A/N: I can't believe it's been a whole year since I published anything here! Real life... well, let's just say real life has not had me inspired lately. I'm slowly regaining my love of writing, and I did enjoy writing this, so I'm looking forward to putting out some longer stories in the near future. I've not forgotten my promised multi-chapter slow-burner, Blinded, I swear!
In the meantime, here is something a little shorter: my entry to this year's DramioneLove Mini Fest, held on LiveJournal.
Like last year, the world limit was 2,500 words, but this time, the prompts all revolved around Alice in Wonderland. My prompt was #36: "Off with her head!" - Voldemort has decided to make a public spectacle of Hermione's beheading. Initially, I was planning on making this a lot darker, but it turns out I'm just an old romantic at heart!
Because of the tight word restriction, I'm aware it's rather fast-paced. I know it's not perfect, but I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out. I hope you will be too.
Warnings: Strong profanity, sex, war and implied past torture
Disclaimer: As always, nothing belongs to me :(
-.-
Hermione stood alone on the scaffolding, her head held high.
The sky was grey, and her thin sweatshirt clung to her skin, ice-cold raindrops trickling down her back.
Her executioner approached from behind, tall and terrifying in dark robes and silver mask. Voldemort, it seemed, had a flair for the dramatic, and when she'd refused to talk, he'd lost his temper and ordered a public beheading.
When she didn't move, her executioner laid a hand on her shoulder. With surprising gentleness, he pushed her down until she knelt, chin resting on the crude wooden block.
Tears blurred her eyes, but she held still.
She heard the scrape of the sword. She saw its shadow fall over her. And then the ground fell away, and she tumbled into blackness.
-.-
"Granger!" Her would-be executioner caught her flailing arms. "Granger, wait!" She struggled harder, and he wrenched off the mask. "Stop fighting. It's me!"
She aimed a boot at his face.
"For fuck's sake, Granger." Draco Malfoy wrestled her easily to the ground and pinned her with hands either side of her head. "I'm not going to hurt you, idiot."
She stared up at him, panting. Everything in her screamed not to trust him; he was a Death Eater, he was her enemy, he…
He'd just saved her life.
In any case, he was putting pressure on her wrist—snapped, healed, then snapped several times over amid cruel laughter—and she couldn't focus properly over the pain.
"Get off me," she croaked. His eyes narrowed briefly, but then he let her wriggle up and away across the floor.
They were, she realised, in a small wooden cabin. Thick curtains shut out most of the light, but the place clearly did not belong to Malfoy; there was an old-fashioned kitchenette, a bare light bulb, and a huge Muggle overcoat hanging by the door. The smell of forest hung in the air, and the floorboards were rough and gritty beneath her fingers.
"Where are we?"
Draco rubbed his jaw where she'd kicked him, expression inscrutable.
"Safe house."
"The Order's?"
Her heart sank as he shook his head.
"I… acquired it from a much obliging Muggle," he said, which told Hermione all she needed to know.
"You stole it," she said flatly, and he shrugged.
"War is war." His eyes moved to her wrist, held cradled to her chest. "Did I hurt your arm?"
"No," she said, just to be contrary. He stood, taller than she remembered, to offer her his hand.
"Come on. Let's see what we can do."
-.-
She didn't know why he'd saved her. He was a Death Eater. Feared. Powerful. Everything he'd ever wanted to be.
Long ago, she'd thought he wanted differently. As the first rumblings of war reached the steps of Hogwarts. As the world spiralled into chaos, and the adults made them pick their sides.
But his family were Voldemort's most loyal servants, and, in the end, he'd chosen the path of least resistance.
Until now.
"You left," she whispered.
His eyes flickered up from where he was binding her wrist. He looked much the same—blond hair, aristocratic features, eyes so pale they glowed—but war had hardened him.
"Yes."
"For good?"
His eyebrows lifted.
"The Dark Lord wouldn't exactly welcome me back with open arms, would he?"
She supposed he was right.
"The Order can help—"
"The Order will do fuck all, and you know it." He tied off her bandage. "No, the Order won't do a damn thing, not unless I have leverage."
Hermione's gaze snapped to his, and he smiled. Not very nicely.
"Which is why I have you."
-.-
"You're not a prisoner. Leave right now if you wish."
Right. Hunted by Death Eaters, wandless and with no idea where she was.
"I can't." She glowered at him, pacing like a caged beast. "I'd barely make it a mile."
"So we're agreed."
"No, we're not bloody agreed! I want to go back to the Order."
"Why?" he challenged. "So they can send you on another suicide mission? So you can be tortured? Killed? No one came to rescue you this time."
"They would have if they could! And they didn't send me on that mission. I chose it!"
He slanted her a bland look.
"Then you're even stupider than I thought."
She inhaled, outraged, but a wave of exhaustion made her falter. Her legs gave out, and she hit the floor with a thud.
Draco appeared above her.
"Overextended ourselves, have we, love?"
"Fuck you," she snapped then squeaked as he swept her up and onto the bed.
"Get some rest, Granger. You can shout at me again tomorrow."
She'd rather shout now, but the room was spinning dangerously. She closed her eyes instead.
"Thank you," she murmured. Because he could claim leverage all he liked; he'd saved her life today, and she was allowed to be grateful for that.
Draco grunted and told her, tersely, to shut up and go to sleep, which she supposed was his way of saying you're welcome.
-.-
What Draco wanted, Hermione soon discovered, was to escape the country. For that, he needed an international portkey—a difficult find for anyone these days, let alone a Death Eater. Paranoid and descending deeper into lunacy, Voldemort watched them all like a hawk.
"It's the Order's problem now," he said with a shrug, and a problem it was proving to be, since it was now several weeks later, and they'd not yet secured it.
It was odd living with the enemy. They spent almost every waking moment together, and a good deal more besides, since there was just one bed and Draco wasn't gentlemanly enough to take the floor. Awkward, frustrated and, after all this time, still too easily overtired, Hermione was determined to be as difficult as possible, to which Draco of course responded with equal measures of unpleasantness.
Mostly, though, they had their routine. While she rested or read, Draco wrote. Obsessively. Page after page he filled, until she could hardly move without stepping on a map of Malfoy Manor or the convoluted Death Eater hierarchy.
"For Potter," he'd snapped one day when she asked why. "So he can end this bloody war once and for all."
He rarely slept, and when he did, it was restless and troubled. Often, she felt him jerk awake beside her, breathing hard, hands clenched in the sheets.
He held so much guilt. For a time, a dark part of her wanted him to.
But then, one day, he rolled up his sleeve—she saw that terrible skull and snake burnt indelibly into his arm—and everything changed.
He caught her look of revulsion and stiffened.
"You know what I am, Granger."
Hermione fought the rolling nausea. Every time she'd seen that mark, only pain followed.
"Was it you?" she choked out. "Did you torture me?"
She hadn't seen faces, only silver masks that haunted her nightmares.
"No," he said roughly.
"But you didn't stop it." She hadn't meant to sound so accusatory, but Draco flinched.
"No." His voice was hoarse, cracked at the edges. "I didn't stop any of it."
She looked down, blinking hard.
Voldemort had taken so many lives, and Draco had stood by all those years and done nothing.
Except… well, that wasn't quite true, was it?
"You stopped one thing," she whispered. A shiver ran through her as she remembered how she'd felt, knelt alone in the rain, and the memory pushed her forward a step.
His whole body tensed.
"It's not enough."
She looked up into his face and, for the first time, wished he didn't look like he could shatter into a thousand pieces.
The cage had been of his own making, but he'd been trapped for so long. He deserved a chance to be free.
"It feels enough for me," she said softly.
Her peace offering sparkled in the air between them. He said nothing, but she thought he slept a little better after that.
-.-
Another week passed, then another. Slowly, Hermione recovered her strength, but with no word from the Order, she and Draco had nowhere to go.
She knew she should hate him. For all he'd done before. For keeping her here, out of the fight.
But she found she couldn't.
-.-
"What the hell is this?!"
It was a particularly bleak afternoon. The rain lashed the windows and, confined to the cabin, Hermione sat cross-legged on the rug, leafing through Draco's notes.
Now, though, she leapt to her feet, scattering parchment all around.
"I don't know. I can't see," Draco said mildly.
"Death Eater informants," she read, a sick feeling knotting in her gut. There were people on this list she knew, people she trusted.
She strode across the room and shoved her feet into borrowed wellies.
"I need to get this to Harry. Now."
Draco stared at her, incredulous.
"Are you out of your mind?"
"Lives are at stake, Malfoy!" She grabbed a coat and made for the door. "These people could betray us at any moment."
"Oh, for goodness…" He blocked the door with his much bigger body. "You don't even have a wand."
Hermione didn't care.
"Get out of my way."
He glared at her, unyielding.
"You're not going anywhere, Granger. You might as well reconcile yourself to the fact."
The truth of it hit her like a slap. She stepped back, shaken, as if he'd truly struck her.
"I… I really am a prisoner, aren't I?"
"No," he bit out.
"Then let me leave."
For a moment, she thought he might. He was tense, coiled so tightly she feared he might explode. But then he just shook his head.
"I can't."
Disappointment seeped through her. She'd known all along he'd saved her for the portkey. But these last few weeks, she'd started to wonder. Maybe even hope…
But she'd been wrong.
"Then I need some air." When he hesitated, she gave him a flat look. "No wand, remember?"
His jaw ground once, but he stepped aside and let her pass. Wrenching up her hood, she stomped into the rain and didn't stop, not even when she reached the edge of the wards. They didn't resist her—he hadn't actually resorted to locking her in—but it was of little consolation.
To hell with him, she thought viciously, marching through the trees. He could find another hostage. He could go back to Voldemort for all she cared.
It wasn't until she realised she was being stalked did she begin to regret her impetuousness.
And by then, it was too late.
-.-
It wasn't much of a chase.
"If it isn't our missing Mudblood," Scabior said with a twisted smile. "Is this where you've been hiding, darling?"
She was on her knees, a hand fisted in her hair, a wand to her throat.
"What do you think, lads?" He leered. "Reckon we should have ourselves a little fun before we take her back?"
They had her flat on the ground before she could even scream. She thrashed and fought like a wild cat, but it was no use. There were simply too many of them.
And then a crack of spell-fire exploded overhead.
Hands lunged for wands. Green light blazed all around. Then thuds and shouts as, one by one, the snatchers fell to the mud.
Draco apparated her back to the cabin.
"It's okay." He held her tightly, her sobs racking through them both. "It's okay. I've got you."
She clung to him, even as he tried to sit her on the bed.
"I've got to move them," he said apologetically. "They can't be found here."
And then he was gone.
Hermione slid to the floor, bereft. She could barely begin to process what she was feeling. Relief. Fear. And a bone-deep need to be held.
He was gone an agonisingly long time—so long, she began to panic. What if more had come? What if he'd been caught? But she should have known better than to doubt him.
"Merlin, Hermione," he murmured into her hair. "You're trembling all over."
She was, and it was nothing to do with her ordeal.
It was him. The strength of his arms. The warmth of his skin. The thrum of his voice through her body.
She pressed her lips to his throat.
"Hermione," he breathed. A question or a plea, she didn't know, but she drew back to kiss him on the mouth and that seemed answer enough.
The world grew hot and blurry; just gasps and friction and the grapple of fingers in fabric, until she was naked on the rug, his mouth on her breast, his hand between her thighs. He groaned her name, and the deep texture of it sent shivers across her skin.
"Say it again," she gasped. And he did, panting it into her hair, her throat, as he thrust into her, over and over until she unravelled beneath him and he followed her swiftly over the edge.
"Thank you," she whispered afterwards, and he kissed her shoulder.
"Come to bed with me," he said, and she much preferred this way of saying you're welcome.
-.-
The next morning, they received word from the Order.
They had the portkey.
-.-
"Trouble getting hold of it?" she asked Harry as he hugged her tightly. "It's been weeks."
"Yeah." He glanced at Remus and Neville who were already poring over Draco's papers. "Worth it to get all that information though."
"And me," she said, put out, and he gave her a funny look.
"Well, of course," he said. "But Malfoy was always bringing you back anyway."
-.-
"Draco!" She raced down the steps after him. "Draco, wait."
She'd turned, stunned by Harry's revelation, to find Draco gone. The portkey too.
She darted in front of him, forcing him to stop.
"Draco, please."
"You should let me leave," he said roughly.
"Like you did?" she challenged. "Why did you save me, Draco?"
"I needed a portkey."
"No, Harry told me the truth. You promised him you'd keep me safe until I recovered. You offered information for the portkey, not me."
When he didn't speak, she reached up to cup his face.
"Why did you let me think so badly of you?"
"You should," he said hoarsely. "I don't deserve you. Not after all I've done."
He truly believed that, Hermione realised with dismay. He truly thought he was irredeemable, that no matter what he did, he'd never break free of his past.
He didn't seem to realise he already had.
"Idiot!" She flung herself at him, and he caught her waist, startled. "You betrayed the Death Eaters. You saved my life, twice!" She pressed a kiss to his mouth, then added teasingly, "Even if it was all for a portkey."
"It wasn't…" he began, but then she smiled and brushed his hair from his forehead, and his eyes softened.
She already knew he hadn't saved her for the portkey. Maybe one day, he'd be able to admit the real reason aloud, but for now, she had just one request.
"Stay," she said softly. "Stay with me and win the war."
So he did.