Inspired by "The Charge of the Light Brigade", a poem by Alfred Tennyson.
Also, I apologise if it doesn't exactly qualify as Draco/Hermione to you - personally, I prefer to write subtle. I'm always afraid I'll ruin the pairing if I try otherwise.
Sometimes, it was impossible to forget the shadows that lurked on their horizon. The War had been a part of their lives since they first stepped foot into Hogwarts, bright-eyed children untouched by fear and pride and loathing. A rolling thunder in the distance, growing larger as it draws in on them, electrifying the air with tension.
Sometimes, it was too much to handle. In her fifth year, Hermione had learned to cherish whatever scrap of peace she could find. At home in the muggle world, she would run to the park at the end of her street, and bury herself among the trees. With her blood pounding in her ears, and the scent of leaves and wet soil sticky in her lungs, she could escape. The trees would stand stoically around her, whispering their secrets in exchange for her silence. She felt safe, nestled by the hard, scratchy bark and the soft ground.
Back in the tumultuous wizarding world, it didn't take long for her to seek the blackness of the Forbidden Forest. Perhaps she was suicidal, or perhaps she was too confident in her abilities as a witch. Perhaps she was both.
She mostly clung to the edges, anyway. She ventured far enough in that she could no longer see the castle's turrets, but near enough to the outside that she could still see her hands in the dappled sunlight. The trees were different here; they hummed with the magic that seeped into every fabric of this world. She wasn't sure if she found it comforting, but if she let herself go completely, she could let it wash over her, swallow her into the energy. And for an hour or two every other day, she drowned in it.
It was a cold, golden fall afternoon in her sixth year as a student at Hogwarts. She felt quite alone; Harry was always distracted under the weight that rested on his shoulders, and Ron was preoccupied with Quidditch tryouts and his newfound male ego. She found she missed their company in the castle. It was impossible to lose herself in the common room, or the Great Hall, or the library, and she hated them a little bit for leaving her with nothing to focus on but the fear that rippled through the student body like breath, and the oncoming storm that felt too much like the end of the road.
She found herself stumbling more often into the Forbidden Forest, letting her feet carry her deeper into the inky darkness. She felt she was becoming wild, allowing herself to be swept away by the currents of magic that permeated everything. Perhaps she was suicidal. Perhaps she was turning her back on her place in the fight. Perhaps she just didn't care. She wanted to just be Hermione, the witch with the bushy hair and muggle parents who got excellent grades. Not the brave, selfless fighter who formed one half of the pillar that supported Harry Potter in his battle for the freedom of humankind.
Perhaps it was her destiny. She didn't like to think about that very often; questions of destiny brought with them questions of fate, and with fate she inevitably pondered her demise. She couldn't help the thoughts of the brave, selfless fighters she'd read about in her books who sacrificed themselves for the good of the world. The idea of following Harry blindly into battle against one of the greatest (certainly the most ruthless and bloodthirsty) wizards of all time was sickening, and made her legs weak. She was no hero.
She thought of a poem she had read once in her father's study:
Boldly they rode and well, into the jaws of Death, into the mouth of Hell.
Was she one of the six hundred, charging into her death with fear and dismay in her heart? She could become anything, anyone, she wanted. She could travel the Muggle and wizarding worlds, she could get married, she could have children, she could write books, she could teach future generations all the knowledge and wisdom she had, she could leave her mark on the world after a long, startling, enriched, frightening, wondrous life. She could do so much more than she could if she died at seventeen. She wanted to be more than a name on a marble monument, or a memory in the scarred hearts of the survivors. Perhaps she was being selfish. Perhaps she wasn't seeing the big picture. Perhaps she just wanted to live.
Without realising, her feet had taken her further into the Forest than she had ever been alone. Soul searching would mean little if a centaur's arrow ended it all right now.
She made to turn back, to trudge heavily back up to the castle and put on her brave face, but a noise to her left made her stop. Instinctively her hand plunged into her robes for her wand, and she cast a quick silencio on her feet. Puzzled, she crept closer to the tiny break in the trees that had omitted what she thought to be a cry. Ignoring what Harry and Ron would say if they were here, she pressed herself to one of the wider tree trunks and carefully peeked around. Her dark eyebrows shot up in surprise.
The long, black-clad figure was folded up at the base of a huge pine tree, his thin fingers digging roughly into the cold dirt. His silver head dropped to his chest as he sobbed, his teeth clenched against the sound. Hermione's legs made to run, before he saw her watching him, but something made her stay there, still as a statue.
Something was wrong. She felt it settle in her heart, the same way it settled on Malfoy's back, covering him like a cloak. For the first time since she realised there was a war coming, she felt a real stab of fear between her ribs. Something was changing outside the walls of the school, and she was powerless. Time crashed around her like waves, surging her forward, and she could do nothing to stop it.
Malfoy wrenched his hands from the soil, and began pounding the earth around him. His right hand struck a jagged root, and Hermione saw bright red blood blossom on his skin. He didn't stop right away, didn't seem to notice, but eventually the pain must have registered, and he stopped beating the ground. He cradled his hand in his lap, and tried to breathe raggedly.
Should she go help him? She knew a few small healing charms. But then, he probably did too. And what did she expect would happen? She would sit by him and hold him in her arms, and comfort him until he came back to himself? Highly doubtful.
Before she could decide what to do, a flash of crimson above her head made her flinch and grip her wand even tighter. She straightened up and pressed herself harder against the tree, and held as still as she could. She heard a gentle thud coming from Malfoy's clearing, and she very slowly, carefully, peeked again.
Fawkes, his red and gold plumage shining like the sun, was perched next to Malfoy's lap, gazing into his face elegantly. Hermione expected the Slytherin to shoo the phoenix away, and curse him for being such a good, pure creature, but instead he lifted his head from his chest and just stared tiredly at the immortal. As she watched, Malfoy's breathing slowed, and his chest loosened to allow more air into his rigid lungs. Fawkes cooed softly, and nuzzled his magnificent head against Malfoy's injured hand.
Of course, Hermione thought as she watched the dark stain disappear from the boy's skin.
For what seemed like an endless stretch of time, Hermione watched as Fawkes nuzzled Malfoy, making small reassuring noises while the Slytherin stared silently into the darkness ahead of him. He grimaced, closing his eyes.
"I can't." he whispered brokenly. "I can't."
Fawkes looked up at his face sadly, dropping a solitary tear on Malfoy's dirty robes. Hermione wondered if it was meant for the boy's heart.
As she watched, the phoenix cooed once more, before lifting his great ember wings and taking flight into the golden sky. She stepped forward, gliding over the leaves on silent feet, and held out her hand, her fingers gently beckoning. Her pale skin glowed in the nearing darkness, and Malfoy grabbed her hand wordlessly, hauling himself to his feet. With heavy hearts they walked silently back to the castle.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
