Title: Worries
Status: Complete
Rating: M

Summary: Hermione worries, and Draco is there to help her get through it.

Word Count: 1989
Beta: Edith (yesterday4) and Tracey (freefall2108). Looove you both. Recently, Michelle, who just makes everything better :)! THEN, EVEN MORE RECENTLY, Amelie (namelessamelie), who killed at helping out this fic. Thank you so much - all of you! And then of course Cklls. Apparently one can never have too many betas… OOPS? Should mention now that this is rewritten (or revised, whichever you please) in 2018!
Notes: Oh well. Another one-shot. My bad.

Worries: One of One

The war is in full swing.

She is surrounded constantly by death, tears, and pain.

All of it sits on her shoulder with her every thought, her every move, her every word. It weighs her down until, almost habitually, she can barely think past her worries. Hermione is stuck, trapped in the never-ending thoughts of the tension, the mistakes, the doubt.

She is bothered by how often this occurs, but she is forced to convince herself that the war will end, it has to, and that when it does, her mind will be released from the hold it is currently in. This explanation only soothes her anxiety for mere moments, however, because she simply cannot see all of this finally ending—finding and destroying the remaining horcruxes, finding Voldemort, then dealing with the remaining Death Eaters after his (needed) demise, no doubt incredibly angered of their lost leader.

It has already been too long since she left Hogwarts, since she started the horcrux hunt with Harry and Ron…since she turned twenty, even. If the last battle, the one that decided the fate of everyone around them, had not happened yet, especially with no real clue as to when it would…how did they know their efforts were of any worth? That the dangers they've endured have brought them any closer to victory? That it will all, eventually, come to an end?

They have been training too hard and waiting too long to attack. Which was the biggest problem, in her opinion.

She does not know whether she wants them to go into battle incompetent, unprepared; or if she'd rather wait until every single person is well-trained to face the wrath of the Death Eaters. She thinks that perhaps it doesn't matter…that the war will happen regardless. There will always be those who aren't ready, those who are, and those who have never really cared at all. Her logical side tells her that whether they are ready, capable, or knowledgeable, the war will cause havoc either way. Prolonging the inevitable, wasting all this time without doing anything, only gives Voldemort more time to prepare.

Hermione sighs, grabbing hold of more blankets, her hands clenching too hard of their own accord when she feels the sharp edges of her nails nearly draw blood. Her system is clearly not taking the never-ending stress so well, considering how restless she is tonight…last night…every night for the past two years. She sighs again, feeling the worries sink so deeply into her psych that tears nearly escape from her eyes.

She doesn't want to cry though. She won't, she knows, because Malfoy pulls her into his body the moment she feels the tug at her heart, the pressure at her sternum, the unmistakable foretelling of her tears. She gulps it back, reveling instantly in his warmth, her breakdown temporarily postponed.

Their legs entangle as his head nudges its way towards the crook of her neck, where she can feel his exhales against her skin.

"Go back to bed, Granger," he says lazily, pressing a soft kiss just below her jawline. "You can't think about this all the time–you'll only tire yourself out until you dry up like a prune."

Typical, she thinks, laughing lightly at his immature analogy. She nuzzles closer and sighs, content, as his arms tighten around her. When she finally responds, her voice is soft yet teasing. "At least I'll be an old prune and not a ferret who doesn't give a damn about anything but himself."

He's quiet for a moment. "Right," he answers, sounding disappointed. But there is still a twinkle of humour in his eye as he pulls back to look at her. "Because I haven't proven time and time again that I care more than most."

She pulls her leg up to slide against his, and he uses her bent knee as a place to rest his elbow. "Why would anyone ever believe that?" she says. "It's obvious that you're too selfish for your own good. You haven't changed at all, you know."

Their tones are playful yet serious, with a sharp edge to their words that reminds them that this is their banter, the kind they so love to engage in. It's always been like this–bickering back and forth until all the venom in their insults evaporates. It was the start of their sexual tension. She thinks that it began around the time the war was at its never-ending peak. Hermione only remembers blurs from those few months, but she recalls that, even with as little spare time as they had, they managed to find themselves tangled in his or her sheets, arguing (sometimes playfully) about the inanest things.

"Of course, I haven't," he hums, sliding his mouth back along her neck. A jolt of something runs through her spine, and she's shivering before she even feels the second kiss below the first. She's grown accustomed to the way he makes her feel, but she still savours it every time he touches her.

Sarcasm laces his next words: "And since we're being so truthful, I wonder what your best friends would say if they found out that you had joined me in following Voldemort. I don't know how they believe your lies about your loyalty, even if they are coming out of that pretty little mouth of yours." And, as if to emphasize his last point, he retreats from her neck, levels his gaze with hers, and slowly leans forward to kiss her.

His mouth slants over hers; and her hands automatically slide to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as his hands wrap gently around her waist. He presses his body into the soft curve of hers, and she can hear the sound of his appreciation escape from the back of his throat. She wraps her tongue around his—once, twice—before pulling back so that he can rest his forehead against her own.

"That's not funny, Draco," she whispers, holding him at bay. He wants to continue, of course—but she hates when he brings up Voldemort and wants to punish him for it. It's the soft spot no one could touch, not even him, and her worries remain just as palpable whenever she hears that name. "You shouldn't make a joke like that. Not at a time like this."

"I know," he replies, just as softly. "I'm sorry." He brings one arm under her shoulder, pulling her up into a hug until she is half-sitting on his lap. Hermione revels in the warmth, because normally he doesn't like to hug when they could be doing better things, but he knows she needs this comfort.

She rests her arms around his torso, sinking into him and his compassion.

"I just don't think that we'll all... No one's going to be the same after this. Everything will be so tainted—if we even make it out alive. And he's growing stronger right now, even as we speak." She fidgets with her fingers, trying to let go of the forceful hold that she has on his shirt, but she is too nervous to do so. She hates that she's bringing him into her distress, but she cannot hide it. It is always with her, no matter how many times he's tried to help her forget.

"And then, of course, there's the situation with your father," she says softly. "He'll kill me."

He knows as well as she does that she's right.

She feels his hands grasp her more tightly as he brings her closer. He rests his head on top of hers, nestling her further into his protective embrace. "Remember what I said, Hermione. I know it's been bothering you—I know it, you know it, everyone knows it—but when you're with me, you shouldn't... you shouldn't worry, okay? This is real; you and me. I love you, with everything I never had before meeting you. I know that isn't much coming from, well, a Malfoy, but I won't ever let anything hurt you. Especially not him."

Hermione buries her head further into his chest. "I love you," she whispers. "I do. And you know– Draco, you know that I trust you." She pulls back slowly, looking him in the eye. "Completely. But it's always been in my nature to worry. Even back when I was at Hogwarts," she adds, smiling nostalgically.

"Nothing will happen to you," Draco says, his breath uneven. "I won't let it happen." His hand glides along her shoulder, up her neck, to gently cradle her head and bring her closer. "Never," he whispers, pressing his lips to hers. His tongue runs along her own before he pulls back and nibbles gently on her bottom lip. She shivers when he laves it with his tongue and whispers, "Don't think that, okay? You can't... die. You couldn't… Why did you even suggest that you could–"

He is rambling, and for a moment she smiles sadly before stopping him by catching his mouth with hers. She feels him pause against her, but he recovers fast and drags her down to the bed before covering her body with his own. Draco's tongue once again dips into her mouth before sliding back out again; then he changes angles and slides between her lips once more. It is only when she's moaning into his mouth, his hand palming her breast up and down, up and down, that she realizes that she cherishes this relationship more than she could have ever imagined when they first started doing...this.

Draco slips a warm hand under her blouse, following the curves of her skin until his fingers reach her shoulder to pull her shirt aside. She leans up into another kiss and unbuttons his shirt before sliding her hands up and down his chest, feeling his muscles clench under her touch. It is only an instant later that they are lying naked in each other's embrace, their bodies thumping with the rhythm of his thrusts. He is positioned over her as they move together, stealing chaste kisses in between hot breaths.

Afterwards, they curl into each other's bodies, whispering their hopes for the future. It is only then that she feels at ease with what lies ahead, as much as she can, and she thanks Draco to the end of the world and back. They make love again, their breathing laboured in the morning air, and she knows that she will never be able to live without him.

It is another worry that she will have to add to her list.

Of course.

-
It is only four months later when they both escape, unscathed, from The Final Battle. They run towards each other until she is in his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist, and they are kissing and whispering incomplete sentences in the seconds between.

"I love–" A kiss, hands in hair.

A deep sigh. "I know, I–"

"–you, so much–"

They kiss langorously, their mouths moving together; and when they are not kissing they are hugging each other tightly, chanting endearments into the other's neck. They simply refuse to part from one another. At least for now, she thinks, her uneasiness about the future is gone. The future starts now.

And she gets to live it with him.