While the Gryffindors thought her to only possess a sharp tongue, venomous and sharp like the true snake that she was, Pansy had studied up on her wandwork and arsenal of spells the past year. Was she expecting the Dark Lord to win and her parents to give her to the highest, Pureblood bidder? Of course. That was everything she had known since she was a little girl, carefully bred and molded to follow all the Pureblood witches before her who had the honor of being members of The Sacred Twenty-Eight. Duty above all: to the Dark Lord, to her blood, and to her future husband. She did not need to know how to defend herself with magic—the Dark Lord was going to do that for her, he was meant to create a world where she would reign supreme, untouchable, unbreakable to the world around her.

But that was a lie.

Long before Potter won and the defeat of the Dark Lord came, Pansy had discovered that no one was indestructible in a world run by the devil. So, days after the end of the war, Pansy tied her long, black hair up, wiped her face clean from any trace of makeup, picked up her wand and practiced until she was breathing disarming spells and curses.

It was how she was going to finally kill Ron Weasley.

The door to her chamber flew up with just a glare from Pansy's dark eyes, almost flying off the bolted hinges by the force of her magic. She could hear her bones rattle from the rage, Slytherin to the day she died; she scanned the sitting area, no redhead mongrel in sight.

It was one thing to destroy something of hers, but to aim a curse in her direction? She would not allow the disrespect. Hell hath no fury like a Parkinson scorned, after all. She would be tearing off his head, making a rug out of his ugly, red hair, and sending what was left to his mummy wrapped in a bright, green bow.

With a stomp of her right foot, Pansy's magic burst out of her, making the door of the forced, shared bedroom to swing open. She raised her wand, her tongue touching the roof of her mouth, forming the sweet, agonizing jinx she was going to conjure, when his blue eyes forced her to halt.

Weasley was rolled up into a fetal position at the foot of her bed, his arms holding his knees up to his heaving chest, eyes forming an ocean around him.

The way she said his name, low and careful, scared and nervous, sounded foreign to even her own ears that she turned to look behind her shoulder to see if anyone else was there.

"Go," he murmured, body shaking. "Just go."

Salazar, Pansy wanted to, she truly did—she was not good with this feelings thing seeing as she had never comforted anyone in her life, not even Daphne Greengrass after her horrible breakup with Zabini, and Daphne was the closest thing to a real girl friend she had.

But the fury simmering just below her skin recognized the agony he was spilling splashing against her ankles.

Weasley looked like how Pansy felt inside.

"Fucking hell," she hissed to herself, putting her arm down and shoving her wand inside the waistband of her skirt. She was trying to convince herself to just turn around, leaving the sacrificing of a Gryffindor for another full moon, but instead she found herself walking in his direction, slowly kneeling in front of him.

"Your life's a lie, right?" Her voice did that thing again, the careful murmur when speaking to him. His blue eyes blinked skeptically at her like he was unsure about the sound she was making, too, but they were both far more surprised at her hands reaching for his, gently pulling them from around his knees. "They said you won, but instead it feels like you've lost. Good people aren't supposed to die when fighting for what's right. They're supposed to be here with you, but instead you're this—you're what they left behind and you don't want any of it because this life doesn't fit right when they're gone."

Ron let himself be helped upright, but his hands shook under Pansy's. His lungs were barely pulling in enough air to keep him conscious, yet he managed to say, "It should've been me."

"Maybe," she told him, no snarky undertone or smirk, "but if it had, would he be right here, too, saying the same thing?"

"No," Ron mumbled, "Freds wasn't the type. He'd find a way to laugh again."

"Then why can't you?"

He had taken precautions not to cry in front of anyone since the night of the final battle. Mostly, Ron did it for his mum. She was so utterly devastated by the loss, wailing so loud every night that the silencing charms did not contain them, but she was more so distraught at the faces of her living children searching for answers in hers. George and Percy had been the worst; his mum barely knew how to keep George breathing, let alone how to stop Percy from drinking his liver away. Ron couldn't add to it so he stopped crying.

Then the rage came.

It devoured all that was good and he stood by, watching it all happen without any intention to stop it.

"You don't think you deserve to be alive, right? He was better than you—not in superficial ways, but in here."

Ron moved his hand toward Pansy's, fingers wrapping over her wrist when her palm lands on his chest, just on top of his heart. His reflex was to remove it, recoil from the touch of a Slytherin, Pureblood, Death Eater—but instead he held on, bringing his other hand to keep her in place.

She was surprised by the action and reaction, dark eyes blinking down to their joined hands like it was the greatest mystery to ever befall her.

"My grandparents," she muttered, slowly bringing her free hand up to his shoulder. He stiffened at the touch and she swallowed a knot when he leaned a millimeter in. "Dolohov murdered them by order of the Dark Lord. Grandfather did not want to give up our family home to Death Eaters, not after a few of them tried to break into my bedroom and..."

Ron squeezed her hand when she trailed off, a glisten of her own taking over her dark eyes.

"Father would have given me to them if it meant pleasing the Dark Lord, but my grandparents died making sure it wouldn't happen. To the end, they loved me more than anyone else in my family loved me."

"How do you live with it?" he asked. "The pain? Because I can't fucking breathe most of the time, let alone care about anything."

"You find a way," Pansy said, every word clear and crisp, "because that's the only option."

"I can't—"

"You can," she hissed, the hand on his shoulder snaking up to the back of his neck to bring him forward so he could better see the thou-shall-not-cross-me glint in her eyes. "You have to."

"But what if I can't—"

"Then I'll be there to kick your arse, Ronald Weasley—and believe me, you know I would never squander an opportunity to physically maim you in any way possible. It's on my list of things to do every school term, that and convincing Moaning Myrtle she's haunted."

Ron did not know why he let Pansy in to the dark, lonely place Hermione had been knocking on every day since the final battle. He had loved her with every fiber of his being since they were children, but she was one of the many things he had given over to his rage. He figured when he was ready to live again, that he would open up his heart and find his feelings for Hermione would be there, intact and ready to pick up where they left off, but he only found shadows of it.

Hermione deserved more than shadows. Ron knew that; and, yes, he had thought of letting her in again, but Fred had once warned him against screwing up on Hermione during his Fourth Year when Krum was hanging about, eager to pop his big, pumpkin head in wherever she was to catch her attention. Fred had told him if he was not ready to love someone properly, let alone Hermione, then he needed to back off.

And Ron did.

After all, Hermione was looking for a version of himself that had died alongside Fred.

"Weasley?"

"Yeah?" Ron blinked up from their joined hands to find that Pansy had somehow slithered her wand out and had it pointed against his chin.

"You owe me a microwave."

Ron threw his head back against the bed frame. "My dad has like ten in his garage."

"What the hell is a garage? And no, I want a new one, not a hand-me-down."

"Slughorn's wasn't new."

"I don't care!"

Ron closed his eyes, letting out a loud groan, but he was still blatantly aware of their fingers slowly intertwining over his chest and her thumb rubbing a circle on the back of his neck.

"Come on in, cara mia," said Blaise as he opened the chamber door, allowing Cho to enter first. "Please make yourself at home."

Sat in an armchair with a handmade quilt over her lap that her grandmother had made her when she was a child, Hermione looked up from her book at the intrusion. "What are you doing, Zabini? I told you, you're not welcomed here after curfew hours."

"This is horrible hospitality, Granger," he countered, taking Cho's hand and leading her to the open couch. "If you were to visit our headquarters, you'd find us greeting you with tea and biscuits."

"If I were to go to your chamber, Zabini, it'd be to murder you."

With emerald eyes growing wide at the lack of mirth in Hermione's face, Blaise shouted, "Draco, your woman's threatening me again!"

Hermione almost bared her teeth at Blaise, but Cho put a hand on her shoulder. "Sorry," her voice was low and uncertain, like if she still did not know if Hermione liked her at all. "Zabini's been trying to make up for you know—"

"Being Zabini?"

Cho nodded with the right corner of her mouth almost pulling up into a smirk, yet her dark eyes were narrowed at her betrothed removing his House scarf. "He said he planned a double date with Malfoy."

"Date?" Hermione repeated, a frown starting to form between her brows just as Draco walked out of their shared bedroom with a cardboard box in his arms. "Malfoy, what's this about a double date? Zabini better be referring to you and Goyle."

Draco rolled his eyes as he settled the box on the coffee table. "Can't you just live a little, Granger? It honestly won't kill you."

"No, but you might," she bit back, causing Cho to look over at Blaise. He was grinning wide at the slow stare-down between Hermione and Draco.

"Maybe we should go," said Cho, reaching over to pinch Blaise on the elbow, already growing annoyed that he was not the least bit uncomfortable with the violent tension between the other engaged couple. "It is past our curfew."

"What? No," groaned Blaise, now frowning at Hermione, too. "You see what you're doing, Granger? You're ruining my marriage already!"

Hermione turned her glare at him. "Trust me, Zabini, you would have managed to do that all on your own, anyway."

Blaise let out a loud, fake burst of laughter. "Oh, Granger, I forgot you were The Funniest Witch of the Age."

"Look," Draco cut across his friend before he and Hermione decided to lunge at each other, "I'm trying to be amicable here, remember? Yes, we are harboring these two past curfew hours, but that's because Zabini and I wanted to do something nice for you two."

He reached into the cardboard box and pulled out something that looked really familiar to Hermione, but odd to the other two. It made her stand from her place, jaw threatening to fall open in unexpected surprise.

"Where'd you get these?" she asked, peering into the box. There were video cassettes in there, all with titles she recognized.

"I owled Arthur Weasley," said Draco, smirking at how fast she snapped her neck to look at him. "Yeah, I imagine that was the same reaction he must've had when he got my note."

"Why?"

He pointed to the corner of the living room where a television set sat on top of a pile of Hermione's old textbooks. She had not noticed it before, but she knew where it came from. Slughorn. A part of her wanted to point out yet again that Hogwarts does not run with electricity, but she bit down on her tongue and moved closer to Draco.

With her body almost pressed to the side of his, Hermione murmured, "I'm sorry."

At her words, Draco looked almost as surprised as she had been when she peered into the cardboard box. It took him a moment to process it, but when he did he said, "I know it's difficult, okay? This betrothal isn't ideal, Granger, but it is happening—we've established this multiple times already. I don't want to live the rest of my life hating my home. Do you?"

Slowly, Hermione moved fingertips up his forearm, wrapping them gently around his elbow. His silver eyes followed the trail, and she could swear he held his breath.

The odd, soft second of understanding was shattered when Blaise fell by their feet, forcing them apart.

"Zabini," hissed Draco, now taking several steps away from Hermione. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Me? Nothing. Just checking for dust," he said, springing back up on his feet. He extended his left arm out to Hermione, gesturing to it with his right. "Look at the state of my sleeve, Granger. What kind of housewife are you going to be if you—"

With a nonverbal and just a blink of her eyes, Hermione sent her book flying off the armchair she had previously been sat on straight into Blaise's face.

"Fuck sakes!" yelped Blaise, pushing his palms to his face. "Never the face, Granger! I model in Italy!"

"Call me a housewife again, Zabini, and you'll have no face!"

With his words still muffled behind his hands, Blaise turned to Cho. "Are you going to defend my honor?"

"No," Cho laughed, moving him aside so she could peer into the box. As she started rummaging through the odd trinkets Malfoy had acquired for their evening in, she added, "Just so you know, in this marriage, if anyone is going to be the housewife, it'll be you."

Hermione was trying hard to ignore Draco's fingertips touching her shoulder blade. Granted, she did not think he was doing it on purpose—no matter how much he claimed he wanted to keep things civil, not touching was an unspoken rule that was established the moment the sorting hat had paired them together. Smart as she was, Hermione knew it was only happening because Draco had tossed and fidgeted twenty times trying to find a comfortable position from where he could see the telly properly. She couldn't blame him; she was not particularly comfortable either. She had to transfigure their armchair into a wide enough couch for them to sit after Cho and Blaise had claimed the entirety of their actual one, making both Hermione and Draco blatantly aware of the few centimeters of space between them. Naturally, after an hour and something of being completely stiff and locked in one place, one of them was bound to move, crossing that small distance keeping them apart.

He had thrown his arm around the back of her and Hermione had held her breath, a frown starting to settle between her brows at the ridiculous move she had seen in countless Rom-Com films. After a few minutes, his arm never fell around her shoulders and she was fine. That is until hand started to slowly slip from where he was resting his arm and his fingertips graced the area between her neck and shoulder.

She wondered if Draco felt her shiver when it first happened.

She wondered if they could all hear he struggling to catch her breath every time his skin caressed hers.

They didn't; Hermione knew that, too, because it was all in her head. Draco had not spared a glance at her throughout the entire movie, and Blaise and Cho were too enraptured on the screen of the telly to notice anything that happened outside of it. Wrapped in Hermione's quilt that Blaise had snatched from her own lap, the soon-to-be Zabinis were a tangle of limbs as they inched closer and closer to the telly.

"I love you, Jack," said Rose, the character in the film, as she clung to a chunk of wood floating in the dark, freezing ocean.

Just as Rose clutched on to what was keeping her alive, Jack gripped her hand in the same manner. Almost blue like the unforgiving ocean he was slowly sinking into, he trembled at the coldness. "Don't do that. Don't you say your goodbyes."

"I'm so cold."

"Listen, Rose," Jack said, "you're gonna get out of here. You're gonna go on and make lots of babies and you're gonna watch them grow. You're gonna die an old...an old lady warm in her bed, but not here. Not this night. Not like this, do you understand me?"

"I can't feel my body."

"Winning that ticket, Rose, was the best thing that ever happened to me... it brought me to you. And I'm thankful for that, Rose. I'm thankful. You must do me this honor, Rose. Promise me you'll survive. That you won't give up, no matter what happens, no matter how hopeless. Promise me now, Rose, and never let go of that promise."

Draco's arm finally wrapped around her shoulder—Hermione felt her heart stop, oxygen catching in her lungs the way Rose and Jack were experiencing in Titanic. She told herself not to, but stubborn as she was, she looked up at him, trying to find a reason for this, but that was when he used the hand that had been touching her shoulder to cover his mouth, muffling a yawn.

"I promise," said Rose.

"Never let go."

"I'll never let go. I'll never let go, Jack. "

A sob broke out in the living room.

"Oh, for fuck sakes," Draco said after another yawn, cringing at Blaise's sudden loud noise. "Pull yourself together, mate."

"Don't you say that to me, you heartless fucker," returned Blaise, shaking his head as Cho wiped tears off his cheeks with the corner of Hermione's quilt. "She's going to die! He's going to die! Everyone's going to die!"

On the screen, lifeboats were leaving. Frozen, drowning bodies behind them lost in the darkness of the ocean.

"Don't let go, Rose! You promised!"

"Come here," sighed Cho, pulling Blaise into her arms.

"Salazar," huffed Draco, his arm sliding down from Hermione's shoulders to wrap around her waist. "Let's go to bed, Granger. He's going to spend the rest of the night sobbing—and that's Chang's problem."

Hermione looked down at how his fingers gently squeezed, his pinky laying flat against the small patch of flesh that peeked out from where her t-shirt had lifted. "Who knew he was so sensitive?" she found herself muttering, letting him steer her in the direction of their bedroom.

"He's Italian," said Draco as the crossed in, the door closing behind them, letting only the light from the telly seep in from the bottom. He pulled his arm from around her, moving to the side of the bed she had claimed as her own to pull back the sheets. "You would never guess it because he's a total twat, but it's—"

"Just a coping mechanism?" murmured Hermione when his hand stretched out to her, signaling for her to join him to where he was. Draco almost put it down when she looked at it like it was the last thing she would ever touch, but she reached out, carefully putting her fingers into his open palm.

She watched as he walked over to his side of the bed. A part of her wanted to fight him again, tell him that she wanted him to sleep on the floor, in the living room, any place that was not beside her, but there was also a part of her that was unbothered by the way he slipped in, turning to his right side to look at her.