A Forbidden Birthright

Chapter Fifteen

Hermione didn't say Bellatrix Lestrange's name. She didn't need to. He knew to whom she was referring.

She had long fought with guilt of her own over the happenings of that day. She had been wordlessly grateful, as they all had been, that Draco had bought them more time by lying to his aunt and refusing to confirm if Harry was Voldemort's great rival. The Boy Who Lived. What she struggled with was why he had chosen to save Harry and not her. Harry Potter, who he hated. And yet had chosen to remain silent, cowering and quivering in fear while Hermione had writhed on the floor in unfathomable pain at the hands of Bellatrix.

She had tried fighting off the twinge of resentment she'd felt, a feeling she'd assumed would eventually fade but never had. If anything, it had only grown, a knot that blocked her throat, drowning her in unshed tears. Because of his hesitation, Draco had saved their lives, had saved Harry's. But had still chosen him over her, and it had made Hermione feel like nothing at all. Like Draco really did believe she was less than him, beneath him.

And then there were the little whispers in the back of her mind that undermined her hatred of Draco, her blame of him.

That it was all her fault. Even Dobby's death. It was she who had apparated them back to the forest where the snatchers were. It was here split-second decision- and it had been the wrong one. Her quick thinking in casting the stinging jinx had bought them mere minutes. If only she had thought faster, been smarter, maybe they could have escaped. Maybe she never would have been tortured. If only she had been more clever, Dobby never would have had to come and rescue them. Only to get a knife in the gut.

Everything was so heavy all the time. Her own mind was sometimes unbearable, its weight bearing down on her like a millstone.

But her anger was concentrated on Draco, right now. Not herself. And bloody hell, did it feel good to take it out on someone else.

Draco leaned forward in his chair, his face coming fully into the glowing light of the dying fire, the rest of him still swathed in shadows. His jaw was clenched, and his previously glazed eyes sharpened as they looked at her. His stare was piercing, driven. It burned like a cold fire. But Hermione did not flinch.

No, she had conquered too much in her life to flinch away from a Malfoy. She had traversed Europe in search of Horcruxes', she had been tortured, she had fought in a historical war against the Dark Lord. And she had survived.

This was her house. And she would not allow herself to cower in it.

She kept her face steady, shifting it into an expression of defiance and challenge.

They regarded each other in taught silence. The embers crackled faintly, a gentle snapping unheard by them both. He finally said, through white teeth, "Are you a legilimens?"

She blinked. "No," she said, blinking in confusion and then caught herself.

"Then who are you, Hermione Granger, to determine what it is I think? What it is I feel? Are you omniscient?" He grew louder with each word, biting them out. He rose slowly from his chair and strode across the room, each step as silent as a snake in the grass. She straightened, tilting her neck to look up at him. But as he placed a hand on either arm of the chair she sat in and leaned down, she was forced to sink against the chairback. "Do not mock yourself," he said with a dangerous quiet, "and pretend that you know what it is that I feel guilty over."

"Do you deny it?" Hermione hissed. "Do you deny being a coward?"

His grip tightened on the chair, knuckles whitening. Instead of snapping at her like she expected, his grip suddenly relaxed and he said, "I've overstayed my welcome."