"I'm sorry," he says to her again, in a hoarse, broken voice that is unrecognisable as his, his tongue thick and dry in his mouth and his lips cracked to bleeding. Saying sorry comes easily now, in a way that it never used to – although each time he speaks it, it still rips the guts out of him. Draco just welcomes that feeling now instead of hating it and flinching from it. He deserves to hurt, he deserves to be sorry. She doesn't, Hermione doesn't, and yet here she is. With him. Together. And he can never be sorry enough for that. He says it again and squeezes her fingers, but she doesn't squeeze back. He doesn't know if she's just sleeping or – or – and senseless panic seizes him in a vice and he can't breathe himself until he finds her chest with his shaking hand and feels the shallow rise and fall of it as she breathes.