Part Four
Draco glanced again at the enchanted ring, at once pleased and surprised to find that Hermione had not countered the meeting time he proposed. They had been rescheduling all week, often at the last minute.
At first, Draco had thought nothing of it. Hermione had responsibilities to the Order, after all, and they were a busy bunch, what with meeting the Death Eaters spell for spell at every raid. After the fifth time, however, he started to wonder if maybe she was avoiding him. Maybe she had noticed that, ever since St. Mungo's, his actions hadn't been motivated by pure selfishness.
Maybe she had noticed the way he felt about her.
Hermione knowing the truth wouldn't be the worst disaster to have ever befallen humankind. Awkward, yes, and possibly the end of the strange working relationship, but there was always the chance of her reciprocating, too. It was a slim chance; Draco doubted it was even within the realm of possibilities concerning the two of them. Still, it was a nice dream.
Some days, he liked to believe it was more than just a fantasy. Some days, he even believed there was evidence of it being more. He wasn't blind, after all, and Hermione – for all her cunning – was still a bloody Gryffindor. Meaning, of course, that she had about as much subtlety as a rampaging Hippogriff. All those glances when she thought he wasn't looking, all those innocent touches to his arms, shoulders, and – Merlin help him – legs. She'd cooked him dinner that one time they'd met later in the day, and she had brought him a new wand holster when his old one finally snapped.
Hell, she'd even started telling him about the goings-on at the Order. Not much, mind: Draco was still a Death Eater and nothing but the death of either Voldemort or himself could ever change that. But he did know about Horcruxes. He didn't know how many there were, or how many the Order had destroyed, but Hermione had explained the basics, which answered many of his unspoken questions.
He also knew that Potter was becoming frustrated with being left out of the loop. Hermione's reports concerning what Draco told her were extremely private. Potter knew they happened, but couldn't wheedle information out of anyone involved.
As it should be, of course. Scarhead wouldn't fancy his golden girl getting friendly with a fiend like Draco, even if it was in exchange for information. It made his meetings with Hermione that much sweeter, if he was being honest. That, and the fact that the Weasel didn't know about them. Draco had no idea if Hermione and the ginger oaf were still an item or not, but on the off chance that they were, Draco very much enjoyed being part of the wedge that could drive them apart.
Weasley could never deserve her, anyway.
He smirked, then glanced away from his plate to his hand simply to assure himself that the runes hadn't changed. Narcissa cleared her throat. Draco knew instantly that she'd noticed. She noticed everything. He hated it. It was like he didn't have any secrets from her, which was an extremely unsettling idea considering that his survival hinged on keeping Hermione absolutely and entirely secret.
Draco shot a quick glance at Lucius, but he hadn't noticed. His father hadn't noticed much of anything lately. He was still suffering from some side effects of the Dark Lord's latest version of punishment – sensory deprivation. Draco couldn't help but remember the day he and Hermione had first met on the battlefield, deafened and bleeding. He repressed a shudder, which Narcissa undoubtedly noticed, and turned back to pushing food around on his plate. At least they hadn't been blinded as Lucius had been.
A few minutes of silence elapsed, then Lucius sent down his fork. "I will be in my study," he announced. Slowly, he rose to his feet, relying on his cane much more than he used to. Draco and Narcissa watched his slow exit carefully. Once she was sure he was out of hearing range, she turned to watch Draco.
"Who is it?"
Draco's stomach fluttered in momentary panic, but he kept it off his face. "Who is who?"
"The girl who wears the brother to that ring." She jutted her delicate chin toward his hand, which he clenched and drew into his lap. Not very subtle, he realized too late.
Narcissa pursed her lips. "An exchange of rings is not a game for children, Draco."
"Good thing I'm not a child."
"Not a child," Narcissa spat contemptuously. "A fool, then, just like your father. If you believe no one else has seen-"
"Who else could? Father is half-blind and there hasn't been a meeting for weeks," Draco snapped. "Besides, it's nothing. A trinket Grandfather Abraxas gave me when I was a boy."
"That you just decided to begin wearing within the last month."
"No time like the present," he said smoothly.
Her blue eyes narrowed. Draco could hear her teeth grinding. She knew it was a lie, and she knew that Draco knew it was a lie, but the hounds of Hades wouldn't tear the truth from him. Not if it meant Hermione's safety.
She took a long draught of wine and set down her goblet carefully. "Let me give you a piece of advice, Draco. When what is asked of you exceeds the capacity of what you can give, let go. There's no sense believing in an impossible reality."
Draco's stomach plummeted to his knees. There was no stopping the blood draining from his face. He always thought she suspected something, but her tone implied more than mere conjecture. How much did she actually know, and how much danger were he and Hermione in because of it? He refused to believe that Narcissa would leak information that could lead to further familial disgrace or Draco's death, but information could be stolen much faster than it could be told.
It was a lot to consider with precious little time to do it. He stopped himself from glancing at the ring, drained his goblet, then stood and left without a word.
Though Narcissa's suspicions were certainly cause for concern, her opinions made no difference to him. This was a first for Draco and probably counted as irrefutable evidence that he had, in fact, grown up. He thought he'd reached that point when he killed Luna Lovegood, but he had been mistaken. Her death had changed him, certainly, but it hadn't matured him. Taking a life couldn't do that. It wasn't powerful enough.
But saving a life? There was power in that. Power enough to redirect a meandering existence and change the course of a war. The instant he made the decision to pull Hermione into that cave, the hollowness within him had filled. There was more to life than just himself. He understood that now.
Once he warded and soundproofed his bedroom, he spoke into the ring and let it take him away, even though it meant being a full thirty minutes early.
Lupin's ramshackle cottage was on the outskirts of a small town in the south of Britain. Draco had scorned it at first, much as he had scorned the man himself for his ragged appearance. But after a few meetings, the cottage started to grow on him. It did have a certain charm – there was a small couch before a large hearth, a modest yet easy to navigate kitchen, a serviceable loo, and a quaint bedroom. It was a cozy space and, though he visited infrequently, it felt like a second home to him.
He set a kettle on – as was their tradition – and waited. Suddenly, the air near the hearth glowed blue. Draco drew his wand out of habit and pointed it at the space. A moment later, Hermione materialized. She was sobbing.
Protocol was to exchange several sets of identifying questions, have a spot of tea, then get down to business. In light of the circumstances, Draco decided to abandon convention. He lowered his wand and, unsure of what to do instead, gaped at her. She noticed him a moment later and gasped in surprise. She fumbled for her wand. It shot golden sparks as it fell to the floor, which just made her cry harder.
"I thought…" she hiccoughed, bending down to retrieve her wand. "I mean, I didn't think… You're… You're early." She swiped at her eyes, but they were beyond hope, far too red and puffy to disguise without magic and a fair amount of cosmetics.
"I had a bit of a row with my mother. What happened to you?"
The question started another round of sobbing, and Hermione sank down onto the couch gracelessly. Draco joined her. Gathering his courage, he put an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him immediately and cried on his shoulder for several minutes as he stroked her hair.
"Are you in danger?" he asked gently, trying not to make the question sound as urgent as he felt it should be.
"No."
He swallowed his fear. "Am I?"
"No, Draco… It's Ginny. She's… She's dead."
His stomach clenched. "How? I hadn't heard anything."
"We've started doing routine sweeps of Diagon Alley," she said thickly, blotting away tears with the hem of her sleeve. "It was Ginny's turn to do the rounds. She went with Seamus. It was going fine, but the Death Eaters were running a bit behind. They… They met up outside of Fortescue's old place. There was… There was a fight."
He didn't need to hear any more. "I'm sorry, Hermione." And he meant it. He remembered all too clearly when Crabbe died, and Goyle soon after. It hadn't been easy, and he hadn't handled it well. He imagined Hermione and Ginny had been closer than he, Crabbe, and Goyle had ever been.
"Ron said it was my fault," Hermione whispered into his neck. "He said that I let her go. He said that if I had been looking out for her properly, like a friend should, this never would've happened. And Harry…" She choked back a sob. "Harry said I didn't care. That I was heartless, and wasn't thinking of him, and was intentionally going behind his back… I had to leave. I couldn't be near them. I just… I couldn't."
"You don't believe them."
Hermione shrugged. "I never tried to keep her out of the field, despite Harry's wishes."
"It was never his decision to make."
"But if I had volunteered instead… If I had prepared her better… If I had-"
"There was nothing you could have done."
She pushed away from him to look him in the eyes. "How do you know?" she whispered. "How do you know there was nothing?"
"Because people die all the time," he said gently. "Tonight, it just happened to be someone you knew."
"That doesn't make it hurt any less."
"I know."
"I wish this war was over."
"I know."
"Draco…"
He cupped her cheek, using his thumb to brush away her tears. Then her lips were on his. Her kiss was not timid or shy. It was like her: self-assured, strong, and surprising. He knew she was vulnerable, knew he should push her away, but her hands were too insistent and her taste too intoxicating. Draco shoved the guilt away and sunk into the feeling, gathering her onto his lap. He twined one hand in her hair as the other found the hem of her shirt. She moaned into his mouth as his palm cupped her breast, steadying herself on his shoulders.
Suddenly, she broke away from him. Her eyes were dark with grief and clouded with lust; the sight was mesmerizing.
"Long ago, you wondered why I didn't turn you in." Her voice was throaty, and Draco interrupted her with a deep kiss.
"I know why," he gasped when she pulled away again. "You believed in me."
"No," she said with a smile, their noses touching. "It was because you believed in me."
It was all over for him then. He kissed her again. This time, they didn't stop.
