It was over. The plan, it was complete. I should have felt pleased, but instead a deep sadness had settled into my heart. The heavy burden followed me everywhere. I felt as though I single handedly passed the world into a never ending evil. Was it the right thing? What would Hermione—Hermione. I was nearly brought to tears just thinking about her. I thought about how she trusted me, and how I betrayed her. I thought of all the secrets I was sharing with her: the Sorcerer’s Stone, that it was never destroyed, and where it was hidden. Last of all, I thought about how much she loved me, and how much she would hurt to know the truth. Just thinking about all the awful things I had done to her filled my eyes with tears of hidden anger. Anger towards myself.
Was this what love felt like? Wanting to ruin your whole life just to give that one special person one ray of light in a dark world? Wanting to sacrifice all means of time so that you could possibly be together?
I didn’t know. How could I when no one had ever loved me as Hermione had, and when I had never loved someone before.
* * * * * * * * * * *
The weeks continued on, turning into months. Even though there was no need to stay with Hermione, I couldn’t leave her. Every night, I was drawn by an invisible force to see her in the empty classroom. During the day, I longed to hold her until the world crumbled beneath my feet. I didn’t realize how much this plan had changed me. Somehow, a plan of evil turned my cold heart into a caring and loving soul.
That night, I ran carelessly up to the Transfiguration classroom, not caring if I was caught. I was driven by my heart that was twisting with guilt. I wanted to tell her, I needed to tell her, yet, I knew I would not have the heart to tell her what I had done.
As soon as she arrived in the dark room, I kissed her deeply, wanting her to know how much I cared for her, and what I had done to her without saying a word.
“I love you,” I whispered to her, “Hermione, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you—“ And for the first time that I had ever said those words, I truly meant what I said.
When I looked into her eyes, I saw fear. Her cheeks glistened from freshly fallen tears in the moonlight.
“Hermione,” I asked, “What’s wrong?” She stood shaking in my arms. I was overcome with worry. “Hermione,” I asked more firmly, “What’s happened?”
“Oh Draco,” she breathed, “Dumbledore just told me-he told me that You-Know-Who was coming back. He said he struck a town a small town in Northern Britain, and that he’s moving closer to London.”
“Hermione,” I soothed, “It’s okay, everyone will get through this together. The Ministry-“
“No Draco, you don’t understand.” She said, shaking her head. “My parents live in London. What if he’s-“
“Hermione,” I replied more firmly that I should have, “How could he know that the Sorcerer’s Stone is in London? You don’t know that’s where he is headed. For all we know he could be—“
But I couldn’t continue. The guilt I felt had risen to such a height that tears were springing to my eyes and rolling down my cheeks. I drew Hermione into my arms. I could feel her trembling in my embrace.
But the truth was I was trembling too.
What had I done?
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