Edited 10/13/15
6. Sip of Something Poisoned
You know those days when you want to just choose
To not get out of bed, you're lost in your head again.
You play the game but you kind of cut
'Cause you're coming down hard and your joints are all stuck.
I tried to say that's not the only way
I never knew if I could face myself to change.
You were pacing, I was insecure.
Slip and fall, I got the calls from the prison I've been living in
[Helena Beat, FOSTER THE PEOPLE]
He dreams of her, and in his dreams, she is happy, and she smiles at him - walks towards him and says his name with so much relief and joy it hurts to hear, and he smiles back at her and says,
"Avada Kedavra!"
Neville came to visit her every few days over the next week, and of everyone he was the only person not constantly trying to persuade Hermione to come upstairs. He talked fondly about Luna, and rambled about old - happy - school memories, and sometimes Hermione even talked about Draco to him. They played Scrabble a lot, because unlike Draco, Neville loved the game, and he'd sit there in his button-down cardigan with his hair combed neatly, sucking air through his teeth as he tried to think of a word, and Hermione thought he looked rather ridiculously and sweetly like an old man. All he needed to complete the image was a blackball or smoker sweet to suck, and a pair of cosy slippers. It was nice, spending time with him. Hermione never felt pressured or tense around Neville - he was just Neville.
Nearly two weeks after Hermione had escaped, Neville told her excitedly that the Room of Requirement had started working again - albeit not as well as before, as it was still healing from the Fiendfyre. But still, it was usable now. He was to be stationed there again, and the Order was working towards taking over Hogwarts by force, attacking from the Room - they hoped that successfully taking control of Hogwarts would force Voldemort's hand, and make him come out for a final, decisive battle. Hermione thought it was as good a plan as any, but her mind wasn't really on the war right now, and Remus had told her, rather firmly, to take her time before getting back into the fight, which suited her quite well. She knew she couldn't hide away forever, but she just needed a little more time.
Things were still strained between Hermione, Harry, and Ron - especially her and Harry, although he'd apologised repeatedly for putting it that way when he'd said they wouldn't be going in after Draco. Hermione recognised now that they hadn't had much choice; she didn't know anything about the place except the cell, hallway, the room they were tortured in, and the room they were healed in, and with the anti-apparition wards back up they would have been fatally splinched if they'd tried to apparate in, so there hadn't been anything they could do immediately, except for keep searching for the right house. But Harry hadn't had to put it that way. He hadn't had to be so horribly harsh about it - she would've accepted the facts if he'd said them kindly. Probably. At any rate, Hermione was still angry with him, and worse, disappointed. Mistrusting. She'd never felt like this towards Harry before, and it was an extremely unpleasant feeling.
"How am I supposed to trust you, Harry?" she yelled at him one evening when he'd brought her dinner down and started nagging at her not to please not be angry at him anymore. "How - I've always stuck by you. I've always been willing to do anything for you. Anything. And the one time - the one time - that I need something from you, you don't just refuse it, you refuse it like that," she tried to explain furiously, brushing the tears from her eyes that she hated herself for crying because it made her look hysterical and she wasn't - she was angry.
"I'm sorry, Hermione, and I wish that I - we - could have, but we couldn't. We couldn't," Harry just said helplessly, missing half her bloody point, and she shook her head angrily, not accepting that.
"Even if you feel that you had to refuse - and I don't agree with that - you still didn't have to shove it down my throat like that, Harry! You didn't have to be so cruel about it."
"And how would I have been kind?" Harry was as distressed and angry as she'd ever seen him be, scrubbing his hands through his hair and staring wild-eyed and pleading at her, begging her to understand. "How could I have put the fact that we weren't going to go rescue the man you love kindly? Because shit, Hermione, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, but I don't think there's any kind way to put that."
Harry was right about that much, but Hermione didn't care - because she would have gone with Harry to get Ginny. She would have helped him find the place, and then she would have helped him rescue Ginny, even if she thought it meant her probable death. Because that was just how much she loved Harry. Because they were best friends, and she was loyal. She didn't care that it could be the war at stake, because now that she'd lost him, Hermione had realised that Draco meant far more to her than even the war. She knew they had to win - that winning was the only option, logically. That it had to happen, because if Voldemort won, all would be lost. But in the end, whether they won or lost…Hermione couldn't bring herself to care that much anymore. What would affect her was knowing she'd left Draco to die, and knowing that none of her friends had been willing to even try to help her save him.
Ron was a little easier to be around, and his hugs were still the best thing available to sink into when she was feeling utterly miserable and teary, just so long as he kept his mouth shut so he couldn't shove his foot in it. Tonks brought little Teddy down sometimes for a cuddle, which was lovely even if it did make Hermione's heart twinge. And Cho and Ginny came down several times, and tried very, very hard to act normally - mostly failing, but Hermione appreciated that they tried.
A week after Hermione's return, Luna kindly contacted Mr Olivander, and asked him to make Hermione another wand - he'd agreed, and said it would be ready within a month, and she was immensely relieved about that. The Order hadn't given her a spare wand to borrow, and Hermione wasn't sure if it was because they just didn't think she needed one being as she was in the cellar all the time, and not out on missions, or if they didn't think they had a spare one that would work for her - or, if it was because they didn't trust her with one. But whatever their reasons, they couldn't stop Ollivander making her one, even if they wanted to because they didn't trust her stability. She had every right to a wand - and she would need one. She wasn't planning on sitting in the cellar forever. Hermione didn't know if Remus, Harry or Kingsley would want to let her, but she wanted to be involved in the assault on Hogwarts.
As she explained rather irritably to Harry, not wanting to come out of the cellar right now did not mean she wasn't fit for battle, it just meant she liked the cellar better than the rest of the house and had no reason to come out yet. And that no, all her other strange little habits and ticks didn't make her unfit either. She would cope fine in battle, she swore it to him, but he looked at her doubtfully and oh, she was so angry with him for that. If any one of the two of them had reason to doubt the other, it was Hermione who reason to doubt Harry. But she crushed down her anger and just assured him calmly that she would be fine, when the time came. If anything, having abandoned Draco to the Death Eaters just made Hermione more determined to fight, for a myriad of reasons she tried not to examine too closely because it hurt.
She also tried not to think too much about Draco after the first week back at Godric's - not consciously, anyway, although he was always lingering at the back of her mind and she couldn't help him drifting over her thoughts. Like a ghost. But she flatly refused to think about whether he was more likely to be dead or alive - as far as Hermione was concerned, Draco was missing in action, and that was all they knew. She refused to speculate. She refused to let people talk about him in the past tense, or comfort her by saying at least she had her memories, or anything else that meant they thought he was dead. As long as Hermione hadn't seen a body, she was going to hold out hope. Because she had to. Because there wasn't any other choice.
Interlude
She dreamed of him nearly every night; dressed in his shirt and face buried in his pillow, he surrounded her even in her sleep, and the dreams were always so painfully real. They were so believable; a muddled melding of memory and fantasy, which she loved and hated at once.
"Scrabble?" She holds up the box from the stack on the table, looking hopefully at him.
"No. Please, Merlin, no. You know I hate that fucking boring game. It's like a slow, painful death, only without the actual death to look forward to, to end it all."
"You just don't like that you always lose to me," she smirks at him, trying to imitate his trademark expression,. "You're a sore loser, Draco Malfoy."
He rolls his eyes at her, leans back in his chair and his feet bump and rub against hers casually under the table. A thrill goes up and down her spine and ends up pooling as shivering, melting warmth in her abdomen.
"Only because you won't let me use any of the good words, like 'tits' or 'arse' or 'fuck' or -" he says with an obscene expression on his handsome, arrogant face, and she glares and points at him.
"Illegal words, Draco! Not allowed!"
"You're so stuck on the rules. You have to follow everything to the letter, even when there's no real reason to. What'd be wrong with using a few dirty words, hmm?" His lips purse and then curl up faintly at the corners. "It might even be fun…"
"You're a filthy git," she tells him, but she's smiling, and her toes brush against his ankle under the table. "Fine. Let's play Risk, then."
He grins. It's a sudden, real grin, lopsided and oddly adorable, and makes him look younger - or rather, look his age - and it's aimed at her, and her stomach does silly little flips of excitement. She pokes out her tongue at him in reaction to the flips, but he just arches an eyebrow in amused response, and the melting shivers get worse.
Hermione woke just before dream-Draco leant over the table to kiss her, to find the pillow damp with her tears and her throat all choked up and her nose snotty. She gasped and swore, and scrubbed at her face with a handful of tissues dragged out of the box she kept by the bed these days, for times like this. She blew her nose and lay back, and drew deep, slow breaths and tried to think about nothing until her heart rate slowed and sleep was within her grasp again. On nights like this when the dreams were so damned clear she often considered asking Tricia Fideloff for a Dreamless Sleep potion, telling herself it would be the sensible thing to do…but in the end, she never did.
Two Weeks Post-Escape
"You may go to your room and rest now," Voldemort said coldly, smiling at Draco; a relatively satisfied expression, and Draco inclined his head obediently.
"Yes, my lord," he said stiffly but with respect, and sheathed his wand; stepping heavily over the unconscious body of the man he'd just been torturing without a second glance. Draco's shoes slipped slightly on the blood that pooled on the floor around the man, and he gritted his teeth, feeling worn down and exhausted, his mind half-blurred and foggy from the Imperius and the torture. It was just past midnight, and Draco had spent all night carefully and thoroughly torturing a Muggle in order to satisfy Voldemort the renewed Imperius Curse was still working. This was the fourth time in two weeks that Voldemort had felt it necessary to renew the Curse on Draco. This time, several hours of torture had been inflicted on Draco first, to wear down his mental resistance.
As a result, Draco was limping and aching all over, his hands shaking and his throat raw from screaming. Unfortunately, it seemed that while Draco had enough mental resistance to be aware of the Imperius, and attempt to resist it enough to draw Voldemort's displeasure onto himself, he was unable to throw off the Curse completely. Which was just his fucking luck, wasn't it? He was still - mostly - Voldemort's puppet; he was just acutely aware of that fact, most of the time, and could struggle and fail to resist. Over the past fortnight he'd had many an occasion to think it would have been easier if he'd just been completely overwhelmed by Voldemort's will. But each time Voldemort had recast the Curse, Draco found himself fighting it instead of just giving in. Easier wasn't better, he repeated in his head, picturing Hermione and her disappointment in him if he just gave in.
He walked the familiar hallways of his ancestral home, winding his way to his tiny room, and he noticed again that the manor no longer held any trace of home for him. It was just another prison cell, any happy memories that lingered long since tainted and faded to irrelevancy.
"Hello, Malfoy. Fancy seeing you here…"
Draco spun in the hallway and his hand went to his wand, eyes sharp and hateful on Rostan. "Don't speak to me," he hissed, heart racing as he stared the filthy bastard down and remembered. He felt sick. He felt like vomiting all over the floor, and only the need to keep himself together - and not let the bastard see how much he'd hurt Draco - kept him from doing so. He clamped his lips together and breathed hard out through his nose, wand ready, so fucking glad that he was armed because if he wasn't he'd have been buggered. His lips curled up humourlessly as his mental word choice registered, and Rostan bared his teeth.
"I'll do whatever the hell I want to you, Malfoy. You aren't even an actual loyal servant of the Dark Lord, just some pathetic puppet - you've got no standing here. No rights. The Dark Lord isn't going to protect you from me, or care if I have some more fun with you." Rostan licked his lips and leered. "It's been a while, hasn't it Malfoy? Have you missed me?"
Draco just stared at the man blankly, refusing to be baited and choking down bile as he tried to compose himself. And then he went to move past Rostan and the Death Eater side-stepped, blocked Draco's path. "I didn't say you could go, traitor."
"V - the Dark Lord -" Merlin, Draco hated the compulsion that forced him to address Voldemort that way aloud, but it wasn't worth the effort it took to fight it. "Has not informed me I'm to do your bidding, you spineless, sadistic piece of shit. So get the fuck out of my way before I move you myself, Rostan." His voice barely shook at all, and his eyes were slitted as he watched the other man carefully for any sign of attack, trying to repress the trembling of his hands from the torture and strain.
"Make me, Malfoy," Rostan grinned, and before he'd finished speaking Draco sent a bone-breaking hex flashing at him that Rostan dodged, drawing his own wand with a sneer. "Oh, you know how much I like it when you fight me, Malfoy."
Draco gritted his teeth and ducked a crucio, sent one of his own lashing back, limping on his feet heavily as he twisted to avoid a stunner, and threw up a shield that blocked a particularly nasty hex.
"Go - fuck yourself - arsehole," he spat out between breaths as his hex met one of Rostan's, blue against orange, the magic building and crackling in the hallway and making Draco's hairs stand on end as each of them fought to overpower the other's spell by brute magical force. The connecting hexes destabilised and exploded before either one could best the other though, and Draco went flailing back as the force of the shock wave hit him, sending him skittering to the floor hard, bruising his arse and elbow and knocking the wind out of him.
He shoved himself scrambling to his feet, just in time to put up a protego that rebounded Rostan's curse back at him, which the other wizard dodged, swearing. Merlin, but it felt fucking good to be armed again, and to be able to defend himself from sick fucks like Rostan. A diffindo slashed across Draco's leg and he swore and staggered, nearly falling, flicking off a hex and wincing as he put weight on his wounded leg. Rostan was just a few metres back, and Draco limped towards him shielding and dodging and taking a fierce, visceral pleasure in it, eyes narrowed, grinning humourlessly. He hit Rostan with a diffindo of his own, right across the belly, and moved in to strike a killing blow as Rostan stumbled and fell to his knees, dropping his wand and clutching at his abdomen.
Through the man's splayed fingers, Draco could see the yellow of fat and red of blood and meat and pink of organs, and he smirked, enjoying the moment. Taking his satisfaction in it, and he didn't think even Hermione would disapprove, given what Rostan had…done. Shit, he still felt fucking sick looking down at the Death Eater, the memories rotten and poisonous in his head. He strode up to the man, victory acrid and hollow, and kicked the bastard's wand away with a skitter and click.
"Not so fucking fun when it's a fair fight, is it, Rostan?" Draco asked, hand whipping down to grab Rostan's collar, pressing his wand tip to the man's head.
"Fucking little whore," Rostan spat, eying Draco knowingly, gaze running over his body, and Draco paled and blanched with fury and shame. He jerked his wand to strike the killing blow, and - and the Imperius wouldn't let him. It wouldn't fucking let him. He wanted to - fuck he wanted to - but his fingers twitched around his wand, and his arm hovered in mid-air uselessly. He couldn't kill another Death Eater without Voldemort's direct permission - not now when the Curse had been reinforced, anyway. Not a fucking chance. Shit. The rage and sick hate bubbled up hard and he had to do something to get it out. Had to fucking get it out.
Draco sheathed his wand jerkily, and hauled Rostan to his feet, muscles burning and hurting as he heaved up the bigger man's weight. He shoved him up against the wall of the hallway, one hand sliding around Rostan's throat, the other twisting in the man's long, lank hair and ripping his head back and to the side painfully. It was like a reversal of everything Rostan had even done to him. Draco had the power now - Rostan was at his mercy, and Draco wasn't feeling particularly merciful. If he couldn't kill Rostan, he wanted to make the bastard hurt.
Draco's knee came up with all his strength behind it, crushing into Rostan's bollocks, and Draco sneered as the Death Eater screamed, a high-pitched agonised sound, and tried to double over. There was a fierce fucking satisfaction in that, no matter how much even the punishing contact with the man's bits made his skin creep and crawl as he remembered. Rostan was clutching at his belly, trying to keep his innards from spilling out - unable to defend himself and try to hit Draco or push him away, so Draco took advantage and kneed Rostan again, and then once more. The man was blubbering at the pain now; sobbing, and Draco grinned. Put his mouth to Rostan's ear.
"Leave me the fuck alone, you sick shit or next time I'll use the cutting curse on your dick. I might not be allowed to kill you, but it doesn't seem like the Dark Lord would care if I neutered you," he snarled in Rostan's ear, heart pounding wildly, wanting nothing more than to rip the bastard's dick off with his bare fucking hands and stuff it down his throat. Rostan was moaning softly, tears streaming from his eyes, and Draco felt that hollow satisfaction again - unfulfilling, but still better than nothing. He released Rostan and jerked a step back, checking his leg as the other man fell to his knees, and noting he'd need to get some dittany for the gash - if Voldemort would let him.
Rostan fell to his face, sprawled over the floor, still clutching his stomach, and groaning and whimpering, lost in the pain. Draco lashed his boot out, and the Imperius let him kick Rostan hard in the head without even having to fight it too much, and the man went jerked and went limp - unconscious, blood seeping slowly out from his belly wound to stain the rug. Maybe, if Draco was lucky, he thought as he limped painfully away, hand clasped to the gash in his thigh, the bastard would die before anyone came along and found him.
Two Days Later
Draco lay on the cot in the small room that he thought had once been used as a storage room, and was where he had spent his nights for over a fortnight now. He was bone weary, both physically and mentally, but whenever he slept he dreamed about killing her, so each night he pointlessly tried to stay awake…and then fell asleep anyway, and woke up tired after too little sleep. He stared at the leaping shadows and light the single candle threw on the ceiling without really seeing them, eyes defocused, buried inside his mind as he concentrated; thinking about what Voldemort had done to him, and pouring his mental energy into actively trying to resist it.
Draco had discovered that when he had absolute quiet he could focus his mind enough that the portion of mental freedom he had retained came to the front of his mind. He hadn't been able to use it well enough yet that he could break through the Curse entirely and escape, but it was still something. So he lay there every night on his filthy cot and tried to break through the Curse, concentrating until his head pounded with tension headaches and his vision started blurring. So far, no matter how hard Draco had tried to throw the magical control off entirely he hadn't succeeded. Not yet anyway, but he wasn't fucking giving up that easily.
Draco refused to be Voldemort's pawn throughout the rest of this war. He refused to allow himself to be used against Hermione; but he feared that it was too late for that by now, anyway. The Dark Lord had pawed through all his thoughts and memories, and Draco knew that the evil bastard was planning something - although what exactly, he didn't know, just that it would involve himself. If he hadn't broken through the Imperius within a month, Draco had decided to see if it would be possible for him to kill himself. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was far better than living trapped within his body and mind, seeing everything he did and being horrified by it, but unable to stop it - most of the time.
It was bloody fucking awful, to be aware of the Curse, and able to attempt to resist it, only to fail to break free of it altogether every time he tried. Despite the partial freedom of Draco's mind, his body still followed Voldemort's orders like an obedient puppet - torturing and killing and maiming like an obedient Death Eater should. He had been made an example of, all right. He was used as an example that illustrated that no matter what you did, or how much you changed your beliefs, Voldemort could always have control over you, if he so wished to.
But inside Draco's mind, every night when he was alone in this room with the single candle lit, he lay awake and kept trying and trying to break through the Imperius. Trying to get free of it - fruitlessly, yes, but he refused to stop trying. He wondered if this had been at all how Madame Rosemerta had felt, and he felt horribly guilty for what he'd done to her all over again, because this was hell. He did what he could to resist Voldemort's orders, but unfortunately he discovered he could do very little. Once he had managed to refuse to allow himself to use the Killing Curse on a Muggleborn child as ordered, casting a stupefy instead. The sense of victory that had given Draco, no matter how small, had been worth the Crucios for his disobedience that had followed it. The child had died anyway of course, at another Death Eater's hands.
But to have resisted a direct order…it gave Draco hope that he could get free of the Curse altogether and maybe get away. Escape.
Draco rubbed his hands over his face and sighed up at the ceiling. Last night he'd tortured a Death Eater at Voldemort's command, and although that was better than Muggles or Muggleborns, it still wasn't pleasant. That wasn't who he was. It never had been; even when he'd wished he could torture and kill without a qualm, he hadn't been able to. But the urge to do as he knew Voldemort wished him to was overwhelming, and when it was a Death Eater Draco couldn't seem to summon the energy needed to try to resist.
Quite frankly, he didn't think it was worth being tortured for the sake of some evil piece of scum, whom not so long ago Draco would have killed on the battlefield without a second thought. He wondered what Hermione would think of what he was doing - if she would understand he didn't really have a choice, or if she would think him weak for not being able to resist the Imperius. He wondered if he was weak, and this was proof of that. But Draco liked to think that Hermione would understand, and be proud of his multiple attempts to resist, despite the fact that torture and renewed Imperius' were all that his efforts got him.
Draco's head was pounding and he couldn't concentrate anymore - couldn't think about anything but her. She filled his head, and without meaning to Draco's thoughts of her turned to fantasies that made his dick harden and his balls tighten, a sudden aching need gnawing in his belly. For some reason it felt wrong to think about her like that now, here in the Manor with Voldemort's shackles binding his mind, but the urge was too strong, and with a groan Draco gave up on resisting it. He was tired of resisting everything - he needed to give in to something. He threw back the thin blanket and reached down, fisted his cock in one hand as he conjured up an image of Hermione, naked and willing, lips reddened from kisses and slim hands tracing over her own body, and gave himself over to the brief, guilty pleasure.
Three Weeks Post-Escape
Hermione opened her eyes at the sudden eruption of chaos, and her hand lashed out for a wand that wasn't there - she still hadn't gotten her replacement wand from Mr Ollivander, and now she really wished she had. It was pitch black in the cellar save for the lines of faint light that seeped in around the trapdoor's cracks, and she jerked upright on the bed, clutching the blankets against her chest as she listened. She could hear footsteps thumping above on the floorboards, and then screams and yells, and the snarled and shouted hexes and curses that heralded battle. Shit. They'd found Godric's. But how? Draco, she thought as she flung the covers back and planted her bare feet on the floor, her heart thundering and the fogginess of sleep instantly erased by terror. She had no wand, and there were Death Eaters upstairs. Merlin, what on earth was she going to do?
She couldn't see a thing - she used a lantern in the cellar at the moment seeing as she hadn't gotten her new wand from Ollivander yet, and she'd blown it out at midnight. Hermione stood, Draco's shirt bagging around her, the hem brushing at her thighs as she bent and fumbled on the table for the matches. Her hand knocked into the box and sent it skittering to the floor and she swore, palms sweating as she dropped to her knees and began running her hands frantically over the dirt, cold on her bare knees. Then there was an explosion from upstairs that shook the whole house, and Hermione forgot about the damned lantern, pushing herself to her feet and running for the stairs, ignoring the fact that she was just in knickers and Draco's shirt. She had to find someone who could apparate her out, or she'd be trapped.
Draco. It must have been Draco who had revealed their location. She tripped straight into the first stair, stubbing her toe and falling hard, the edges of the stairs digging into her thighs and stomach and breasts, and Hermione cried out, muffling the sound quickly. She shoved herself to her feet, gasping for air as the panic swamped her, and felt her way blindly up the stairs. Draco must have told Voldemort where they were. They must have broken him then, she thought miserably, heart wrenching. Broken him and then killed him - and her stomach lurched and she swallowed down the vomit that threatened. But…no - no! He had to be alive. Hermione's heart raced and thumped against her ribs as she stumbled up the stairs on all fours, the wooden boards rough on her bare feet and hands.
Godric's Hollow had wards up that meant only those the wards recognised could apparate in - anyone could side-along apparate with them, but they had to be brought in by someone who was cleared by the wards. Draco was alive. Everything else was shoved out of Hermione's mind as she repeated the words over and over in her head - Draco was alive. He was alive. Unless the Death Eaters had managed to break the wards - but then everyone would have been alerted to that when it happened. She shoved the trapdoor up without thinking, flinging it back and then remembering to be careful and waiting a second before poking her head up, lest someone shoot off a spell at the opening door. Nothing came, although the cracks and whines of hexes and curses sounded all around her, and Hermione clambered out into the dining room, looking around wildly.
Coloured lights blazed up in the dimly lit rooms of the ground floor, and the air smelt like the ozone and copper scent of battle magic. Hermione could hear people yelling and the air flashed and lit up and darkened again, explosions sounded, and screams. Her mind blurred and whirled, not thinking about her own safety, just Draco. Finding him, getting to him. DracoDracoDraco, he was here somewhere in the house, and Hermione had to find him. She ducked as a stray hex whizzed over her head from the lounge, and crouched down, thinking frantically, hair falling around her face and in her eyes, and every muscle in her body taut and pumped with adrenaline.
Hermione ducked down the hallway that led to the back porch - dark and empty of fighting, which seemed to be centred in the lounge and upstairs - and hurried into the tiny room by the porch that Remus used as an office. She knew he kept the spare wands in his top desk drawer. None of them were likely to work well for her because wands were so specific to the owner, but being the wands of dead Order members, they weren't likely to backfire on her, and an inconsistently working weak wand was better than no wand at all. She yanked the drawer open and pawed through it, hunched over the desk and flinching at every smash or scream, every tinkle of glass of thump of a body against something hard.
She tested each wand she grabbed with a lumos, and the first one that worked she gripped hard in her fist, turning away from the desk only to slam full tilt into someone. She screamed instinctively and lashed the wand out casting a stunner as she went stumbling back. A shield charm slammed up and then Harry was saying: "It's me! It's me, Hermione!"
She pressed her hand against her chest, hard; her heart feeling like it might beat right out of it, sucking in a whooping breath of air. "Harry. Christ, you scared me."
He was already moving to the desk, yanking all the parchments and scrolls out of the drawers and shrinking them down. "Watch the door. Remus sent me down here to get everything we need, and burn the rest in case we have to retreat."
She stumbled to the doorway and pressed herself against the doorframe, wand up, watching the hallway. "What's going on?"
"Death Eaters."
"I got that much, Harry! Honestly! But what's - when - how…" She trailed off, tongue tripping over her words as her mind jittered from thought to thought before she could speak them aloud, and then flashed him a wide-eyed look and said what she was really thinking. "I think Draco's here."
Harry flicked his eyes to hers by the light of her flickering lumos. His mouth tightened and he didn't say anything, didn't even nod - and then he just looked quickly away and kept shrinking things and stuffing them in the leather pouch he had set on the desk.
"Harry." She said his name sharply, knowing he wasn't telling her something. He ignored her. "Harry, tell me!"
He hissed and sighed and then stepped back a safe distance with the pouch in his hand and incendioed the desk, watching it burn and controlling the flames so they didn't rage out of control.
"Harry, I swear to Merlin, you tell me what you know or I will -"
"Yes. He's here, Hermione. Malfoy's fucking here. I saw him when he hit Johns with a diffindo and almost sliced his leg off."
"What?" Her heart lurched and leapt and then sank, and Harry flicked his wand, putting the flames out as the desk crumbled to chunks of blackened wood and ash. "No."
"Johns would have bled out if Mrs Weasley hadn't got a tourniquet on him and disapparated with him immediately for medical treatment, Hermione. Malfoy's fighting for the other side," Harry said roughly, tying the leather strings of the pouch around one of the belt loops on his jeans and holding out his hand to Hermione. "Now come on, we have to -"
"They must have used the Imperius on him! They must have! He wouldn't just…"
"I know that Hermione," Harry said, as if annoyed with her stupidity, that she would really think Harry thought Draco would switch sides again. "I know he's not a bloody Death Eater. But it doesn't make much difference to us right now. He'll kill people just as dead whether he's under the Imperius or not."
Harry was dragging her by the hand down the hallway now, his wand up and her half a step behind him, their hands tightly clasped, and Hermione praying that her wand would work consistently for her, and not bugger up when she needed it the most. Her mind was spinning and flipping through thoughts at triple speed.
"What are we doing? What's the plan - do we even have one? Where do we go if we need to retreat? And if anyone uses anything other than stunners on Draco, I'll - I'll kill them myself, you understand?" And Hermione meant that last part, too; fear and anger juddering through her nerves and bloodstream and making her head spin sharp and fuzzy at the same time.
"We're fighting." Harry paused at the door into the dining room and used a sectumsempra on a Death Eater that was back-pedalling fast into the dining room from the foyer and deflecting hexes from someone else, and the man choked and fell, bleeding out fast. "We're pretty sure we're outnumbered, but not too badly, and if we retreat now we still might lose valuable information to them that wasn't in the office. If we have to though, we're apparating into Aberforth's pub. And no one wants to kill him, Hermione," he added disgustedly.
She glared at Harry as they crossed the dining room to flatten themselves each side of the archway into the foyer. "How do I know that, when you wouldn't even consider saving him, after I escaped? You don't give a fig about him, Harry! I don't tr-"
"Now is not the time for this argument again, Hermione!" Harry yelled over the sound of her repulso and his stunner, ducking back behind the wall as a curse flew past him, only just missing him - if it hadn't been for his Seeker's reflexes, he'd have been on the floor screaming in pain.
She gritted her teeth and let it go for now, unable to resist having the last word, shouting: "So everyone's using stunners only on him then - right?"
"Right," Harry snapped as he took out a Death Eater, sending the woman's body flying out the foyer and right across the lounge and out the windows. They both looked into the foyer quickly, and it was clear - there was fighting going on in the lounge, but from the looks of it, the Weasley twins and their father were handling the Death Eaters in there well enough on their own. Screams and yells came from upstairs though, and Hermione and Harry looked at each other as a long wail of pain sounded - it had sounded like Tonks.
"Come on, let's go!" he yelled, and tore for the stairs. Hermione went to follow behind, but then a wailing siren sound pierced the air - the wards had been broken - and the front door blew open, a cloaked figure storming in throwing hexes. She spun and ran back into the dining room and exchanged curses with the Death Eater, her wand working about eighty percent of the time - enough that she could hold her own, at least. And then her shield charm failed while she was right out in the open, and a bone-breaking hex hit her forearm and she heard the sickening crrrrck as her bones snapped, and a scream peeled from her lips.
Hermione slashed her wand at the Death Eater and nearly vomited as the entrail-expelling curse struck the Death Eater square in the chest, and his blood spattered her face and neck and got in her mouth. She retched and ran for the stairs, pressing her broken arm protectively against her stomach and wincing at the pain shooting through it with every step.
Harry was nowhere to be seen, and just as she took the third step, a body came crashing through the balustrade at the top of the landing, and Hermione spun, blood-spattered hair whipping over her face as she checked to see it wasn't a friend - or Draco. Draco. It wasn't, thank Merlin. Just some unknown Death Eater with his head caved in on the floor of the foyer. Hermione's feet slammed into the carpeted stairs as she took them two at a time, using her wand hand to steady herself. And then near the top she tripped and stumbled, instinctively flinging her broken arm out to catch herself, and screaming as the pain bolted through her arm up into her shoulder.
"Hermione."
Her name on his lips, and her heart stopped, her scream cut short by shock. She balled up her wand hand and pushed herself upright, lifting her eyes to Draco, standing at the top of the stairs, towering over her, and speechless, she ran her eyes over his face, soaking up every inch of him. He was clean-shaven, pale and haggard and cold, his lips pressed tightly together and his grey eyes like stones - flat and lifeless, blood trickling down his temple sluggishly from a gash to his forehead.
"Draco," Hermione said limply, feeling frozen in the moment, frozen in time, light-headed. "Dra -" He lifted his wand in his left hand and aimed it at Hermione, and her lips slammed shut on his name, her frozen heart starting to race again, speeding up and up and up until she felt like it was going to tear itself apart.
"Ava -" he began in that dreadful, flat voice, and then his dulled grey eyes fluttered shut, his body shook with a tremor and his mouth twisted up as if with pain. She felt like a stunned rabbit, frozen to the spot in front of him, her body feeling limp and heavy and numb. He lifted his right hand - his right hand right hand flash of silver oh my god his - as if he was fighting his own body - fighting the Imperius - and Hermione unfroze.
"Stupefy!" she shouted, and her wand made a little fizzle and all Hermione had time to think was, of course it fails now, of course, before Draco's right hand rammed into her chest. It felt like he'd tried to pull the blow at the last moment, but it was too late - her arms windmilled and she wobbled, trying and failing to regain her balance. Oh shit. She went backwards, eyes wide as she stared at Draco, and she saw his face change and his lips form a horrified fuck and he lunged forward and tried to grab her. His fingers just scraped over her shirt, and then she was falling. Her bum hit first, then her back, neck, knees - head over heels like a rag doll, and the pain slammed through her and her head spun and she felt sick.
And then all of a sudden - too soon, the stairs were longer, she thought dazedly - her tumble stopped. And then she rose into the air, was righted, and dizzy and sickened and aching, was sunk to her feet on a step halfway down. She fell back against the wall, sliding down it, putting out a hand to stop herself from tipping the rest of the way down the stairs, breath rasping in her ears. And then hands were on her shoulders, Draco's face filled her vision, and his eyes were everything that was beautiful and alive, and filled with guilt and horror and exhaustion. She knew without a doubt that he'd broken through the Imperius, and relief shook through her violently, making her go weak and slump forward limply.
"Dra-"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, fuck, Hermione, I'm sorry." He was stammering and stumbling over his words, hands - hands plural - petting over her shoulders as he stared searchingly into her eyes. "Shit, are you -"
A curse shot towards Draco's head and he flinched, seeing it from the corner of his eye and shoving himself into Hermione, and she cried out as he crushed against her broken arm and slammed her into the wall.
"Sorry-sorry-sorry," he was panting as he dragged her too her feet with one hand and shot off a hex with the other. He started pulling her down the stairs, and Hermione stumbled along behind him, staring up at him feeling like she was staring at a ghost. He was worn thin and his face seemed harder than ever, guilt written all over it, his hand warm in hers despite that it looked as though it was cast in silver. She tripped on the stairs, she was so busy staring hungrily up at him, and nearly dragged them both down, Draco recovering his balance and clutching her close to his side as they wobbled.
And then they were at the bottom and he flung out his arm and cursed a Death Eater coming through the door, the man's skin shrivelling and contracting in on him, twisting him as Hermione watched. She didn't see what happened after that, because Draco was yanking her through into the lounge, where Arthur Weasley and the twins were just finishing off the last Death Eater.
"Malfoy!" Mr Weasley said grimly, and turned his wand on Draco, and Hermione shoved herself in front of him, acutely aware of the way he felt against her back, the expanding and caving of his abdomen as he breathed hard.
"He's free of it! He's free of the Imperius!"
The three Weasleys shot Hermione and Draco a suspicious, uncertain look, and Hermione stared pleadingly at them.
"I'm fine. I'm fucking fine," Draco said rough and urgent, "I was cursed but I - I broke through it just…before. Look, you have to go. Have to evacuate. There are more Death Eaters coming now they've managed to break the wards around the place and don't need me to apparate them in. This place will be swarming with them in two minutes. We have to retreat."
Mr Weasley blinked, and then nodded after a pause to evaluate Draco that seemed to take too long to Hermione, still standing in front of Draco. Between him and the Weasleys'. She leant back into him more than was really necessary, racked with pain and wobbling on her feet, and feeling Draco breathe against her, a hand firm and warm on her waist, and the moment was bliss. God, it was really him. He was really alive.
"All right. We need to clear the house then. Get Harry and the others out, if they aren't already," Mr Weasley said to Draco, and then pressed his wand to his throat, shouted, "Retreat!" and the magically enhanced word echoed deafeningly through the room and the rest of the house. It repeated again and again as Mr Weasley made for the door to make sure everyone got out. Draco spun Hermione around to face him, that silver hand coming up to cradle the side of her face. He licked his lips and Hermione's insides wibble-wobbled and melted and all she could think about was mashing her lips against his. She let her eyes slide shut, face tilting up…
"That's not your wand," Draco said roughly instead of kissing her, and Hermione's eyes snapped back open and her stomach flipped and sank, frustration roaring in her veins.
"N-no."
"You need to get out then. You can't stay here with a wand that's not working properly for you."
Hermione's insides went from wibble-wobbling to crumpling up horribly, like she'd been punched in the gut. She didn't want to leave Draco now. Not now.
"But -"
"Weasley - whichever one you are." Draco waved at Fred - she could tell because of the ear - and grabbed Hermione's arm, shoving her at the twin. "Take her to…wherever it the evacuation place is. Now. Please."
"Right, mate," Fred said and Hermione was roughly handed off to him, despite her fingers clutching out to cling onto Draco's arm, seizing at his sleeve. But her grip was ripped away when Draco stepped back, and Fred wrapped his arm around her waist, pressing over the broken arm she had tucked against her stomach and the pain stopped her from fighting to get away. She'd just got Draco back - Hermione refused to abandon him again. She refused. Fury overtook her, and she glared at Draco, every muscles ratcheted tight.
"Draco! Don't you dare! I'm not going! I'm not leaving you again!"
Draco's grey eyes were strangely gentle on her as they swept over her, like he was memorising her, drinking her in, and then he smiled faintly.
"It'll be fine. I won't be long, Hermione. Promise." And then he turned away from her without another word, the bastard, and Hermione was about to scream after him - to try to yank herself away from Fred despite his crushing hold over her broken arm - when without warning, the Weasley twin disapparated them both on the spot, and the world went blurred and squashed around Hermione and she squeezed her eyes shut. They appeared in Aberforth's cellar with a crack and Hermione gasped and retched and panted, head whirling, and before she could even get her bearings, Fred snatched her wand away.
"Sorry, 'Mione, but you're not going anywhere. Can't let you," he said, backing up cautiously in case she decided to try to get her wand back by physical force. She considered it, but if she went back, she'd probably just distract Draco from concentrating on staying alive, he'd be so pissed at her, and worried.
"I hate you, Fred Weasley," Hermione snapped furiously, kicking at a crate next to her, eyes blurred with tears of relief and anger. Draco. Damn him, the git - she should have stayed, she should have helped. If he didn't come back, she thought half-hysterically, she was going to go hunt him down and drag him back by the bloody hair, and anyone who got between her and him would regret it. Oh Merlin, please let him be okay. Tears washed away Hermione's vision, casting the world around her in the golden-orange leaps and flickering of the torches that lit Aberforth's cellar, and then Fred's hand was patting her back with awkward motions as she cradled her arm to her and tried to choke down her sobs. Please let him come back.
