And fuck it was like home and perfection, and Hermione, because that was what she was to him, and everything washed away but her. He was anchored to her, tied to her, and she was the only person in the world that Draco would do absolutely anything for. It hit him like a brick to the face. Shit, he loved her and he couldn't stop; he wouldn't stop. It would be like trying to force himself to cut off his other hand. And yet it wouldn't last. Sooner or later, it would all come to an end, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. That hurt. That hurt like nothing else.