Hours became a painful ticking of seconds. The edges of the world were blurring. Her eyes were swollen shut or pinned open; she couldn’t tell through the pain. Either way, she couldn’t see. All she knew was the tight circle of his arms. The soft tickling of his breath on her neck as he held her. The way it felt to curl into his side and hope for oblivion; wish for the end. She was wishing for it - most profoundly. She no longer wanted to go on, to live like this.

She gathered her things up in her arms. He probably wouldn't she thought to herself as the memory of yesterday's performance came back to her. She shook her head as if to shake the offending thoughts away. For years she had dreamed about that man she had seen on that television show, dancing the tango. The way he had moved, the lithe power he possessed.

Hermione was eating her lunch very slowly, simply dreading going to Dianna’s class. She hadn’t improved any and the rest of the class was well aware of her frequent escapades to Dianna’s office where Dianna would rant and rave about her disappointment with the girl. Why didn’t she just fix it? She sighed and laid her spoon back on the silver plate. Because it hurt too much. That’s why.

He struggled again and pulled against those who were holding him back and the blonde staggered to his feet. She caught him in her arms and they shared a slow, deep kiss. He felt nails biting into his biceps now but finally he broke away and began to run towards them. Everything started to go black as he struggled forwards. It was as if he was running through water, and with every step he took they were two more steps away. Soon they had all but disappeared and the black completely came across his vision. He woke up panting and sweating in his own bed.

“You failed today,” he pointed out.

She swallowed the lump that had grown in her throat. As if she wasn’t aware. She raised wide eyes to his, but he was unforgiving. He took sharp steps towards her until he was a hands breadth away, his eyes cold on her face. “I’m sorry,” she said in a whisper.

“Sorry isn’t nearly good enough,” he replied as his arm shot around her waist, pulling her against him.

“Want to talk about what just happened in the hallway?” he tried after a minute.

She turned her head away. “I told him no.”

Draco stood up and leant against the sink. He took a deep breath. “You know I can’t take you.”

“I know,” she said softly behind him.

“I think you should go with him,” he said.

The portraits were a family tree of sorts, chronicling the great house of Malfoy and it’s counterparts. Draco had spent hours staring at the faces, wondering if he would be as great as them some day. In such favor with the dark powers. Now as he passed it he did not see the faces of people he admired. It was remarkable what happened to people. Remarkable how a picture could move and speak and act as representation of a true being, yet be nothing more than the echo of a promise that never came to the light.

“It’s the Christmas holidays, Gustave,” Lucius said lowly as his mind formulated the final touches to his abduction plan. He turned to a portrait of a bent old woman to his left. “Go to your portrait in Hogwarts. Find out if Hermione Granger is in the school for the holidays.” He turned back to the fireplace as the frame emptied. Gustave thrummed his fingers on the side table as they waited. A few moments later there was a squeaky voice from the portrait.

Draco did not meet her eyes. “All we have to do is prance around the hall a few times together and then we can resume pretending to despise each other.” He turned to find Hermione staring vacantly ahead, her eyes not focusing on anything directly. He too allowed himself to stare vacantly before him, catching her hand in his. “I don’t like Pansy. I did for awhile, but then, well things changed.”

Rumors circled viciously, the worst of which saying Hermione had stabbed the boy to death at breakfast while everyone looked on and the silliest of which that said he had eaten a rotten piece of meat at breakfast that had festered in his stomach until he died. Everyone agreed on one thing however; it had not been his time to go.

He grabbed a corner of one sheet and gave it a great tug and, much like a giant snake, the sheet slithered up from the floor; a long rope of bed linen. Draco closed his eyes against the new knowledge. He didn’t want it. He dropped the sheet and walked stiffly towards his mother’s bed. She had done it. She had killed herself. He knew it in the very marrow of his bones.

Her voice wouldn't call out, so she couldn't say his name, even whisper it into the dark room. As tears of frustration were about to spill over her cheeks, the ward door was thrown open and Dumbledore strode across the room, his robes billowing behind him. He was followed by an anxious looking Professor McGonagall and a very tired looking Madame Pomfrey. Madame Pomfrey detoured from the group as another patient began to cough and Hermione was abruptly reminded of the black cloud that was slowly taking over Hogwarts.

I remember that reality was a distant cloud in the days after he returned to me, his father’s blood on his hands. I remember there came a point where the world would stop spinning and I would find myself standing there, looking down at what had happened and wondering how I could fix it. Fix everything. Fix me. Fix him.