They were a foreign concept to Draco, perhaps because they were always broken. It was a risk, trusting her. He wanted to, so badly, to trust her. But trusting Hermione meant letting go of that last little shred of himself, the strong, resilient piece that got him through long nights alone at the manor. Nights where he faced the end of the dark hallway that led to the drawing room, staring into the open doorway at the rafters above. It was these nights he held a half-drunk whiskey bottle in his hand while rifling through potion stores with the other, looking for something stronger than draught of the living death. Because if he trusted her, and she left too, then he wouldn’t have anything left. That little piece of himself that he didn’t quite understand, the one that anchored his soul to the earth and reassured him that he was worth it, she’d take it. Pack it up along with everything else and leave him back in that empty manor. Then that piece, well, it wouldn’t be there to convince him to stay anymore, would it? 