Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
The Watcher
He watched her fade away. With every death she shrank into herself. With every drop of blood, every scream of pain, she moved away from the world. A stranger might think she was thriving. Lauded for her cool head, her ruthless decision making, and her ability to make anyone follow her lead, Hermione Granger became a fierce warrior. If she fought, she won. Pressure made her faster, pain made her stronger. But Draco knew better. He knew she weighed victory in terms of lives saved, and considered herself a failure. He watched her. He watched as her cheeks thinned. Her brow creased. Her laughter turned brittle and cold.
He did not squeeze her hand, or smooth her brow, or cup her shoulders, or wrap himself around her. He watched her. He did not soothe her with words of appreciation, of approbation. He did not join her admirers and sing songs of her exploits. He just watched. He stood next to her, sometimes behind her, as she fought. He met her eyes across a battlefield and expressed his devotion with a smirk, a wink, a shrug.
He watched her across the flames of Longbottom's funeral pyre. It was one of nine funeral fires they had lit that night. The fifty or so mourners milled around, talking quietly, weeping, drinking. She stood alone in front of her friend's body, watching his skin curl and blacken and fade away. There was a space around her. They were afraid of her pain. And they should be afraid. The air around her body vibrated. The few tears tracking down her face were glowing. Her normally frizzy hair crackled with energy.
When the fires were ash, and the last person retired inside, she walked into the trees. And he followed her.
Furious eyes snapped to his when she felt his hand, the bottle cap she had been holding now pressed between their palms. He raised an eyebrow.
Did you honestly think I'd let you go alone?
He watched her eyes close in resignation before they were yanked away together. It took a few hours to walk to the enemy encampment, and in that time, they didn't speak. Draco walked a step behind her, unwilling to get in her way and having a hard time keeping up with her even striding on his longer legs.
The slaughter was over quickly. The small encampment had mediocre wards and no sentries, never expecting a frontal assault, especially in the form of a small woman and all her fury. The surprise on the face of the first soldier was almost comical, his mouth open wide, until his teeth were shattered and his skull in pieces. The rest followed one, sometimes two, sometimes four at a time as she cut her way through them like a shark through water.
She fought as if it were her last battle, and he realized that she had planned it thusly. It took a few minutes for him to understand. She was giving up. He was witness to her surrender. With ever hex, every curse spun from the top of her wand like a web of pain, she was courting Death. Draco stood back and let her do what she did best, only intervening when she was in imminent danger. He did his part to keep her alive as she did her best to die.
In less than half an hour, she stood surrounded by twenty-six bodies, her person splattered with blood. Some of it was hers. Her face was thunderous as she silently accused him of thwarting her purpose, her eyes sparking and her chest heaving. He lifted his eyebrow again.
You didn't honestly think I'd let you get killed?
She looked up at him, drawing close and baring her teeth in a strange semblance of a smile. There was a beautiful spray of crimson across her cheek. When their mouths met, she tasted of blood and ashes and fire. Her clothing stuck to her body from all the sweat and gore, but he ripped it away from her roughly, lowering her to the ground amongst her conquests.
He held her desperately, silently pleading with her to stay alive even though her heart was dying. He needed her. He needed her eyes and her voice and her magic swirling around a battlefield. Her lashes were damp with grief as her worshipped her body; he licked away the salt and bitter and sour coating her skin. She clutched at him, breathing her encouragement in his ear.
"Don't go where I can't follow," he begged her.
She didn't reply, but pressed her body into him as if he could hold the pieces of her together. He would do his best, he knew, and keep her as long as he could. He watched as she dressed in the tatters of her clothing and walked away, looking over her shoulder at him just before she disappeared.