorpius sighed dramatically before eagerly taking Malfoy's ring. It dangled off his finger when he slipped it on, but he still grinned happily at it. "You can adjust it, right, Mummy?"

Hermione ruffled his hair. "Maybe keep it safe in your treasure box for the time being, sweetheart. You'll grow into that one day, too."

"But, Mummy, that can take ages !"

"Do you remember what happened to the last ring you had? You gave it to the gnomes in the Weasleys' garden. Mal—Draco might've given it to you, but it means a lot to him. Best not risk losing it."

"I won't give it to the gnomes, Mr. Draco," Scorpius turned appalled silver eyes at the man crouching before him again. "I swear it. I found that old ring outside Uncle Georgie's shop. It wasn't special like this one."

Malfoy twisted his family's crest around Scorpius' finger twice before saying, "My

father gave me this," he didn't pause, but he still looked up at Hermione like he was expecting the same thing she had been waiting for—outrage, confusion, or wrath. Her hands trembled at her heavily-guarded secret staring straight at her, the intensity of the moon in that narrowed gaze, but she pressed her lips into a thin line, holding her breath. "It stopped being special to me a long time ago, but if it's yours now, Scorpius, I'm happy I kept it with me all these years."

Greedy.

Just as coward had etched down her spine, Hermione felt each letter of greedy carve itself into the soft, tender flesh of her throat.

Had she truly kept Malfoy's identity secret from her—their—child because she feared for his safety? While she had, as an Auror and once an unwanted member of their society, seen what grieving, mad people did to those they considered guilty and monstrous, Hermione had also known that Scorpius was well protected. Not just by her; there were other Aurors, hellions, and chosen-family members who would, without a doubt, stand between danger and Scorpius' bright-eyed innocence to make sure it remained whole and blinding. Grudgingly, she could also admit that Harry had reason to be wary of the Malfoys and the blood on their hands and the ghosts in their cellar, but hadn't Hermione once seen past that to let Draco in? Hadn't she seen his remorse, pain, and rage, but still believed that flicker of light he wanted to let die was far more transcendent than all the things he could not change?

Take your knickers off, Granger.

Come for me.

I never wanted you to die.

After all these years, she could still feel his grip on her hip, the bite of his teeth on her skin, and his body tremble when she first slid her fingers through his hair. Once Malfoy had closed the classroom door behind him, Hermione had known she would have to take this gritty, glorious moment and chain it beneath the shadows inside her mind. She would have to let it rot there until it turned into tissue and a memory she wouldn't be able to recall once time progressed.

But she never got the chance to secure the restraints around it—not only because she continued to feel the contradiction of his body against hers, all freezing uncertainty and scorching need, but their unplanned union had resulted in Scorpius, too.

She had gotten to her knees to beg the Minister for Magic to let Malfoy free, she had even sunk fingernails into Harry's collarbones to demand he fight against the life sentence, but it had all been driven out of her own greed.

Malfoy had restarted the fire in her chest and she needed him to contain the blaze.

Deciding to stack brick after brick around that furious, gnawing flame, hoping the barrier would douse it, hoping everything smelling, tasting, and feeling like Draco Malfoy would turn to ash, Hermione made the choice to keep the truth not only from prying, unforgiving eyes, but the wholesome grey of her—their—son's, too.

Greed had kept her from telling Scorpius about the father that currently stared at him like he was far more radiant and magnificent than the stars that composed his name.

"Malfoy," Hermione gasped, stealing his focus from their son, cool silver melting in a way that reminded her of when she allowed him to have what was left of herself, back when he allowed himself the weakness (or the strength) to slip inside to claim it. "Tell him. Tell him you're his—"

"Uncle Harry!" Scorpius clutched the ring in his tiny fist before darting toward the Floo. He wasted no time in launching himself at Harry, complete faith that despite the bags his uncle carried, he would be caught before he met any hard surface. "Look at what Mr. Draco gave me!"

Hermione took a few steps back like Harry could see she had every intention of being consumed by the wildfire she spent years trying to reduce to unthreatening embers.

Narrowing emerald eyes at her and Malfoy, Harry plastered a grin on his mouth when he then turned his attention at the excited little boy clinging to his side. "Careful not to gamble it off to those garden gnomes, Scorp. Remember what happened to the last ring you had?"

"Teddy and me wanted to see their treasures," Scorpius mumbled with a pout. Then, bringing Malfoy's ring to his chest, he happily announced, "But this one's special! I'm gonna keep it forever—oh, Uncle Harry, do you know Mr. Draco? Mummy said he's her friend like you're her friend."

"Doubt that," Harry scoffed, but quickly replaced his irritation when Hermione glared at him. "Anyway, you know what today is?"

"Thursday!"

"Which means?"

"Mac and cheese!" Scorpius exclaimed as he reached his free hand into one of the bags Harry was holding. "Did you bring the crisps to crush on top of our bowls, Uncle Harry? The kind Mummy hates and we have to hide from her?"

Harry let out a loud laugh, pressing a kiss on the side of Scorpius' forehead. "You'll never make it as an Auror, Scorp. You can't keep a secret at all."

"I can, too! I never told Mummy about that time she was sleeping and we snuck off to Honeydukes to buy—"

"Mummy's a bit cross with me right now, kid. Maybe don't tell her I sneak sweets to you, hmm?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, clearing her throat to find her voice again, but taming the fury she still felt toward her best friend. "You're not as sneaky as you think, Harry. And no crisps. Broccoli on the side, got it?" Both Scorpius and Harry made identical expressions of disgust. "I mean it, or Thursday's mac and cheese will turn into Fleur's vegan casserole."

"Mr. Draco, are you gonna stay? Uncle Harry always makes extra!"

Malfoy clenched his hands into fists before shoving them into the pockets of his trousers. Hermione could see rage once again sprout like wings from the expanse of his back, looking every bit the Angel of Death she had seen back at the Ministry. She wondered if Harry's appearance would finally cause those wings to expand, stirring up chaos and destruction, but Malfoy surprised her by smiling that same bright, warm smile that had rendered her speechless when he first directed it at their son.

"Unfortunately, I have somewhere else I need to be," Malfoy told him, something like honesty lacing the words, like he was truly upset about having to part ways with Scorpius. "Maybe next time, okay?"

Their son deflated a little. "Okay."

"Draco can stop by later on in the week," Hermione instantly said, loathing the way both father and child dimmed at the brief encounter coming to a close. "You can show him the other seashells your grandad helped you get. Would you like that, sweetheart?"

Nodding fervently, Scorpius cast a giant grin at Malfoy. "You can help me pick a castle for Grandad, Mr. Draco! I always build one when Mummy and me go visit him and Nan."

Harry tossed Scorpius up into a sturdier embrace before heading to the kitchen. "My mac and cheese isn't free, you know? Last time you butchered grating the cheese, so how about today you help me..."

"Malfoy—?"

"You won't keep him from me, Granger," he snarled when they were alone. "Do you understand me?"

Hermione fought the shiver racing up her spine. She didn't know if she was tempted to challenge him because she had never been one to take threats without putting up her fists, wand or not, or because the part of her that remembered the feel of him on top of her wanted to see what he would do next.

Greedy stung fresh against the delicate flesh of her throat, but the mother scabbing above her heart burned as a reminder of what she was first. What she had to be first.

"I told you about Scorpius for a reason," her tone was unwavering, strong, fierce, "but the moment our son isn't safe knowing you, Malfoy, you will crawl back into the cell I thought you'd die in. Do you understand me ?"

Malfoy stepped closer, destroying the safe distance she had put between them. Like at the Ministry, he ran his thumb against her bottom lip, his molten gaze zeroed in on the plush pink of her mouth. He leaned in and she held her breath when the taste of bergamot and crisp apples pooled on her tongue.

He hovered his mouth over hers, but he never allowed her old memory to be replaced by a new one. Instead, in a cruel whisper that tickled her lips, he said, "When did you start believing I was a monster, Granger? After I took your virginity, or after finding out I took Yaxley's life?"

Tears spilled past Hermione's lashes, but Malfoy was already disappearing in emerald flames to see them.

There's nothing left of me, Malfoy.

Harder.

I don't blame you. 

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[[ AN: Hey, guys! I'm so sorry for such a late update! As life tends to do, I had some unexpected things come up and it really stole any time I had to write away from me. I appreciate all the comments I got between my hiatus until now, they have been so sweet! And, oh! A shout out to Abbey_M_Writess for the new cover to this book! I absolutely loved it! ]]