A/N: So this is it, this is the end. I'm sorry that it took six years to actually finish, but I'm so grateful to everyone who's read this and for all the kind reviews. Since you've just read my writing over the span of both my high school and college graduations, and I now officially have a BA in English, I would love to hear your opinions on the story, the style, whether it was (hopefully) improved by the end, etc. I'd sort of like to be a YA writer someday, so if you've also got an opinion on the likelihood of that happening, share away.

Another A/N: This story is, obviously, a fiction, and I've taken some liberties with Draco's character. While, given time, Draco Malfoy may have grown up into a better person than he was in the books, and perhaps become the "sarcastic and critical, but awkward and ultimately sweet" sort of person he became here in my story, this isn't always the case. The person that you choose to be with should treat you with respect and kindness, and never be physically or mentally abusive. That is not okay, and it will never be okay. You are special, and your love is precious, and you deserve to be with someone who makes you feel happy and safe. This is such a mom thing to say, but I'm so serious.

And the last cheesy A/N, promise: A great big thank-you to you for reading, to JK for writing my favorite book, and to my friend for accosting me into writing again. Happy reading!

Chapter 22: Parting Glances

…

As the next day was Sunday, Draco spent the day working. Without Crabbe and Goyle to stand guard, he jumped at every little sound that echoed from the hallway, but the afternoon went undisturbed.

Since the apple he had been using to test the cabinet had suddenly rotted, he replaced it with a deflated quaffle he'd found in a pile of old broomsticks. By the time purple twilight began to creep across the bits of sky visible through the dusty windowpanes, he'd actually managed to send it through the cabinet, followed by three hideous hats and a stuffed fwooper (or, made them disappear, at any rate; he'd have to send an owl to Borgin to ask if anything odd had turned up in his shop lately). Feeling that he had made satisfactory progress, he wrapped a thick chain around the big black vanishing cabinet and padlocked it.

Searching around in his pocket for the key, he pulled out a squashed half of a sandwich. He gave it a hesitant sniff, then sneezed as the scent of pepper assaulted him. He hated pepper. He sneezed again. And while the green stuff might well have been mold, it certainly looked like lettuce, and Draco had a very firm no-green-foods-no-thank-you policy when it came to sandwiches.

Draco was becoming highly curious about what he had done Friday night, and was developing the feeling that he was forgetting something extremely important.

That was in addition to, of course, the last few months of his life. It was as if someone had ripped out a few calendar pages from his memory, just to mess with him.

Shoving the sandwich between the teeth of a smiling bronze lion, he left the room.

…

He caught up with Crabbe and Goyle somewhere between their second and third pork chops. When he sat across from them warily, they looked up, grunted in unison, and then went back to smearing butter on their potatoes. He took this as a good sign, and didn't press them with conversation.

Instead, he picked at a dinner roll and looked around the Great Hall. The other Slytherins seemed to be ignoring him, but there was a lot of whispering going on that probably concerned him. Some of the Gryffindors also seemed to be glancing his way more frequently than usual, and Potter was watching him thoughtfully. Thoughtfully, not with the usual hatred, and that annoyed Draco more for some reason. Draco gave a sidelong look at the head table, where, unsurprisingly, McGonagall and Dumbledore were both muttering and pointing at him, but chose to make an obscene gesture at Potter anyway. He then decided to keep his eyes to himself, and started piling mashed potatoes onto his plate.

By the time dessert appeared on the table, Draco was telling Crabbe and Goyle a bawdy joke he'd once heard from Walden Macnair about three French witches and a quidditch referee, and the dynamic had almost settled into normalcy.

As Draco got up from the table, Pansy Parkinson yelled something at him that he didn't quite hear. She was snickering openly with Millicent Bulstrode, so he assumed it was an attempt at insult. He was composing a suitably cruel reply, when Goyle stepped towards the pair of girls and boomed, "He doesn't need no mmmrferpler, he's got us. And you're just jealous because he'd rather be with a damn flarpflurmern than with a pig-faced dolt like you."

Pansy looked more wounded than she would have if Goyle had actually punched her in the eye, and quickly pulled Millicent away from them with a hissed, "Can you believe them?"

Draco was viciously rubbing his palm into his left ear, wondering what Madame Pomfrey would do if he told her he was losing his hearing, but only sometimes, and also it sounded like people were calling him a prat far more often than they usually did. He jumped a little when Crabbe and Goyle each slung a massive arm over his shoulder and marched him protectively out of the hall. Despite being jostled to the point of pain between their muscly bodies, Draco chuckled appreciatively. At least something was back to normal.

…

Hermione was sitting on the edge of the armchair closest to the fireplace, gazing listlessly at the unlit ashen logs when Harry and Ron returned from dinner.

"We brought you back a lemon tart, since they're your favorite," Ron said quietly, as though if he spoke too loudly he might startle her into a breakdown.

"Thanks, Ron. That was very sweet," she said evenly, and took the tart from him.

"We saw Draco," Harry said. "It looks like he made up with Crabbe and Goyle."

"And I think your spell worked. Earlier, I yelled at him, 'You're a prat. You dated Hermione,' and all he said was, 'Don't repeat yourself, Weasley, you sound like that broken record your mum puts on while we're shagging,'" Ron said helpfully.

"That was… reckless, but thanks." Hermione sighed.

Even though she was miserable, she couldn't help but be pleased with her own cleverness. After a few hours of fiddling and a few failed attempts that resulted in Harry being partially deaf for several hours, she had managed to combine the principles of taboo magic with the muffliato spell and a few others to ensure that no one could talk to Draco about the time he'd spent with her. Every time anyone mentioned the two of them, or her name in that context, their words would be muffled and blurred, and ring vaguely of "You're a prat."

The last part had been Harry's suggestion, and though she felt bad about it, she knew it would deter him from getting people to repeat what they'd said, or asking questions that might get around the spell's magic. Once she had worked out the finer details, it was a simple matter of creeping back down to the common room to cast it. Draco had still been out cold, and once it was done, Hermione didn't allow herself to linger. Though Harry had offered, she didn't trust anyone but herself to do it.

The two boys sat down on either side of her, rather closer than they normally would have. Harry took her hand and gave it a little squeeze, and Ron patted her awkwardly on the back.

"Are you… okay?" Ron asked, aware that the question was stupid but that it needed to be asked anyway.

"I'm fine, I really am. It's for the best, isn't it?" She smiled thinly. "It… it couldn't last."

…

Draco was lounging in his favorite spot beneath a willow tree, drifting in and out of sleep as he watched the long, supple branches swaying gracefully in the breeze, like dancers caught in a fine waltz. A spider (or something with many tickly legs, at any rate) started to make a mad dash up his ankle. Reflexively, he jerked his leg back and smacked at the hem of his pant leg, suddenly very awake. In doing so, he knocked his backpack over, and a thick paper bag toppled out of it with a squelch and began leaking dark red liquid onto the twining tree roots.

Draco hastily righted the bag and cleaned up the blood with a muttered spell. He picked himself up, dusted off his robes, and carefully settled the package back into his backpack. Nice as the shady nook was, and as pleasant the light wind that smelled of grass and algae and azaleas, the altercation with the spider had made him paranoid and itchy. Plus, having a bag of raw meat scraps sitting quietly next to him was really starting to freak him out.

He had decided that his spontaneous memory loss and bouts of selective deafness were the result of an amount of stress that was rather more than people his age usually had to deal with. Presumably his brain had just started throwing out useless things, like memories of several probably boring winter months, to make room for more practical information. Whether that was true or not, it seemed to be settling down now, and Draco was happy to put it behind him. In fact, in the interest of preventing any further neurological shenanigans, he had set aside a block of time today for stress-busting activities. Having already spent some time flying an improvised obstacle course around the astronomy tower and then zoning out by the lake, he was about to make a trip to the Forbidden Forest to visit Bella.

He was taking a last look at the surface of the lake before turning towards the shadowed forest, the water effortlessly reflecting the pristine blue of the sky and the shimmering warmth of the afternoon sun, when a twig snapped underfoot somewhere beyond the curtain of willow.

Slim fingers slipped through the branches, parting them easily, and then Hermione stepped through the gap into the domed alcove. She froze when she saw him, then took a step backwards. Some of the tiny willow leaves tangled in her unruly brown hair.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think anyone was out here. I'll just-"

"Don't go on my account," Draco interrupted smoothly, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I was just leaving."

Hermione faltered, clutching her schoolbooks to her chest. "Oh… alright… thank you."

Draco tipped an invisible hat to her, in a way that was only mostly mocking, and went to leave. As he passed by her, Hermione's eyes met his for just a moment, and she smiled. It was warm, personal, familiar. Puzzled, Draco turned his head to glance over his shoulder, but she did not look back at him. Then, the willow branches closed behind him, and she was gone.

Draco hitched his backpack up on his shoulder and turned towards the waiting gloom of the forest. As he passed into the cool shadow of the nearest pines, he felt the tiniest trace of a smile pulling at his lips, almost like a memory he thought had been lost.