It had been those lightless eyes that had first drawn him in—and seeing them now haunted him even more then they had then. She was her again, that mysterious girl from the train, the one he'd so badly wanted to know, the one he'd so badly wanted to save.
And he had saved her—or, at least, he'd thought he had. But it seemed now like that girl had never really gone. It appeared that she had lingered like a shadow, hidden in the cloak of night where she wasn't needed, but always clinging, always waiting to follow Hermione back into the cruel light. If only she could see that she didn't have to go back there. She could stay safe under the stars, under the cradling cloak of twilight, away from the merciless break of day. What duty did she owe to a harsh sun that only beat down upon her? Why did she insist on bringing herself where she'd only be burned?
She had faded into nothingness again, had let the shadow-girl take over her, until she was Hermione and Hermione was the shadow—protected, unaffected, unscathed by the ruthless rays of sun. Why did she insist on marching on into the horizon, into a sunrise that would singe and scorch until there was nothing left of her but ash? Didn't she know how much her life was worth? Didn't she see how precious she was—to the world, to her friends… to him.
No, he realized as he watched her downcast eyes. This girl saw nothing, felt nothing. She was merely a shadow, cast by flames, the creation of an unforgiving sun.
And suddenly, Draco was filled with purpose.
Slowly, gently, he lowered her back further onto the pillows, until she had no choice but to raise those haunting eyes to his. He took up his wand, his gaze resolute—held the tip whisper-soft against her neck.
"Wha-what are you doing?" she stammered uncertainly.
"Taking away the armor," he told her, determined. "Making you see the truth."
Her eyes narrowed at that, puzzled, not understanding—then widened as she realized what he meant to do. "No, Draco. Don't," she pleaded softly.
His firm hand came up to cup her cheek. "You were right that day," he told her. "We have passed this point." He tucked one smooth spiral behind her ear. "Why are there still walls between us?"
The familiar words caused her breathing to quicken, caused the panic to take hold in her eyes. "You said it yourself," she tried to reason desperately. "Those walls have to be there." She shook her head, the fear reaching deep. "They will always be there."
Draco could hear the panic, understood it more than she knew. But he wasn't going to let her go on believing that she was nothing. Not when she was everything to him, despite the past—or maybe even because of it.
"No, Hermione," he told her seriously, his finger lightly tracing down one bruised cheekbone. "They're coming down tonight." Another pause. "I have to show you…"
That you're beautiful… That you deserve the world, despite what that monster told you… despite what he did to you… That I would have given you that world, if only things had been different…
"Let me show you…"
With a whispered word, light sprang from his wand. Hermione immediately turned, trying to wrench herself away, hiding her face, clutching the blanket against her body.
He kept his steadying hands on her. "Look at me," he commanded quietly.
Her voice failed her. She shook her head.
Draco gently let his palms run over her arms. For the first time, he felt the heavy scars that he'd seen all those weeks ago in the infirmary. His fingertips brushed down, softly running over the ridges and valleys that rose and fell on her unconcealed skin. But he wasn't disgusted. No, the only feeling that consumed him was regret. He had been her enemy for so long, completely indifferent to her suffering—superiorly ignorant to the idea that she even could suffer. With royal nonchalance, he had dismissed her from his mind entirely—had hardly cared enough to spare her a thought.
Without Walls
Start from the beginning
