||Now It's Just Us||

Chapter 17

Her cry of "Draco!" made him stop what he was doing. 

He turned sharply at the sound of her voice, her image bleary through the tears pooled around his eyes. His grip on his wand never faltered, his knuckles were white with force. The beginning of a cut he had made over his Dark Mark stopped increasing, and the blood collected in a bead sized droplet. A few stands of his hair fell onto his face, blocking his view even more.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, letting his wand drop to the floor. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes so that he wouldn't have to look at her through all the shame and guilt.

He hadn't wanted to welcome her home like this. The same way he had the day she had gotten to know. It wasn't fair to her.

He was disgusted with himself, at his cowardice and his desire for self harm. Why couldn't he just face problems and try to solve them instead of slinking away all the time?

Hermione rushed toward him and grabbed a hold of his wrist as gently as her anxiety would allow, "You promised! You promised you wouldn't do that again!"

Her voice was unsteady with the amount of emotions she was feeling. He scrunched his eyes closed and leaned into her, gripping her shoulders and sobbing. The way it comforted him was unexpected, to say the least. It eased away a scruple of his pain. He didn't want to burden her anymore than he already was, but he had been triggered. His mind was full of thoughts and memories. He missed his mother, he missed his old friends.

She didn't bombard him with questions, instead wrapped her arms around his neck with one hand in his hair, while the other rubbed circles on his shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to," he began, but she hushed him.

"Don't talk about that now," she said, and he saw for the first time that her eyes were glistening with unshed tears as well, "it'll make it worse. Don't think about anything, except something to help you come out of it."

He nodded silently, tightening his grip around her, holding onto her like she was an anchor that kept him fixed in reality. The kind of anchor he needed. He concentrated on the way her chest moved with her steady breathing, her soothing whispers. Their surroundings went in and out of focus as his mind began to clear. The destructive thoughts on his head slowly ebbed away, until he could feel nothing but her warmth. 

"Do you want to sit down?" she asked when she noticed that he had stopped crying, "Have a glass of water?"

"No," he answered hesitantly, then, "I don't know."

"Come on," she pulled away from him, careful not to be harsh, and guided him to one of the kitchen chairs. 

He sat down heavily on it, and she went and got him a glass of water.

"I'm not having it if it has calming draught," he said, an edge of bitterness to his voice.

"I didn't put any in," she said calmly. She held the glass to his lips because his hands were shaking too much for him to be able to hold it steady.

When she had placed the glass down in front of him once he had had his fill, she took his hands in hers and kneeled before him, "Do you want to talk about it?"

He thought for a moment, regarding her. He had messed her hair up.

He trusted her. It was strange and he had never thought it would come to pass until the end of time, but it was true. He trusted her and he hated himself for it. Not that she wasn't trustworthy, he just didn't want to be dependent on anyone. To know how much her presence meant to him, how much she affected him with the simplest of actions, was greatly disturbing. Nevertheless, he trusted her.