Hey guys...so sorry for taking so long to update this story, but it just kept coming out wrong whenever I tried to write it. Here's the continuation of Draco and Hermione's story. This will be the last chapter I'll write for this particular story, but thanks for everyone who asked me to continue it, because it was great fun writing! Be warned though, characters might be a bit OOC. So please read it with that in mind.

As always, please, please review. They make me remarkably happy, particularly in these long winter days! Hope you all enjoy! xx

The drafty air had chilled Draco to his very bone, almost to the point of not being able to feel his fingers and toes from lack of warmth. He fumbled around for his wand momentarily before remembering that Potter had snatched it away after the four of them had been dumped rather unceremoniously in the middle of a large abandoned cottage.

The four of them. It had a peculiar ring to it, one that Draco would have hated if one of them hadn't been her. Him, Potter, the Weasel, and her. Of course, that wasn't exactly how the other two boys viewed him, as one of their own.

Five hours. It had been five hours since Hermione and him and apparated to what seemed like a holiday getaway house for Muggles, but his time here had been nothing if not completely unpleasant. For the first one hundred and twenty minutes, he and Potter had really went at it, shouting such horrible profanities at each other that his ears now metaphorically rang from the vulgarity of it all. And then Ron had flown at him as soon as Harry had left the main room, pounding on him in such a erratic manner that the redhead had gotten in a couple good hits before Draco's self-preservation had kicked in, promptly knocking his attacker to the ground with a fast offensive move that his father had taught him - and it had originated from the Muggle world, lending the current situation an ironic twist that left Draco unsure of just what the irony was exactly. Unfortunately, it had left Ron lying dazed on the floor with blood gushing from his nose, which had warranted a murderous look from Hermione, who had shouted at him to go upstairs. He wasn't sure why he had obeyed her, since he had never exactly given a woman respect before, save his mother, but something in her tone had left him scurrying for the stairs.

Of course, he also hadn't wanted to watch her fret and comfort the red haired bastard, which he knew was exactly what she was going to do as he had watched her kneel beside the bleeding boy.

So now here he was, sitting on the extremely uncomfortable four-poster bed which was situated in the middle of the room, sneezing occasionally from the thick layer of dust that covered not only the sparse furniture but the floor as well.

His recent exile to this room had left him three hours to mull over what had just happened, and in those one hundred and eighty minutes of solitude and silence (except for the muffled shouts of the trio downstairs trying to figure out what to do with him) he had managed to work himself into such a state of agitation and anxiety that he was ready to, in all seriousness, kill himself in fear of what was to come.

It probably was a rather good thing that he didn't have his wand on him after all.

What the fuck had he been thinking? He had just betrayed not only his parents, his family, but the Dark Lord as well.

Bloody hell, he had just betrayed Voldemort.

Had he completely lost his mind?

He rolled up his sleeve and looked down at his forearm, at that cursed Dark Mark. The black tattoo that had become part of his very being seemed to grin back at him, as if to say, You stupid little boy. You'll pay for this now. You're going to die, do you know that? You're going to die, Draco.

He began to claw frantically at his arm, digging his fingernails into his arm, dragging them across his skin in a desperate attempt to rid himself of his servitude to the Dark Lord until his skin was raw and bloody from his sharp nails.

Somehow he found himself sitting with his back against one of the walls, his ragged sobs making him rock back and forth in sheer terror of what now seemed inescapable, his imminent death at the hands of Voldemort.

The door to the room opened slowly, the soft padding of footsteps alerting him to another presence. He looked up, and saw her.

"Oh Draco," she said gently, the pain in her eyes as she took in his frantic state making a fresh cut in his already sliced up heart. He stood quickly, rubbing his hand across the back of his eyes to rid himself of any excess tears. Crying was a sign of weakness, his father had always told him. Crying in front of a woman practically made him an imbecile, then.

"Hello, Granger. Shall I just apparate away to save you three the trouble of getting rid of me yourselves?" He knew his tone was harsh, but he couldn't muster the energy to soften it.

"Malfoy, I wouldn't have asked you to come if I had any intention of simply getting rid of you."

"Well, Potter and Weasel seem to have different ideas. These walls aren't soundproof you know. I quite liked idea number...five, was it? That was Potter's, I think. Quite an original idea coming from someone so obviously daft. I might have to use it if I ever have an unwanted guest."

"Well, then you shouldn't have come with me, if you're so torn up about leaving your lovely Death Eaters."

"Then you shouldn't have asked me, Granger!"

"You shouldn't have said yes!"

"Why did you ask me?" he said, the level of his voice dropping down from a shout to a whisper. "Why?"

The usage of her first name seemed to snap something inside of her. She didn't answer him, instead turning away and raising her wand. He thought for a moment she was going to hex him into oblivion, but then she started casting a silencing spell. After it had been completed, she turned on him quicker than he thought possible.

"I asked you because, even after everything that's happened, I still thought there was some good left in you," she whispered in a broken tone, her face inches away from his, her body pressing into his, which was in turn pressing into the wall. "Because even though you have that - " she pointed to the Dark Mark, which was now surrounded by raw, red flesh, "I know, somehow, that you didn't want to take it. Did you, Draco? Tell me you didn't."

She was so close to him that he could feel her breath, soft and warm, on his face, and his hands started to move on their own accord as they snaked around her waist and drew her into him.

"Hermione," he murmured, closing his eyes as his lips grazed hers, as if asking for permission. She didn't move at all, and he took that as a yes, deepening the kiss. She smelled like honey, just as he remembered from those nights that they had spent together so very long ago. Her lips were soft, and tasted like apples. Funny, were there apples in the kitchen of this horrid house? But that didn't matter at all, because right at this moment, he felt free.

His hands slowly made their way up her arms, and she stiffened before letting out a strangled cry. She yanked her arm away, stepping back and to the side of him as she placed a hand over her forearm. He could see her fighting tears, but one rolled down her face against her will, and again, he was struck by how peculiarly beautiful the iridescent drop of water looked running down her perfect cheek.

But then realization dawned on him as to why she was covering up her arm, and the black cloud that had vanished for the past five hours started to loom again, threatening to overtake him. He turned to her, slowly taking her hand off the skin she was covering up.

"Hermione," he choked out, his voice cracking on the last syllable. Her flesh was torn up, scabs already starting to form at the edges of the word that had been crudely cut into her skin.

Mudblood. He reached out to touch the carved skin, his fingers fluttering over the still fresh wound. She hissed and drew her arm back, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"Don't touch it, you bastard!"

The black cloud started descending as her threatening tone cut through him. "Granger, I'm so sorry..."

"How could you?" she hissed again, spitting out the words with venom. "You just stood there as she tortured me. As she did this to me!" She thrust her arm into his face. "It says 'Mudblood', Malfoy. Mudblood. That's all I am - to you, to your family. You're every bit as guilty for this as your aunt."

"Gods, Granger, please, I'm sorry," he whispered, attempting to take her back in his arms again, knowing that if he could just hold her, everything would go back to being alright. But she drew away again, her back hitting the wall.

"Don't touch me, Malfoy. I'm with Ron."

Those three little words ripped through him as the black fog seeped back into his pores. "No," he whispered hoarsely, his eyes growing wide. "You're lying."

"I love him."

"No you don't!" He hit the wall, his fist connecting with the plaster dangerously close to her head.

"Yes I do."

"No. You. Don't." He loomed over her, a small sadistic part of him relishing the fear in her eyes. "You love me, Granger. You said so yourself. Don't lie to me."

"That was before you tried to kill us!"

"You love me," he said again, ignoring her statement. He angled his hips against her, pushing her back against the wall, effectively cutting off any escape route. He slanted his mouth over hers, reclaiming her lips as his, kissing her with anger and fury, pouring his frustration and hate for the world into her. He could feel her struggling against him, but being much larger than her, he stilled her frenetic movements with another shove. It was only when his lips moved to her neck to mark her as his own that she was able to speak.

"Draco, please."

Those two words stopped him in his tracks, her pleading tone breaking through the darkness that had all but settled on him again. He drew back his face, looking in her eyes. There wasn't terror there anymore. Just sadness.

"Why did you ask me to come with you, Granger? Why?" He asked again, softening his grip on her neck and hips but still not letting her go. "I only came for you."

"Because...because," the tears started falling again from her eyes, the sight breaking his heart for what seemed like the millionth time that day.

"You must feel something. You wouldn't have asked me if you didn't. Please say you do."

"Draco..."

"Please, Hermione. Please."

"Because I still love you!" she cried, her voice escalating in pitch. "I still do. Damn you, Draco Malfoy!"

He laid his forehead against hers, his arms encircling her small waist as she shuddered against him. "You don't love him Granger, you can't. You only belong with me."

"Damn you," she whispered again, gasping softly for respite from her falling tears.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry..." he continued apologizing in the same gentle, broken voice as she clung onto his shirt, burrowing her head into the crook of his neck. And he was sorry. For taking the Dark Mark in the first place. For leaving her suddenly, without an explanation or a goodbye. For not protecting her from his aunt. For standing there during her torture. For hurting her time and time again. He was sorry for everything, actually.

It seemed like an eternity before she spoke again. Not moving her head from its current position, her words were muffled as she spoke into his skin, but Draco caught them.

"I forgive you."