As he walked down the corridor, a slender hand reached out and took his. Hermione.

He was glad she had found him. He'd be leaving soon – most of them would. If they were successful in overtaking this headquarters, the Dark Lord's forces would be thrown into confusion and chaos. If they were successful, it would be enough to turn the tide. They might not come back this time; certainly not all of them would. It was a larger attack than the duels and skirmishes they were used to, but no one talked about that. He was glad she had found him to say goodbye.

Despite everything they had been through together, he still hadn't found the nerve to tell her what she meant to him. She had a fucking boyfriend. He didn't believe she was in love with Weasley, so he had waited.

And waited.

Two years had passed him by, watching Hermione's cold romance unfold. He waited for Weasley to lose her respect. He waited for people's expectations of their relationship to grow stale. He waited for her to turn from Weasley and see him standing there in front of her. But routines are important in a time of war, and everyone carefully maintained the status quo.

So he waited.

She always came to tell him goodbye. Always took his hand, squeezed it gently and said: "Be safe." Another routine. Another goodbye. Another battle. Another homecoming, watching Weasley take her triumphantly into his arms.

Anytime someone left the apparation point, it was with the understanding that they might not come back. This time, most of them knew they wouldn't. This single assault was too important to lose. Harry-Saint-Potter himself had given a heart-rending speech to the fighters about why this one was worth dying for. Maybe that's what made him feel different. Potter had broken the routine with that speech. When routines were broken, anything was possible.

He looked down at Hermione's hand gently squeezing his own, and he knew he had to break the routine. Maybe then, anything would be possible.

...

Three years ago, the Dark Lord's forces had seized control of the Ministry. It was meant to be a silent take over. A silent occupation. But the Order was waiting for them, and made a loud, bloody mess of it all. It wasn't enough to stop them. Fear of the Dark Lord had driven the Death Eaters, and they had carved through the resistance in the end. But winning hadn't been the objective; secrecy had. They had lost their greatest weapon. Alone and suspicious, people would have been weak. Now, those who opposed them rose up, united, to fight.

...

Draco Malfoy had been an informant a mere 12 days when he approached Harry with the plans of the Ministry overthrow. Harry trusted his motives and information completely. Malfoy's father had died at the hands of Voldemort only a month before. Lucius' crime had been trying to smuggle his family out of the country. When they were found out, his wife and son were forced to watch his execution. That's when Malfoy had approached them with an offer. He would provide them with information until it seemed like his position was compromised. In return, he and his mother were to receive full amnesty and protection when they defected.

It had turned out to be the most important deal Harry had ever made. The information Malfoy had given them about the Ministry overthrow had changed the entire nature of the war. It had given them a clear enemy. That was the official start of the war, and the official birth of the Wizarding Rebellion. A Slytherin, a pureblood, and a Death Eater – Malfoy had given them the upper hand.

When they didn't hear from Malfoy in the following week, they delighted in their good luck. If his position was uncompromised, they would still have access to the movements of Voldemort's forces. When they didn't hear from Malfoy for more than a month, they had no choice but to mark him as a casualty of war. A memorial was held, and his bravery and sacrifice were formally commended. He arrived a week later, carrying the limp form of his mother. In the end, it hadn't mattered to Voldemort who had given the information. He had tortured anyone who had the slightest connection with Potter, be it only a childhood grudge from Hogwarts days. Malfoy had been chained and made to watch Narcissa's torture. It had served to punish him more than any physical pain could have. No one knew how he had escaped with her, but by the time he reached them it was too late. She died on a Saturday.

Everyone handles death differently. Some people mourn. Some break. Some persist in denial, avoiding the reality of their loss. Draco Malfoy fought. He had found Harry within days of his mother's death and demanded to join the outgoing groups battling Voldemort's forces. Harry still didn't like Malfoy, but he understood him. He had granted his request at once.

No one else in the groups trusted him. School-age grudges and bad feelings abounded, but Malfoy ignored them. He fought with an intensity and a single-mindedness that bordered on madness. He fought as though he didn't mean to live. Whatever the other rebels had expected, they weren't prepared for the vengeful, driven man fighting beside them. A few months' time saw his courage respected, his skill relied upon, and his advice sought by others. Malfoy ignored them.

Harry hadn't thought he'd have to rein in Malfoy's new obsession, but everyone could see that he was killing himself. By steps, by stages – fight upon fight – duel after duel. He meant to die. And Harry couldn't watch it happen.

"I'm cutting you down to one outbound assignment a week."

Malfoy was furious. Harry didn't care.

"That's the same rate that every other person here deploys," Harry said, with irritation.

"I don't give a damn what the others do," he said, deathly quiet.

"If you're desperate, you can do one more each week with the acquisition teams."

"You'd rather have me with the scavengers than the fighters?" he sneered.

"Those are your options, Malfoy. I'm not punishing you. I'm trying to give you a life outside of revenge."

"What. Fucking. Life? What do you expect me to do?"

"What you do with your time is up to you."

No. It hadn't gone well. Malfoy had continued to make his way to the apparation point daily, and to raise hell when his apparation with various groups was forbidden. It was only a matter of time until things went too far. Three weeks after Harry had reduced his involvement, Malfoy splinched himself badly. He had tried to apparate with a fighter group while being wrestled away by two supervising wizards. After that, Harry had him confined to a separate part of the headquarters.

...

She always came. Always took his hand, squeezed it gently and said: "Be safe," but gods, she wished she had the courage to say more. Especially now. Especially this time.

The Death Eaters wore cloaks and masks. Their side didn't. She knew from the talk she had heard that they wanted Draco badly… and they didn't want him dead. She knew what they were capable of doing to him, and every fiber of her being was screaming for him to stay here, safe.

When his free hand reached up, cupping her face, she trembled in anticipation. She could feel each fingertip wreaking havoc, caressing the sensitive flesh just behind her jaw, brushing against her ear lobe, toying with the soft strands of hair that had come loose throughout the day. She watched his gaze travel down to her lips, and drew in a shaky breath. She shouldn't want this, but Draco's fingertips tracing against her, the steady pressure of her hand in his, was more intimate, somehow, than anything Ron had ever made her feel. She wanted to feel Draco's hands on her, knowing that he wanted to touch her. No more accidental brushes, no more casual goodbyes. She wanted him to want her. She wanted to feel his lips claim hers as though she belonged to him. For all their time together, Ron still couldn't do that. Ron's love was clumsy and awkward, and had always made her feel that there must be something more.

Six inches still between them and already she knew that this was something more.

...

Dear Draco,

They say I can't keep coming every day. They say I'm killing myself the worst way I can. Maybe they're right. They're wrong about everything else, but this has been killing me for such a long time now. I think a part of me wants to let it happen - to let it take me. But, gods, then I think, 'what if?' What if someday you're better? What if someday, when I walk through that door, you know me again? And so I can't. I can't keep coming every day. I can't keep introducing myself as though we're strangers. I can't keep searching your eyes for that spark of recognition. I can't keep hoping that maybe this will be the day you're whole again.

It's killing me.

...

Hermione isn't sure what she thought her life would be… but not this. Never this.

It had taken everyone she knew to confront her with her meager existence. She'd had to admit that she wasn't living… not really. But what could they expect from her? How could she let go of this without letting go of him?

It wasn't fair. Of course it wasn't.

They'd survived the entire war. They'd even had that first sweet taste of happiness in the months that had followed. They should have known better than to think it would last. All it had taken was a single Death Eater lurking in the shadows, and her life had turned into this. Waiting for him to remember her. Waiting for him to remember himself.

He woke every morning without even knowing his own name. She could spend hours every day explaining his life to him, begging him to come back to her… the worst days were the ones he seemed to understand. It was heartbreaking. It was exhausting.

Some days, she made it through with work. Draco's knowledge of the Ministry's structure and bureaucracy had made the creation of her department possible. He still thought she was mad for wanting equal protection for house elves and other minor magical creatures, but he had believed in the passion she felt for it.

Some days, she made it through with research. She suspected she knew more, by now, than many of the healers working with Draco on a daily basis. She had attacked his condition from every angle, studying curses, the human brain, ancient magic, spell damage, and more dark magic than she had ever wanted to know about. Despite all of the information, she was still powerless to help him.

Some days, she made it through with alcohol.

She tried taking days off from visiting him, but the guilt exhausted her nearly as much as the heartbreak of seeing him. She'd sit at home, deafened by the silence there. They had shared this place. She could look around the apartment and watch their happiest moments play through – translucent, intangible, and terribly haunting – reminding her of all she had lost.

Yes. Some days she made it through with alcohol.

...

Every day, he receives her letters and reads them in confusion, often spending the entire day reading through the small stack that has accumulated. Every night, he falls asleep and forgets everything. Each new letter alarms him more. He can't make out why someone would tell him such intimate details of her life. Many of them read like diary entries. And isn't that just the thing? Why can he remember what a diary is and not a single thing about himself? About her?

Dear Draco,

It's been four days since I've been to see you. Will you forgive me when I tell you it hurts less to stay away?

It confuses him as much as the others. Again, he goes through the stack of letters, piecing together enough to know he should be upset by this. He should be hurt. He should remember. But he can't, and the next day's letter is just as great a shock as the day before.

...

It's been almost a year. Eleven fucking months.

The drinking has become more important, somehow, than almost anything else. Not the drinking, the feeling. The blissful detachment that lets her push it all away. Now when she takes days off from visiting Draco, they aren't a burden; they're a relief.

She still writes to him every day she skips her visit. The guilt demands that much of her. Sometimes it's just a simple note to say, 'I'm still here. I'm still thinking of you.' Sometimes it's rolls of parchment telling him about every part of her day – every struggle – every thought in her head. Sometimes it's just a single line…

Do you remember me? I once meant everything to you.