With a soft whisper of lumos, the bathroom of a corner room in a tiny inn nestled amongst the rocks and trees on the seaside suddenly illuminates in a quiet, silver glow.
Hermione stirs as the faint drizzle turns into a downpour, raindrops pinging off the slate roof in a pattern that could mean anything from escaped dementors to a natural weather system. A shiver runs down her spine and she sleepily rolls over, searching for the heat and comfort of his arms. All she finds are crumpled, cooling sheets. She wakes up fully, then, and sits up, drawing the blankets around her chest. Clouds cover the full moon, but the thin band of silver from the bathroom door casts enough light for her to scan the room and find it empty.
She slides out of bed and takes the blanket with her, wrapping it around her body as she walks over the creaky wooden floor. Her quiet knock on the bathroom door doesn't receive a response, so she turns the knob and steps inside.
He's packing, badly.
"Draco," she whispers, though she knows that nothing can change his mind. She isn't sure she'd want to. She's read the papers and the reports and it's only because she's deep in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that she has enough information to keep him one step ahead of the authorities.
"I was thinking about America," his voice is quiet and measured, like he's spent the past twenty minutes practicing those five words.
She blinks in the muted glow of his wand, glad that his back is to her. "That makes sense," she says after a moment, "they'll have more trouble finding you there." What she really wants to say is no, stay, we can work this out, I know we can. She trails a finger down his bare spine, smooth skin over ridged bone, and he stiffens, drops the pair of socks he was holding. She slides her hand across the elastic of his boxers and up to his shoulder, encouraging him to straighten and turn, to look at her.
"Hermione." He gently cups her face with both hands and brushes his thumb across her cheek, wiping away a stray tear he's not sure she noticed fall.
She shivers. Her name slides off his tongue like liquid gold and she can count on one hand the number of times he's said her first name. "Don't go," she breathes, and she means it.
Draco rests his forehead against hers and closes his eyes, hears nothing but the quiet intake of breath and the rain outside. He pushes the blanket off her shoulders and the fabric whispers as it falls to the floor. She takes the half-step toward him and he wraps his arms tight around her, holding her to him, memorizing the feel of her skin against his. "I'm coming back," he promises, saying the words aloud as much for her as for himself.
She nods and nestles her head in the hollow of his shoulder. She reaches to the counter and picks up his wand. It's never worked as well for her as it does for him, but she doesn't need it to do much. All she needs it to do is pack the suitcase for him. "Nox," she whispers once the shirts and trousers are neatly folded and packed away and the mismatched socks are matched again and stuck in corners and pockets. The tiny bathroom goes dark.
Hermione steps back and catches his hand. His long fingers tangle loosely with hers and she leads him back to the bed.
He doesn't have to leave until morning.