A/N: This was written for the dmhgficexchange community on livejournal. Specifically, the "Brew a love potion for Draco and Hermione" Valentine's Day fic swap. This one goes out to certainswagger.
.x.
The moon was sagging in the sky as I held her face to mine
All our thoughts were coming in so clear beyond the Myopic Mirror
We were darting from the place where we just couldn't fit
Far away from all the violence, safely flying in our own orbit
--Of Montreal, Forecast Facist Future
.x.
Of all the things she'd expected–(you don't have to do this, you know. What you find might not be pretty)–a living, breathing Draco Malfoy was not one of them.
(Yes, Harry, I do.)
She'd run through the possible scenarios a million times in her head. Dying Draco. Tortured Draco. Decapitated, fire-singed, asphyxiated Draco.
She'd be lying if she said some of those thoughts weren't fantasies.
Dismembered Draco. Abused, assaulted, molested Draco. Nowhere in the text did it say "living Draco."
The thing was–a thing he probably never understood–a girl never forgets. She may try to forgive, she may delve into the puddle that is the expanse of a man's emotions and attempt to find goodness there, but she never forgets.
Filthy Mudblood.
She'd twisted the parchment between long, stress-gnarled fingers for sheer amusement–of course she'd already memorized it.
In the event of my premature death...
If she ever hated Snape, it was now. It was now, staring into the cold, unaffected eyes of a would-be killer.
The Cruciatus came first. She found herself supremely unprepared.
It was the worst pain, the worst itching and stinging and slicing beneath and atop the skin; it was blood freezing within the veins, forming glass shards that tore from the inside, bones crushing, ears screeching, life draining... words could not even hope to define it. It was the knowing that you could save the ones you loved, it was watching a wizard raise his wand to their hearts, death on his lips, and losing the ability entirely to move, your feet mysteriously glued to the ground as you looked on in horror. That was the real torture.
She couldn't hear herself scream, but she was certain she did.
(Get the fuck away from her, you bloody, vile, snake-fucking bastard!)
Through her anguish, she spotted recognition in his pale face, and it contorted with revulsion.
This was it. He was going to kill her. It was over. Please, make it be over...
And then the most absurd idea came to her before she saw him drop his wand and everything went black as pitch: she could endure five unforgivables, deter dark magic, and defeat the most powerful, most tyrannical Dark Overlord ever to walk the face of the planet, but she would die here, at the hands of a cowardly little boy she was on a mission to protect.
How fitting.
.x.
"Thought you would thwart my plans, did you? Thought you would make me less worthy in the eyes of the Dark Lord?" the woman screeched, and judging by her resemblance to Sirius, Hermione recognized her at once as Bellatrix Lestrange.
The boy said nothing, merely standing with the courage and conviction he never could have conjured just years before outlining his jaw.
"Crucio!"
His back arched in writhing pain, but for some reason, she saw a certain beauty in it. He did not scream, almost as though he were trained not to.
It stood in stark contrast to Bellatrix's demonic shrieks. "Like father, like son, pretty boy! Crucio!"
And she was running, running, running toward him, wheezing and panting and crying all at once, when she heard a voice that belonged neither to Bellatrix nor to Neville.
"Hermione," came the strained whisper, ephemeral as a snowflake in the desert.
She glanced in Neville's direction. Bellatrix was cruicio'ing him with his own wand, cackling maniacally whilst his eyes, bright with agony, pleaded toward her, toward anyone.
She turned the other way, the whisper piercing her soul. Hermione.
And then she chose one life arbitrarily over the other, like Ron's was somehow more valuable than Neville's. Like they were commodities, like robes at a dress store.
I think I'll take my friend with the red hair. How much?
Neville wanted to die, she told herself. He didn't call out. He wanted to be a martyr.
And that's the only way she got to sleep each night.
.x.
She awoke with what felt like a kick to her stomach, jerked herself upright, and vomited on the floor. Her hair was matted to her face, blood was caked above her lips and in her nostrils, and her ankle ached dully. She went to tend to it and saw that it was shackled to the cement.
The room reeked of mould and whatever else might inhabit what she decided was a storage facility or basement. A quick scan of the room ensured she was alone (take me instead).
Damn Snape. And just when she thought he was beginning to appreciate her.
She toiled for him, she researched for him, she stirred his potions for him after he lost his hand (Miss Granger, we are not trekking across the Sahara, you can afford to stir with more stealth), and this is how he repaid her.
A note.
A fucking note, scrawled in the handwriting of an emperor–
In the event of my premature death, the Fidelius charm placed upon a certain Mr Draco Malfoy will be rendered inactive...
And, of course, he chose her because she was the cleverest. And he knew–he just knew–that she would never refuse. She was just too willing to see the good in people, even if it were so slight and fleeting that it took an excavation of the soul to locate it. He told her it was her only fault, that she could be something great if she simply took the route of self-preservation. She told him to sod off, and stop preaching his Slytherin rhetoric.
Now, she wished she had refused.
Licking her lips, she found, was by far the most effective way to keep from crying. It was a nervous habit she'd picked up over the past year or so: a time she'd not-so-affectionately deemed "Hell." So she knew the taste of iron on her tongue. But judging by the fact that she hadn't passed out again (yet), she assumed the gash on her lip was not particularly life-threatening.
(Hold out, hold out, hold out, you mustn't cry, you mustn't cry; bite harder)
Hermione never really knew what to do with emotions; they didn't fit very nicely into her pragmatic thought process. And anyone who lived through Hell would never have been able to if they'd let their sorrow get the better of them.
You kept going. You bit harder. You killed, and you tried not to think about it, because if you did, there was no telling when you'd stop being capable all together.
("I would die for him! Die for him!"
"Yes, Miss Granger, I heard you clearly the first time, and I am well aware of your foolish naivety. I fear, however, your willingness to die for Potter and his idiot friend is not of my or of anyone's concern. The pertinent question here is: are you willing to kill for him?")
She bit into the wound on her lip.
He had to die. She wasn't grieving; she was merely accepting. There was no way, of all the people they'd lost, she cared about Snape's death. And she certainly wasn't responsible for it. She was just angry that his demise had gotten her into this... this farce. Who'd died and made Draco Malfoy Minister of Magic? Or, better yet, who did he think had died?
She took a moment to consider it; the truth was, enough people in the line of power had been slaughtered that she would probably have a pretty good shot at the position herself. Which was preposterous and heart-breaking at the same time.
She bit her lip again. So what if she cared about Snape, anyway? It was the least of her concerns, now. And she knew better than to mull over it.
In spite of it all, something in the back of her mind was telling her all this was an excuse–a secret annex for something far worse, something that was eating at her even as she lay sprawled on the shoddy, unfamiliar basement floor.
The door creaked open, and she froze in terror. She hadn't even thought twice about why she was still alive; clearly, the younger Malfoy favoured death a la torture. And now he was back either to finish the job or to have a little more of his perverse fun. She hoped quite sincerely that the case was the former. Perhaps she could convince him that it would be the ultimate humiliation; she'd spend the last moments of her life a true mudblood, groveling at his feet and begging for mercy. It'll be a story for the grand kids, she'd say. Kill me now, and everybody wins.
Kill me now, and–
Was that a plate of food being pushed through the doorway?
Instinctively, she reached for her calf.
She shouldn't have been so hopeful. Hermione knew Draco Malfoy was many things (a few obscenities came to mind), but stupid was not one of them. Of course her wand wasn't still there.
There was definitely no chance she'd outwit Malfoy easily. It was a far cry from anything she had to deal with involving Ron. The mark of a good day was when he remembered to "Colloportus" the door.
Not that she remembered all too many "good days." If they'd been any other couple, in any other time, they could have bickered about things like locking the door. And taking your shoes off in the foyer. They could have had a foyer, and it could have been inside of a huge–yet homey–house, residing in which could have been a half-dozen screaming red-haired brats. And they could have learned as they went along, learned things like parenting and budgeting. Instead of being required to know how to fight. Instead of growing up for a war that was waiting for them, and doing it quickly, because they had to.
If there was anything she hated about saving the world and all it entailed, it was that the War–Hell–had so wantonly robbed her of her childhood. Well, okay, she had quite a number of bones to pick with Hell, but that was one that stood out quite prominently.
And damn it, if the war wasn't over! She was still in mortal peril, despite it all. All because of Mister Sanctimonious Arse-Wipe, King of all country-sized rods in the arse, emperor of whingeing and bitching and otherwise being a truly insufferable, spoiled brat, who still, for some reason, harboured a deep and telling hatred for her, coupled with the ability to kill on whim. She could easily be on her seventh, eighth, or fourty-sixth Bloody Mary by now, celebrating with the rest of them. But no, she'd agreed to do this. She'd agreed to tie up all the ends the aurors had so ever-so-kindly left undone.
That was one thing she couldn't stand about aurors. Sure, they could cast some pretty nasty hexes in the direction of the enemy, but when the ends came chasing down the means, nobody wanted to clean up.
If she made it out of this alive, she was going to raise a hell and a half at the Ministry. And strangely enough, it looked like she would survive.
She passed out again, wondering why on earth her captor would afford her food.
.x.
It was always the same dream. Well, almost always; there were some variants. A door slammed, locking her into a vast library. Before her extended rows and rows of shelves, then rows of rows, and rows and rows of rows of rows. Her initial excitement turned quickly to horror–she needed one book, just one, and she needed it before time ran out. Before his time ran out.
There was the steady hum of sand falling on sand, time ticking away. No, not ticking. Flowing, but not peacefully–like some transubstantial avalanche.
But each time she so much as approached a shelf, it inched farther away. Its length extended every time she even neared the end. She remained woefully in the 100s, when she well knew the book was probably in the latter 2000s. On top of it all, it seemed to take eons to open just one book, only to find its pages stark naked. Sometimes, there would be the remnants of a page that had been torn out, presumably with the information she needed delicately imprinted unto it.
Worst yet was the sound of distant whimpers, the kind that one could only elicit from a man by stripping away the last of his dignity. The kind to which a king should be resigned, should the torture be similarly terrifying. And all this served as the symphony to which she searched, the background music that never seemed to shut off and lessen the tension.
She still had yet to find the damned book.
Her eyelids fluttered open with a start, and she found herself breathing heavily, but didn't dare move. There was a slight pressure on her ankle, but it wasn't the shackle. No, that little number had been removed; in its place undulated the warm exchange of flesh on flesh.
She clamped her eyes back shut. This was too good an opportunity to ruin on account of carelessness. To think, as long as he thought she was still asleep, he would remain kneeling above her, utterly vulnerable.
She strained her ears to hear the healing spells he was muttering, but he was so quiet and focussed she doubted she could do much more than that without arising some suspicion. Exactly how bad her wounds were, she didn't know. Nor did she particularly care to.
This was it...
An eyelid opened just enough–a slit to allow a tolerable field of vision, albeit a blurry and limited one. If she looked a little to the left... no, down... this wasn't working. Short of opening her eyes and jerking herself upright, there was nothing she could do to see exactly what he was doing. Which meant one thing: she was going to have to rely on her intuition. And Hermione Granger wasn't exactly an "intuition" kind of girl. She couldn't very well guess what was there; she needed the proof, and then she needed at least three theses written on said proof. Needless to say, this was going to be a difficult feat.
Unfortunately, there was little time to pontificate on the matter, and even less to mourn her own platitudes. She didn't know when she'd get the chance again.
She hoped to the god in whom she didn't believe that he couldn't feel her pulse, or, rather, hear the herd of elephants rampaging through her chest cavity at a hundred miles an hour. Deep breaths. Steady breaths. She bit her lip, and hard.
In one swift movement, she'd snatched his wand and pinned it squarely to his chest. Her eyes widened; she'd surprised even herself. But it was nothing to the look of surprise on his face.
For a few moments, both of them just panted. Heavy, laboured breaths of the sacred Not Knowing flooded their airspace. The colour–if it had been there in the first place; she couldn't remember–drained from his cheeks, then followed the merciless vacuum of his still-pointed chin. For a moment, she thought he looked like a porcelain doll–clammy and pale, yet untouchable. Icy grey eyes utterly unreadable. Fright and ire both etched into the soft contours of his war-inured face.
"Give me my wand," she commanded steadily.
His hesitation was met with the point of a wand to his chin. He reluctantly obliged, his motions calculatedly slow. She imagined he'd learned the process of assault; she could tell by his steady, deliberate ease. He probably knew what it was to be cornered and unarmed. He was, after all, until Dumbledore's demise, Death Eater Scum. Cowardly, lowly Death Eater Scum, not even worth keeping around long enough to "kill the Potter boy." His father's greatest disappointment.
Once she'd ripped her wand from his grasp, he snarled in her direction, defeated. It sent her heart pounding–breathe in, breathe out–now what was she to do? She'd won–she had both wands; she was in control. Did she attack him? Did she simply leave? Whatever she decided, she couldn't let him know that she had absolutely no idea what she was doing. Because she didn't think she could endure that partially slanted upper lip any longer.
First things first. With one wand pointed in his direction and the other at her chains, she whispered, "Alohomora," but to no avail... unless an avail constituted a door from down the hall flinging open. Well, at least her magic still worked. What's that her mother always used to say? You win some, you lose some. Right.
Her failure was met with his derisive smirk.
"Alohomora," she repeated, this time a bit more frantically. Like she was willing it to work, just so that he'd not have the last laugh.
"It's not going to work," he sang.
If her eyes were daggers...
"What?" He shrugged innocently, his broad shoulders slumping in an eerie unison. He raised a toughened hand with a measure of flourish; here was a boy who had most certainly grown into his manhood. She watched in near entrancement as his knuckles curled and contracted. "I thought that was painfully obvious. I haven't got a clue what kind of stupid you take me for."
"The complete and utter kind," she bit through clenched teeth.
He smiled bitterly. "Glad to see we've not lost a bit of enmity between us. If it weren't for that damned wand to my throat, I might just hex your knickers off. Tant pis."
She was not amused. "Yes, too bad. Too bad, Malfoy, because you're going to release me, this instant."
"On the contrary, I won't."
In response, she dug the wand into his neck.
"I can't. You've my wand, idiot."
"So tell me how."
He raised an eyebrow. "What's it to you?"
"Tell me, damn it! Tell me, or... or I'll kill you!"
His eyes narrowed. "I'm afraid I wouldn't be much good to you dead," he spat acerbically. "Seems like Gryffindor's famous Know-It-All forgot to do her homework. Otherwise," he drawled, "she would know that this magic can only be reversed by its caster."
She stuck her chin out indignantly. "So reverse it."
"No can do," he stated plainly.
That little bon-mot garnered two wands to his chest. "Do it."
"Make me. I'd love to see you try."
"Don't tempt me, Malfoy. You have two options here: one, to unhand me of your own volition, or two–"
"Two, what? Two, and you'll hex me into oblivion? And see if you can get my rotting corpse to bend to your will? Or two, you'll throw a little tantrum and see if I succumb to your undeniably earth-shattering, yet somehow–just somehow–tolerable shrieks?"
"Don't," she warned.
"Or two, you'll call Won-won and get him to do it for you?"
Her eyes welled with tears that doused the flame of her anger. "I could... I could Imperio you," she challenged lamely.
"You could," he admitted, and for a moment–just a moment–she could have sworn she saw a glimmer in his eye. It was gone, though, in the instant it came; in its place resumed his trademark arctic glare. As if his casual name-dropping weren't crossing a line, he had to enrage her with his comments, because he didn't think she could do it. And what enraged her even more was that he was right. She couldn't.
(Silly little girl, didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with things you don't understand? Crucio!
"Now, if you don't mind," he began calmly, in stark juxtaposition to her frustrated huffs, "I'd like to go have a piss. So, uh, yeah." He moved to lower her wand with his hands. Those hands. But she couldn't be captivated enough not to notice.
"You're not going anywhere, Malfoy."
"I swear, if public urination weren't below me..."
"Go ahead. Some of us have seen torture far worse."
Now it was his turn to furrow his eyebrows and shout "Don't." So she'd hit a nerve. It was something she could use to her advantage.
"What's that? Is widdle Draco's pride damaged?"
"Don't."
"Come on, you sodding bastard, just do the right thing. I'm free, you're free, we both win. We go on, we live our post-war lives..." Her voice trailed off when she saw a trace of surprise in his eyes that he was too-obviously trying to conceal. "You... you don't know, do you?"
"Of course I know," he spat.
"Oh my god, you don't know."
"What does it matter?" he snapped.
"Malfoy! The war's over! This hell... this Hell..."
"Oh, that's just lovely! Now I can go back to my old life!" he shouted, and if it weren't for the sarcasm, she might have been truly frightened by his laboured breaths. "Sorry, Granger, if I don't share your enthusiasm."
Then came the silence–that overbearing, foreboding thing she'd learned to hate.
"Please, Malfoy," she pled quietly.
Was that... sympathy? In his eyes? "Give me my wand." No. He just wanted to get rid of her.
She shook her head.
"It's the only way."
"How can I be sure you won't back out?"
"I... don't know," he confessed. "And I won't pretend you can trust me."
"God forbid."
"You fucking bitch. Don't interrupt my thought process unless you're going to cut your bleeding sarcasm. It's fucking childish."
Then came the daggers again. How dare he? She wasn't the immature one here; she was simply noting an observation. He was the one holding her in a strange place against her will, all for some sort of... self-righteousness. Self-preservation. Whatever the hell Snape wanted to call it.
"There is a way," she bit out quietly, using every last bit of her will-power not to pummel him on the spot.
"And just what is that, Miss High and Mighty Gryffindor?"
"Sarcasm," she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes. "We could take the vow."
"Ambiguity will get you nowhere, my fair Granger. Surely you mean an unbreakable vow."
She clenched her teeth and shot him an icy glare in response.
"Yeah, just one itsy problem. We seem to be lacking a bonder."
She hunched her shoulders in defeat, but soon her eyes darted to the ceiling, signalling intense thought. "No," she said slowly. "No, there's your house elf. You've got one, I suspect. At least one, right?"
"Can house elves perform that sort of magic?" he asked, earnestly, this time.
"Of course they can," she snapped. "Magical Creatures and Their Properties, part two, edition five."
"Page?"
"Oh, do shut up," she admonished scathingly. "Will you do it?"
It took a while, but he finally responded, "Yes."
"578, by the way."
Was that a smile?
"Wobbles!"
With a definitive "pop," a stout house elf appeared in the room, looking as dishevelled as was house elvishly possible. Then came the perfunctory diatribe...
"Sir, Wobbles is hearing Mr Malfoy call, Sir; Wobbles is wanting to do Sir Mr Malfoy's bidding, sir, whatever my master is wanting, Wobbles will not not be doing it–"
"Shut up!" Malfoy snapped, and in an instant, the elf's lips pursed in ignominy and he fell silent.
This, of course, garnered a scathing look from Hermione, who, despite recent revelations about house elf mentality, still had it in her to hate everything Draco Malfoy did.
He shrugged in challenge, as if to say "bite me," and gestured toward the elf. "Retrieve my wand."
Hermione sent a menacing glare and the tip of her wand in the elf's direction, and it cowered behind his master. "We do this my way, Malfoy."
"All right," he sighed in faux-defeat. "Wobbles, retrieve both wands, place them aside, and for further instruction, look to that... that..." he anguished through the syllables, pretending he couldn't bring himself to identify her. But she wasn't an idiot. And she wouldn't let it faze her.
"Hairy thing?" Wobbles chimed in, cheerfully.
"Precisely." That disgusting, loathsome, evil, taunting, tempting, threatening, smug, elitist, pretentious, horrid, horrifying, terrible smirk trampled across his features once more.
"Oh, fuck you," she spat bitterly.
"Wobbles is following orders of the girl! Wobbles is–"
"Oh, don't do that," Hermione corrected, shocked and appalled. "Malfoy, that thing's got your manners."
"Oh, please," he drawled aristocratically, "must I explain myself again? Public nudity. Is. Not. My. Thing." He paused for effect. "Other means of exhibitionism, conversely–"
"What part of 'fuck you' and 'do shut up' don't you understand, Malfoy?"
"The fuck part, actually."
She sighed, exasperated. "I don't want to hear it. Just... just tell your goddamned house elf to..."
"To what? He's all yours. It's what you wanted, right? We do this my way, Malfoy," he mocked in a high-pitched tone.
She merely huffed in response. She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she knew that he was right about her being wrong about him being right. If that made any sense. Hermione Granger was many things, and stubborn was definitely, definitely, definitely one of them.
"Wobbles, are you familiar with the bonding incantation?" She wasn't quite certain whether this was actually feasible in the first place (she'd made up that bit about finding it in a book, but figured she'd pulled it off convincingly enough), but if the thing didn't even know how to do it, everything was ruined. Because right now, all she was working off of was the hope that Malfoy thinking the vow unbreakable would prevent him from throttling her. Once he set her free, of course.
To her insurmountable relief, the house elf's eyes widened and it nodded in acknowledgment. "Yes, miss, Wobbles is knowing the vows that are unbreakable, Wobbles is. Master instructs Wobbles to learn much, and learn Wobbles does, but it is very hard because Wobbles isn't knowing how to read, so Wobbles has to listen very, very close when wizards is near. In fact, Wobbles has trouble not listening. Master is very insistent that Wobbles get education; Master is not not interested in knowledge-ing, Master is loving to read–"
"That's enough," Draco snapped, clearly just as annoyed as Hermione was. He turned toward her in an aside: "Mark my words, if I ever apologize to you, it is for that intolerable slave."
Hermione raised a disapproving upper lip at him. Again, maybe it was in house elves' nature to obey. But slavery? That was pushing it. Especially because the word came out of Draco Malfoy's vile, filthy, disgusting, smug, horrid, yet somehow full and entrancing mouth. He could politely inform her the sky was blue and she would disagree just for the sake of disagreeing with him.
"Let's just get this over with," Hermione groaned. As an afterthought, she added sourly, "So I'll never again have the misfortune of being in your presence."
She expected a trite "right back atcha," or something equally immature, but the only thing present in the contours of his face was a grimace.
"Okay, Wobbles, are you ready? Yes or no."
"Wobbles is choosing 'yes.'"
"Retrieve both wands and proceed only after Malfoy and I have joined hands."
Surprisingly, the house elf obliged, and in a timely manner. Hermione forsook her wand and knelt on the floor. Draco followed, but not without an accompanying sneer. God forbid he be lowered to the level of a mudblood.
The word still rang in her ears like a shotgun blast.
But it was he who offered his hand first, in accordance with the strict patrician upbringing he'd been forced to emulate from a young age. She grasped his hand firmly, and an electric shock coursed through her body in doing so. She'd expected his hands to be smooth and unadulterated by work, but instead, a rough, silty patch of skin grazed her palm.
"Say it," he whispered, as wobbles hummed some unintelligible garble and two twin streams of light ejected from their wands.
"Do you swear, if I relinquish your wand to you, to release me from these shackles?"
"I do."
"And do you swear not to harm me in any way before I leave?"
"I do."
She sighed in relief. It was almost over. Wobbles's voice rose to almost daemonic levels, and the light that enveloped their wrists glowed an eerie yellow. She would soon be at peace of mind. It would be over, it would all–
"Do you swear not to leave this house before I deem necessary?"
She clenched her teeth. He couldn't just make it easy for her, now could he? Couldn't just put his animosity aside for two bloody seconds and save her the trouble. No. Not devious enough for a Malfoy. Bleeding sod. If she declined, the spell would be nullified, and then they'd find themselves again at square one. And she couldn't risk staying in this hell-hole any longer, at least not with the potential threat of him killing her at any given second. He knew she couldn't say no. And that's exactly why he did it.
"I do."
And it was over as quickly as it began, and when it was–when Wobbles had returned their wands and they'd broken their link, she punched him square in the jaw.
.x.
She could hear him chewing, all right. She didn't have to look to know he was seated in front of her, legs gingerly crossed, that aristocratic smirk on his face. Oh no, she could tell that from where she sat, her own legs crossed and arms to match. She could discern that even with her head turned the other way, refusing to catch his gaze.
Chomp. Chew. Bite. Gnash.
"Roo-row," he began nonchalantly, through a mouthful of sandwich. He swallowed generously before continuing. "I don't quite comprehend why you won't eat."
That one earned an appropriate snarl.
"Here." He shoved an orange her way. She wouldn't even look at it.
"Damn it," he breathed. "Damn it, Granger, I want to be here with you just about as much as you want to be here with me. Which is very little, mind you. It's dreadful, really, but you don't see me on a bloody mission to self-destruct."
She sniffed defiantly.
He threw the fruit to the ground violently, and she could hear the gentle squish against concrete–such a demure and timid action to complement a tense and impulsive reaction. Something about it wasn't right, she new, but then again, everything was backward now, as it had been since the war began. There was the calm before the storm and the calm after the storm, sure, but there was also the calm during the storm in intermittent periods like the eye of a hurricane. There was innocence lost in birth and in life, there was redemption in death, in murder. There was a certain sweetness–a fruit–in cold captivity.
She wasn't sure it would ever end.
"Damn it, Granger, how can you be so bloody proud? We've got nothing anymore, nothing to be proud of."
"Imagine that," she scoffed. "The Malfoy name's not a point of pride anymore. If anything, it'll serve you shame for the rest of your miserable life. How ironic," she spat, albeit somewhat wistfully.
"You're not the only one who's lost something." His voice was dark, intuitive. It scared her to hear it.
It scared her even more to respond, but she did. "Don't pretend to know anything about my losses," she instructed softly.
"Then don't put them on a fucking pedestal."
"The nerve of you!" she roared.
"Just have a bloody sandwich," he insisted, unaffectedly. "It's not going to kill you." His eyes narrowed. "And it's not going to not kill you, either, so don't get any funny ideas."
She shook her head. "How can you be so... so..."
"Flippant?"
She groaned loudly. Someone hadn't changed a bit.
"You captured me," she shouted incredulously, "and now you're offering me a sandwich? A sandwich?!"
"Well, I can't very well have you dying on me, now can I?"
"Let me go, and we both win," she said steadily.
He stared down, and hard. "I can't do that."
"What do you mean you can't do that? It was a cheap trick, Malfoy, a cheap trick."
"I can't do it!" he bellowed, and his voice echoed through the room–sharp, cold, definite. "And don't ask me again!" And then he turned swiftly on his heels and was gone with a swish of his robes and a loud slam of the door.
Well this was fucking choice. Just brilliant. She wondered for an ephemeral moment if anyone was looking for her.
.x.
He was back three hours later. Not that she was counting, or anything. Funny things just happened to happen when you were lonely.
She'd taken the time alone to assess her surroundings. Evidently, the area to which she'd been confined was a very large storage closet within an even larger basement. She counted two bedrooms–presumably for guests–and three baths. Seventeen portraits, two hearths, two walls lined with seven bookshelves containing a hundred or so odd books each, most of which were related to the dark arts.
Yep. Bienvenue a Malfoy Manor. Oh, this was just rich. Fanfuckintastic.
She nicked a book from the library and sat back down in the storage closet. And that's where he found her.
"You know what, Granger?" Next thing she knew, he was leaning in toward her and nibbling gently on her earlobe. It sent a shockwave down her spine in a very, very bad way.
"I don't give a fuck if you eat or not," he whispered. "In fact, nothing would make me happier than to see you starve to death. Maybe it'd help you lose some weight. Fucking cow."
She knew just as well as he that the war had half-emaciated her, or else she might've spit in his face. "You're forgetting one thing, Malfoy," she pointed out, bitterly. "You can't let me die, or you'd die."
"Nah-ah-ah, Granger. I've been doing some thinking, and that wasn't the deal. I can let you die all I want. I just can't make you die. There's a difference." Pause. "Life's a bitch, no?"
"You're a rotten bastard."
"And don't I know it."
A silence sliced the air, which hung thickly around her cheeks.
"So go ahead and kill yourself. Your self-righteous bullshite might work on your bleeding-heart friends, but this isn't Gryffindor, and we're not in fucking Hogwarts anymore. If anything, your death means ten or so fewer red-haired brats polluting the waters."
"Don't bring Ron into this."
"Oh, did I hit a nerve?"
"Shut up. Shut the fuck up."
"Funny, Snape always spoke so highly of your vocabulary. I'm surprised."
"AND DON'T TALK ABOUT SEVERUS THAT WAY!"
He stumbled backward, like he'd been hit with a curse. But he only let his guard down for a few seconds before that god-awful trademark smirk replaced his look of surprise.
"Severus, eh? You two on a first-name basis?" He stalked toward her once again. "Did you get bored of the Weasel, or did you catch him taking Brown from behind again? Merlin knows I did, countless times. But Snape? Surely you, even in your... state of grooming... could've landed a less greasy fuck buddy."
He wasn't even amusing himself anymore. Silent, angry tears rushed down her cheeks, but she said nothing.
And she said nothing for a few more minutes, but then enough was enough.
"I don't think you deserve to know. And I don't want your pity, if you've even got any in the place where your heart used to be, so shut the fuck up. Shut up. Don't you say a word. Just shut up. Ron's dead, so shut up. Ron's dead."
The only sounds she could discern between them were her dry sobs and his heavy breathing. Then he stormed out.
.x.
When Hermione was younger, she loved nothing more than to hear her father read to her. Sure, she could do it herself by the age of four, but even as an adolescent, she enjoyed letting him do it for her.
After she received her letter from Hogwarts, he took a keen liking to mythology. That's where the true magic lay, he used to say, less out of ignorance than jealousy. He too, after all, was a gifted man–how could the gene have skipped him? But one tale always stuck out in her mind, and it was that of Sisyphus, who was, due to his cleverness and cunning, condemned by the gods to pushing a boulder up a mountain, only to have it fall from his grasp just before he reached the peak. This cycle continued for all eternity. As a young child, she wondered whether he got bored with nothing else to do and no books to read.
She found the same book of myths on the bookshelf in Malfoy's basement. Perhaps it was the only muggle magic worthy of a wizard's household.
He stood in the doorway in a sort of slouch, his shoulders slanted steeply toward the floor, hands in his trouser pockets. His white-blond hair fell in his face like it was hiding something; she knew this was the case when he neglected to blow it away.
If it weren't for that practised slouch, she thought he might look like some sort of god.
"Would you fancy seeing the rest of the house?" he mumbled, and it sounded about as much as a question as did the killing curse.
She imagined this was his way of asking forgiveness–a way sans apology, but almost sincere. In truth, she'd known Malfoy to be an arrogant little prick, but never could she recall him being unintentionally cruel. Intentionally, sure. But this?
Filthy little mudblood.
It was up to her now. She was in control–just the way she liked it. That was another thing about the war: she could toil and study and practise, but in the end, the outcome was always out of her hands.
Oh, yes. It was good to be in control again. She inhaled deeply like the musky basement air was a clear spring morning. She was nearing the pinnacle of the mountain. Now did she deny him redemption? Surely he didn't deserve it. Or did she, of her own boundless and beneficent generosity, afford him the small pleasure of a temporary truce?
That was her problem, Snape said. The most generous will give more than they've bargained for, Miss Granger; you'd do well to remember that. And Snape was always right about her.
"All right," she agreed, and he looked up abruptly. She found herself staring at a pair of icy eyes, in them, speckles of surprise, like he'd never been handed a second chance in his life.
He grunted his approval, and she took it as a 'thank you.'
Then it was a grunt, and a nod, a grunt, a nod, another nod, and she was following him. He led her up a flight of stairs and into an austere foyer. Two twin staircases led to another floor that was still dwarfed by a chandelier seemingly suspended in air, almost–but not quite–blocking a giant Malfoy family crest that hung on the wall. Next to it rested a smaller coat of arms that belonged, presumably, to the Black family. Regal carpeting padded their heels, and to her right and left, she could see rooms that went on for ages. Spotless, sparkling rooms of gold and silver and Viridian that almost bled decadence.
"It's beautiful, Malfoy," Hermione breathed, awestruck.
"Try being cooped up here for a year and a half, wondering if that light's the last you'll see, if those colours are the last you'll remember, if that greasy-haired git with an unkempt wardrobe to boot is the last person you'll ever have the misfortune to greet," he scoffed.
"Is that why you're keeping me here? Because you're lonely?"
He chose not to answer her, only snorting in lieu of his response. Then he simply strolled over to a long, gold-plated banister, and patted it firmly. "When I was a kid, I used to cause the biggest ruckus on these. I could go for hours. Or at least until father came out of his study with his cane."
She didn't dare say anything about Lucius. Surely Draco knew he was at least captured, if he hadn't returned to usurp the Manor, but perhaps he didn't know that his father had fallen victim to Severus's wand, ending a half-century of rivalry, contention, and betrayal. It was stranger still to think about Draco as a child. The one she knew had been a menacing brat with little more to do than to terrorize children weaker than he. That was the major difference between Draco and Harry, the difference that caused the latter to be consistently heroic and the former to amount to a miserable, lonely existence hiding in a mansion and keeping hostages rather than company. Yes, both boys had unknowable influence and equal brawn, but one used his for good, and the other to flex his power over others.
Like father, like son.
But what was Malfoy now? She took another good look at him. Pale, sallow skin that stood in stark contrast to the bags under his still-piercing eyes. Perhaps the war had eaten at him as well–the sick parasite–every day when he remained indoors, pushing, pushing, pushing, and always achieving nothing.
He led her up another flight of stairs and briskly down a hallway.
"This," he said, opening a tall wooden door, "is one of the guest rooms. If you'd like, you can sleep here."
She stepped inside to find a luxurious king-sized bed amongst four or so large reclining chairs and more bookshelves along the walls. Yes, hell yes, she'd like to sleep here. Now it was just a matter of pride.
"Why are you affording me this luxury?" she snapped. "Would it not be just as great an atonement to let me go?"
His jaw clenched and he bore his eyes into her.
"Why can't you let me go?"
Silence.
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
"This isn't a puzzle, or some fucking written test."
"Try me," she insisted.
He sighed the sigh of a man twenty years his senior. "I'm not going to Azkaban. I won't end up like my father."
"I don't see how your committing a crime will keep you from being punished," she countered.
"First of all, adhering to an unbreakable vow is not a crime, thank you very much, and second of all, can you be any denser? I let you go, and suddenly I've got fifty ministry officials on my arse. I attempted to kill Albus Dumbledore 18 months ago–you think that'll fare well with your Hero Potter?"
"Harry knows you didn't do it," she said softly. "He saw you."
"Horse shite." He looked away.
"He and Dumbledore had been off on an... er, expedition, and when they got back, he, um, made Harry, you know... hide."
"You're lying."
"He's got it in a pensieve."
"Shut up!" he bellowed, like it would pain him to exorcise the incident from his memory. "Shut up," he repeated in a lower tone, presuming to sound more reasonable the second time.
"Malfoy, Severus told us everything. It was an impossible choice. We were just kids."
"Just kids," he whispered. "18 months... just kids..."
And then she saw something she'd only seen in her wildest dreams, but never like this. She saw a tear trickle down Malfoy's cheek and land on his shirt with a definitive "plop."
"I don't need your pity." And with that, he was gone.
.x.
Part of her was glad that the cycle was over. Reach out, argue, walk out. Reach out, argue, walk out. Reach out, walk out, reach out, walk out, argue, bicker, hurt, bicker, argue, reach out, walk out.
She hadn't seen him in three days.
And she finally decided it was better to die of boredom than of starvation, so at least she was eating. How anyone could endure more than a week of this solitude was beyond her–and Malfoy had been there for God knows how many. Perhaps he had more tenacity than she gave him credit for.
But then again, maybe not. He had, after all, imprisoned her here, and, as far as she could tell, didn't have any plans to let her go. Which was something to which she'd strangely become accustomed as she let her mind wander...
He was right about the house. You could only get so lost in its beauty before the same lustre began to turn on you. The lamps self-animated. The walls opened their eyes and the clocks their ears. And you never really could tell illusion from reality, because everything was magic, after all.
Every shadow smelled of him, every bump and thud in the night felt like him, and every time she rounded a corner, she swore she'd just tasted him there.
Loneliness could do that to you. Though she wasn't physically confined anymore, her own mind bore the weight of iron shackles, trapping her within her own contemplative isolation. And for what? For nothing.
She never thought she'd see the day when she'd say it, but she would have done anything to see Draco Malfoy right then.
He answered her prayer at three in the morning. If the circumstances had been different, she would have smacked him. But it was cold, and his face was a nice chance of scene from the dark ceiling above.
"I want to touch you," he said flatly.
"What?"
"I want to touch you."
"I... I heard you the first time... I just... what do you mean?"
She propped herself up on her elbows, her hair cascading over her shoulders, thinly veiled by a pyjama top she'd found. But instead of challenging her with a sarcastic jibe (what do you mean? Urgh...), he moved stealthily toward her and placed his hand on her shoulder. His touch lingered for a few moments and she drew in a sharp breath. His fingers were cold on her skin, cold like a father's disapproval, cold like the death of a lover, cold like the end to all this mess. She breathed it in and shuddered, and then he curled his knuckles so that they, too, touched her skin, and for a moment she forgot everything as they stroked her shoulder, her forearm; he even touched her fingers, just to make sure they were both the same.
(We're the same! God damn it, look at me, just look at me; we're the same.)
Then she imagined what it would be like to touch someone for the first time in such a long time. She was going crazy herself, and the last time she'd touched somebody had been... well, had been when she'd held Ron in her arms.
But she didn't want to think of that just yet.
This was Severus's fault, anyhow; Ron had nothing to do with it.
It was too dark to see his eyes, so she was ignorant to his reaction, but she assumed it would be substantial. He was, after all, human. Sometimes she forgot that, but it was true.
The romance was quelled with a shot of sparks from his fingertips.
"Malfoy!"
"I... I swear I didn't do it! Are you hurt?"
"No, I'm fine. What do you mean you didn't do it?"
"I didn't start those! I don't even have my wand!"
"What the... is someone there?"
"I swear on the grave of Salazar Slytherin, if someone is in this room right now..."
Silence.
"I doubt it," he uttered with a measure of disappointment, almost like he wished someone were there. "You just barely got through the basement wards, and that was only Severus's doing. No, we're all alone."
"All alone," she repeated, barely audibly.
"Not really much to do now, then."
"Malfoy..."
"Mmm?"
"You said you didn't start the sparks."
"I didn't!"
"I think you did."
"I didn't! Granger, do you really think, after all this–"
"I don't mean like that. I mean like... not of your doing, but still of your doing all the same. Unintentionally. Wandless magic."
"For fuck's sake, I haven't even used a wand since I got here. Aside from healing you, that is."
"Not even once?"
"Yeah, what's it to you?"
"Malfoy!"
"Stop saying my name like you've had some sort of epiphany."
"Malfoy, when magic goes unused, it sometimes manifests itself in spontaneous outbursts, much like the ones we had before we, you know, knew."
"I always knew," he sneered.
She eyed him sternly. "When was the last time? I mean, before I showed up."
He didn't respond for a good thirty seconds. You'd think thirty seconds would be a rather short period of time, but then, the seconds seemed like hours. He looked away, biting his lip, like he didn't want her to see. Even though it was almost pitch black, and she'd never be able to see anything even if she tried.
"Just before... that night. I... there was someone... there was someone in the way, so I immobilised him. Her. I couldn't quite see. My heart was beating so hard I had blood in my ears."
"Oh," she whispered.
"I was... it was..."
"Shh."
He collapsed onto the bed, head in hands, his white-blond locks tumbling, waterfall-ing over his knuckles, and this time it was her turn to touch his shoulder. Just a hesitant, gentle caress to say hey, I know. Hey, I've been there, too.
Hey, we're gonna be all right. Maybe.
"Can I stay here tonight?" he croaked, and still, the words came out slowly because he didn't want to say them.
"Yeah."
She climbed back into bed and pulled the comforter over her ears, but she couldn't fall asleep. The wallpaper was dancing; she could just make out tiny stars and women's figures in the cracks and imperfections. If she concentrated really hard, there was one woman holding a star above her head, pushing, pushing, pushing it off to be its own shooting star, its own comet, before it fell lazily to the bottom of the pattern.
Chance had thrust him into her life, at a time when she needed him least. At a time when Draco Malfoy was the absolute last person she ever wanted to see; in fact, she never wanted to see anyone, ever again. She just wanted to finish everything up, close the book labeled "The War," and retreat for the first time in her life. She didn't know where she was going to go, but she knew she couldn't go back. As if coping with Augusta Longbottom wouldn't be enough, she'd never, never, never be able to face Molly, to see on her face the expression that would have been her son's. Only ridden with guilt. Pity. Jealousy, even. (You had him longer. You had him better.) But especially blame. And she'd never be able to learn to deal with Harry's glare–the one he thought she never saw, the one he only gave her when she wasn't looking. That sharp, focussed look in his emerald eyes that screamed Why wasn't it you? Because she knew just as well as he that she was an acceptable loss. But not Ron.
Sometimes she wished it had been her. Then everyone could have won.
That was probably the reason she didn't mind being with Malfoy so much. For one, it was punishment. She deserved it. She deserved to be wedged between a rock and The Worst Sodding Bastard Who Ever Lived. She let her friends die, and she watched as Ron took his last breath, just wondering whether he loved her as much as she loved him, and did she really love him? Or had that feeling also faded, simply because she was preparing for the worst? Oh, she deserved it all right. And he deserved her.
She was planning to drift into anonymity anyway. And yeah, it was annoying to be imprisoned, and yeah, it was wrong and unjust and just plain idiotic, but something in the back of her mind told her it wasn't so bad. It wasn't so bad, after all. Maybe she couldn't be dead here, but she could at least pretend to be.
When dawn speared her fingers into the room, when the sun reared its ugly head shouting something about a new day, it became very clear that neither she nor Malfoy was asleep. He, for one, was still hunched over the side of her bed, his forehead drilled neatly into his palms. Her eyes had not closed once.
"I'm sorry about Weas–Ron."
"It wasn't your fault."
"No," he choked out.
"Malfoy, it wasn't your fault."
He said nothing, but swallowed hard.
"Malfoy, you're a bastard. You're a stupid git, and I hate you. But you didn't kill Ron. You didn't kill anyone. And you didn't kill Dumbledore, most of all."
"Mmngh," he managed, and she wondered what he'd been trying to say.
"What were you supposed to do? Kill your father? It was an impossible choice."
"He would've died anyway," he mumbled.
"Dumbledore, too."
Another grunt.
"Malfoy, this was so much bigger than us. We just sort of... got thrown in the middle of it. It's not fair."
"You think you killed Ron."
"I... I didn't kill Ron."
"No, maybe not directly, but you think you're responsible for it. I know you do. I can see it in your eyes."
"That's different."
"It's not."
"I... there were so many things... It's not the same. It's not the same."
"Granger."
"Mm?"
"Shut up."
"Okay."
Silence. The sun cast a hazy glow on the wall where the women danced with stars and comets in the night. Hermione found it oddly unnerving.
"Snape always told me about you. At first I didn't want to hear, but after a while, I'd hear anything he had to say. Gave better advice than my father, that's for sure," he remarked. "I figured I'd do well to pay attention. He said you were too smart for your own good. Said you were obnoxious about it, too, and I agreed. Nothing like Lily Potter, he used to say, and I got the distinct feeling that something was on between them. Explained his weird obsession with her useless son."
She shot him a menacing glare. Don't go there, arsehole.
"But he respected you. So I respected you, because I respected him. It took a while though. He was there for me in ways others couldn't be."
"Yeah," she agreed. She knew how Snape could be. A complete and utter wanker, most of the time, but at least he didn't take any bullshit from her like the rest of them did. And he didn't give her any, either. It was always the truth, the bare truth, without frills and lace, and it saved her arse half the time. Almost like he cared whether her arse was saved or not. Sometimes she thought he saw something in her that nobody else could, regardless of the fact that he was the world's most skilled legilimens.
"Never thought I'd lower myself to this, but I do regret... his loss."
"Me too."
Another silence.
"You know Ron died trying to save me."
"I know."
.x.
She spent most of her time in the library, now. So long as she remained in captivity, she was going to set a mission for herself. Forge her own mountain. Go get 'em, tiger.
This time, her mission was to make him use his magic. Because when she thought about it, she didn't know what she'd do without it. Magic was her identity. Sometimes, it was the only thing keeping her sane.
Sometimes he'd come in and ask her what she was doing. They'd have long discussions with hot tea at least once daily (he liked his strong, with a splash of milk, nothing more) about everything except what really mattered, and she'd give him subtle hints about what she was trying to get him to do. Please, pick up your wand. Be yourself again, so I can hate you, and we can go back to the way it was before.
She threatened him with the things she'd read–"Did you know that magic, when unused for long periods of time, can deteriorate until all you've left is what muggles would call 'paranormal phenomena'?"–but he didn't seem to mind. It was almost like he was actively trying to get rid of his magic, to put everything about the magical world behind him. But never the house.
And then at night, he would always come into her room and lay at the foot of the bed. He never slept, but she was somehow comforted by his presence.
And then there were the books she read about unbreakable vows.
.x.
"I want to kiss you."
"What?"
"I want to kiss you."
Don't say it don't say it don't say it don't–"What do you mean?"
He walked toward her and touched her shoulder like he had before, but this time, he trailed his fingers up her neck and tilted her chin toward him. There was fear in his eyes, fear that melded into her, and he moved to run his thumb along her cheekbone.
She could have resisted, but she didn't. His lips landed softly, slowly on hers, and for a moment she could taste salt on them. His eyes flashed open as he pulled his face from hers, and they were staring past the pupils, into each other's thoughts before he kissed her again, this time more forcefully, nipping at her lower lip and inching his tongue into her mouth.
When she kissed him back, he pulled away like he was surprised. Scared. Disgusted. She hoped it wasn't the last one.
Whatever the case, soon, he was kissing her cheeks, her neck, her shoulders, running his tongue along her collarbone and nipping at her ear. She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled his face toward hers for another hungry kiss, and then he collapsed on her, on the bed, and nuzzled his head in the space between her chin and her shoulder.
"We could get away from here, you know," he whispered.
She said nothing.
Maybe she was a little, tiny bit in love with him at the moment, but she wasn't stupid. Things could never be normal again. She didn't know what she would do, but she figured when–if–she ever got out of the Manor, it wouldn't be with him. Though she dreamed of getting away, of avoiding everyone and everything she'd known before, she knew it was unreasonable. But the moment was too perfect to sully with her realism. If he wanted to believe they could be saved, and that they could have normal, post-war lives, then she'd let him believe it. Because he needed to.
"What if you're the last person I ever kiss?"
When she didn't answer him, she heard rummaging at the other night stand, but didn't ask what he was doing.
"Nox."
.x.
She left the morning he had planned to let her go.
Maybe he'd known she was going to. Maybe he'd seen the books. Or maybe he'd just had a hunch from the start that she'd lied to him, buried somewhere deep in his gut. That's what she told herself, and it's how she let herself go.
House elves sanctifying unbreakable vows? It was almost comical. Of course they could do no such thing. This was all his fault for being so naive.
She would go to the Ministry. She would tell them what she knew, she would send them in the right direction, and she'd be off. Maybe she'd ask them to be lenient. He was right when he said that they wouldn't take "oops" for an answer. He'd committed a crime. In fact, he'd committed two crimes. At least two. And he deserved to be punished. Right?
She didn't know if anyone deserved to be punished anymore. Hell was punishment enough.
It was a little sad to think that they'd worked so hard for nothing. That they'd fabricated something of a friendship for just a short period of time because they needed to–they needed to before her betrayal.
There was another story her father used to read her; it was the New Testament. Oh, if she didn't feel like a Judas Iscariot right now. There was even the kiss. She was comforted with the thought that he was nothing like Jesus, and he wasn't sacrificing anything. As much as he'd like to think he had. Or was.
Fucking arrogant sod.
Fucking arrogant sod with those strong hands and soft lips and broad shoulders. And tea at three and companionship. And no pity, only understanding.
Strange she should find it in her mortal enemy. She still hated him.
And that's exactly why she came back.
She tip-toed into the room where she'd stayed; she knew he'd be there. He heard her anyway, and looked up in surprise, but it was too late. She kissed him, kissed him hard, pinning him to the bed as she took her cloak off. Then came her blouse and her bra, then his shirt and trousers, and she dug her fingers into his biceps as their bodies locked together, moving rhythmically, angrily to the sound of their heavy breathing. He withdrew and stabbed her with the look in his eyes–the look of betrayal, anger, lust, of disappointment and surprise, but mostly sadness. It was gone in an instant, though, because he knew exactly what he wanted; he bit her neck fiercely, kissed her chest and then took a nipple between his teeth, eliciting a soft moan from her that she'd never forget.
She buried her hands in his hair and squeezed her fingers against his scalp, squeezed and pinched until she thought he might bleed and scarlet would run through those white locks–purity marred by pain–and then she pulled him up, higher, higher, higher, until she felt his erection against her belly. A little lower, there we go, and he slid into her again. The rocking became steady, vigorous, angry, violent, and she arched her spine to mould her body to his. Her feet curled at the end of the bed, the fabric bunching between her toes, and she dug her fingernails into his shoulders and raked his back more out of frustration than of pleasure.
This was it, this was her apology. This was her penance; he could do whatever he wanted to her so long as it meant it would atone for everything she'd done. Please hurt me, hurt me like I hurt you... She bit his ear gently, and his rhythm heightened. He groaned once, and then again into her mouth when she kissed him and snapped her legs around his back. He let her go only once, and that was to pull her legs higher, to run his palms along her thighs, and draw calculated circles there with the heels of his hands and push into her with his fingers until she thought she might bruise. He added two or three final thrusts, all the while grunting and moaning loudly, and then it was over and he settled into the cleave between her chin and collarbone again, nibbling at her neck.
"I didn't think you'd come back."
She didn't say anything, only ran her fingers through his hair and along his back. She felt safe for once, and she wasn't about to ruin it.
"But you're not back, are you?"
She looked away. "The ministry's coming for you. They'll be here by tomorrow. You need to leave."
"So we'll go together. I've nothing left, Granger. And it's not like you do, either. Things aren't going to be perfect, or anywhere close, but..." His voice trailed off like the end of a song.
She looked at him sadly.
"What do you mean? What does that mean?"
"I can't. You know I can't," she whispered. "This is the best I can do. To warn you. And I'm sorry for everything."
"You've got nothing to be sorry for."
"I wish... I wish I could believe that. I wish my sins ended with the war, but I guess... I..."
She ran her fingers through his hair again, and neither of them said anything for a while, knowing what was coming. Knowing that they couldn't, and that nothing would be the same, never, but at least they'd have this. The last hurrah of their childhood. The door slamming shut that had previously been safeguarding what was left of their innocence, where enemies could still care, and things like hate were easy to change. As long as she didn't have to admit to it, it didn't happen. Didn't exist. It wouldn't have to end.
"I don't know where I'll go."
"Me neither." She hoped he could pick up on the fact that she wasn't talking about location.
"Probably Italy. I've got some family there."
"The mafia?"
"Something like that."
"I knew it," she joked, but it was stale, because neither of them was really in the mood.
"And they're definitely coming for me."
"Yeah."
He exhaled something serious, and she knew he was fighting the daemons again.
"Would you just... would you stay here tonight?"
She didn't answer, but she didn't leave either. They lay together the entire night, arms, legs, lips entwined, willing a new day not to come.
And in those few hours between abject darkness and dawn, they both slept.