June 20 th , 2004
"I think I'd like to go back to Australia one day," she says, leaning back against him so that he is suddenly surrounded by cinnamon. They're sort of friends now, he supposes, but not nearly close enough for this action to be considered normal. He stiffens, and if she notices it she doesn't make any comment.
"Oh?" he says, trying to keep his tone level. Her hair is warm against his chest and the most wayward curls tickle his chin. That cinnamon scent is absolutely overwhelming. Her body is warm and soft over his—distractingly so.
"Yeah. I mean, it wasn't awful. It was actually really nice. That's one of the reasons I sent Mum and Dad there in the first place."
"Sent?"
"Mhm," she says, and he can tell by the way she says it, all calm and relaxed, that her eyes are shut. "During the war. So they wouldn't get hurt."
"You've... you've found them again?"
"Oh, yes. They live just outside of London. I visit them quite often. Less than I used to, back when I first found them. But still very often."
He marvels at the fact that she's sharing this with him. How easily she's accepted him, after everything he's done. After everything he's said and thought and wished about her.
"Do they forgive you?"
"For Obliviating them and sending them to Australia for a few years while I placed my life in danger every day?"
"Yes."
"They understood. They were angry, but they understood."
"You're lucky."
"I know."
"My family—"
"I know."
Perhaps she truly does know, but she will never understand, Draco decides as his thumb softly strokes her arm (he won't even notice that he's doing it until she rises and all he feels is air where her flesh used to be). And maybe that's one of the reasons he likes being around her so much: her sort of... naivety to the horrors those you loves can commit, and the pain it can inflict on your soul. She's free. In fact, she was never imprisoned in the first place.