Chapter Twelve: Lavender

A/N: Hello! Once again, it's been way too long since I posted (are you really surprised anymore?). Anyway, I'm back with another chapter, one that I have been anticipating writing since I began writing this story, back when it was intended to be a one-shot. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

As always, a HUGE thank you to my beta, closer-to-monkey for all of the amazing work she does for me and this story:)

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Forty-seven days, not even two months from Christmas, from Anthony's death, from the night Draco had given Hermione his mother's necklace, Draco and Hermione were in the kitchen once more. It was a quiet night, almost dead silent in the safehouse. So quiet that the only sound was their breathing. Everyone had, for the most part, gone to sleep, or at least, were trying to, but they remained awake, though ever-tired, neither of them could think about resting. Not now, no. Not when the house was so damn quiet, when the cold air seemed to seep through the magically insulated home, when the tension in the air was thick enough that it made it difficult to breathe.

It was February, the snow still blanketed across the Scotland landscape beyond the walls around them. The stars, in their sheer brightness, like diamonds, glittered across the untouched white terrain, the moon radiating light that seemingly bounced off of the snow, illuminating the world in a romantic shroud. It would have been beautiful, if only he could get the battle out of his head, if he could just stop thinking, if only the snow outside wasn't stained with all of their blood, with her blood. So much blood. He shut his eyes tight, forcing out a breath as he pushed the thought, the image out of his mind, though it remained just on the edge of his conscious mind, demanding to be seen. Just thinking about what happened, what could have happened, set his teeth on edge, laboured his breathing, gave him tunnel vision.

The mission tonight had been a difficult one, but, then again, it was never easy, that was why this war hadn't yet ended. There was intel that Voldemort's forces were to launch an attack not too far away from a rather important Order safehouse in Northern Ireland. Their mission was simple: don't allow the Death Eaters to get close, within any sort of range to the house. But of course, this mission had gone almost immediately wrong. They had lost another tonight to this never-ending war, as if lives were something as replaceable, as dispensable as a child's doll. It was as if they weren't people anymore, just names, just numbers to be used and thrown away.

Lavender Brown, the once bubbly, gossipy girl from Gryffindor who once dated Weasley, had died brutally tonight. She was the twenty-eighth resident to die since Draco began living here. That number was too large. Twenty-eight people too large. Draco didn't know too many personal details about her, only from what he had observed over the time she'd lived in the house, which was longer than so many lasted. She was still a gossip, right to the very end, remaining intrigued in Draco and Hermione's relationship, meddling at every chance she got to the point where Draco would have hexed her if Hermione hadn't stopped him. She could also be incorrigibly irritating when she wanted to be, as well as downright stubborn, but, then again, she was a Gryffindor. Turned a lycanthrope at the age of seventeen, Lavender had a nasty streak if there ever was one, almost unrecognizable from how she was on a day to day basis. It made her a good fighter, if a little temperamental at times. She was still another person lost, one less person to fight, to defend for what's right.

Lavender had fallen to an unidentifiable curse that left her insides so fucked up that they gave out, exploding in a rather gruesome scene. Those who'd seen it up close, Draco included, had vomited at the sight of her, not being able to help it. He'd never seen a curse like it before, no one had, which only meant that the Death Eaters were just getting even more ruthless than they had been in the past. Not even Hermione could decipher what it was, not that they had much time before the Death Eaters swarmed. Lovegood had told him that it was Draco's old friend, not so much of a friend than a blindly loyal follower, Gregory Goyle who'd done it. It ached him a bit to say that it didn't surprise him as much as it should have.

Much like Pansy, Greg was one to follow orders without a second thought, which pretty much summed up their 'friendship'. Voldemort had come knocking, offering him a place in his army and Greg hadn't even given it a second thought. When Draco switched sides on that fateful day at Hogwarts, Greg had been one of the first to shout slander at him, copying what his father had yelled seconds before. Not even Crabbe's death had been enough to convince him of that waste of a cause. He'd turned into quite the nasty little shit, as clinically dumb as he always had been. There was not a single thought in his head that was his own, his entire life controlled by the whims of another. It was sad, really. It didn't matter though; Lavender Brown was dead, another person, another resident gone, leaving the ever-returning hole in the house's core open. He'd just barely seen it happen, seen her lying there in a pool of bodily fluid and blood, as he had taken out a masked Death Eater only seconds before, turning his head just in time to see it.

Now, Draco found himself standing in the kitchen rather than sitting, pacing with the heels of his hands pressed into his eye sockets, a feeling of ire coursing through his veins. It was more present than the nagging, pounding pain radiating through his shoulder. His glass of Firewhiskey sat empty, waiting to be refilled, on the table next to the bottle, which was about half-gone at this point. He'd been drinking since they had gotten back, guzzling it down as if he were on the brink of death by dehydration. He needed it tonight. He hoped it might calm him down, but he was just as enraged as he had been since he began.

Hermione sat in what had become her chair, sitting as rigidly as she could. He'd just finished making her a mug of sugar milk, the muggle way, which he still struggled with, despite the many times she'd taught him how. He'd burned himself twice trying to make the damn thing for her. She hadn't said a word, save 'thank you', since they'd come in here, as if the silence in the house was as contagious as death. Her right hand was curled around her mug loosely, her fingertips lying gently against the ceramic, while her left one clutched at her bandaged mid-section protectively. She was wearing one of his shirts, a plain black one that hung loosely around her so as not to further irritate her wounds. She was in no state to be sitting up, to be out here rather than in bed, but she'd insisted, pleaded with him that she couldn't lie there any longer. If he didn't think she'd actually hex him for it, he would have drugged her asleep for the night.

He could hear her struggle with each breath, the whimper, a noise akin to a dying dog, that slipped through her lips, though she tried to suppress it. Her body shuddered in agony with each breath, looking so damn fragile he felt his heart sputter at the sight. His Hermione, his Gryffindor, his Lioness. She was so weak, wheezing, shaking, pale to the point of translucent. He'd never seen her, his beautiful, brilliant Hermione, his avenging angel, quite so injured, so physically broken.

He poured himself more alcohol and choked back the amber liquid in one gulp, slamming it down onto the table so hard and so abruptly that she jumped a bit. "Why, why couldn't you just listen to me, Granger? Was it really that damn difficult for your Gryffindor brain to just listen to me?" He grumbled, the anger slipping through his lips, unable to hold it in any longer. He knew once he started, he wasn't going to be able to swallow it back down. He was furious, absolutely furious. His blood was boiling in rage. "Because I wasn't just going to leave you there alone to defend the house!" She forced out, wincing at the contraction of her chest, at the sheer strength it took for her to speak that loudly, to take that deep of a breath. He clenched a fist and took in a sharp inhale, forcing back the memory of what had happened.

During their mission tonight, Aberforth gave Draco the task of defending a safehouse in Northern Ireland from attack, as there were too many important things inside, plans, information, to lose it. They evacuated the house as quickly as possible, but some of the information inside was unattainable in the time that they were given before leaving, so, Draco guarded. Last night, the Fidelius charm on the house was broken when the secretkeeper for it, Filius Flitwick, the former Hogwarts Charms professor, was captured and then tortured through the cruciatus, or worse, lowering his occlumency shields just enough to gain the information, before murdering him. It was said that it was Lucius, Draco's bastard of a father, who had been the one to do it. It didn't even surprise him anymore, the lengths his father would go to to inflict cruelty, suffering onto others.

Lavender Brown was assigned to defend the house with him tonight, something he was dreading, as, she never stopped her incessant yapping, but, almost as soon as they'd gotten there, she'd been taken off guard by a rogue curse that left her splattered against the ground so inhumanely, he'd lost the contents of his stomach. He almost felt bad about dreading her company. Now she was gone. They didn't have a single soldier to spare to guard with him; they needed every last person on the field. Choosing Draco to guard was a strategic decision; he was their best fighter, therefore the most fit to work alone.

Now, he'd just arrived at the house, taking up a post outside where he could see a wide range of the landscape surrounding. From this position at the house, he had the best vantage point, covering as much of the house as he could, being only one man. It was quiet all around, but he could see the lights bursting as the fighting raged on in the distance, illuminating the sky in an array of terrifying color. It was as if he was watching one of those silent films that Hermione would watch sometimes when they would wake up in the middle of the night.

Speaking of Hermione, his blood was still broiling from the argument they had had, moments before Draco had trudged his way up to the safehouse. She had wanted to come with him, to guard the house by his side in Lavender's absence, but Aberforth had commanded her elsewhere, instead, stationed on the field. She wanted to come anyway, not wanting to leave him alone. It was safer for her to remain where she was stationed, to be in the field rather than guarding the house. The worst of the Death Eaters, the most sinister, would be up here, garnering information from the house. The battle was a mere distraction, filled with low-level followers, some who hadn't yet earned their masks. It wasn't that she wasn't capable, she's more than so, but he didn't want to risk her when he didn't have to. He couldn't afford to lose her. There was a twinge in his chest at the the mere thought. She had become a part of him, growing into the cracks and crevices of his mending heart like an ivy. He needed her safe, needed it in a way that scared him to his core, even if safe wasn't by his side. Besides, he could handle this by himself tonight.

He stood there for a few moments, just breathing in the cold air, condensing in the air as he exhaled in a cloud of vapor, looking out at the world, the peaceful quiet that threatened to overwhelm his senses. The cool february breeze gave him a chill, but he fought it off, keeping his stance rigid, ready for battle, his wand in a loose grip in his hand. His eyes darted through the treeline, trying to make out shapes and shadows in the darkness, calculating animal movement from that of a human, or creature for that matter. The fingers of his non-dominant hand twitched, aching for the feel of a cigarette between them.

He was there for all of ten minutes when he heard a rustling in the forest, a light one, coming from someone who was practiced at trying to go unnoticed, at staying near silent. Draco took a step forward, and then another, focusing on the section of the forest where the noise had come from. He raised his wand as he heard another rustle, keeping his breathing as silent as possible so as not to alert the person of his movement towards them. He held his breath as he took yet another step forward, followed by someone stepping on a branch. He raised his wand more, training his eyes on the exact spot he had heard the noise from. "Homenum Revelio." He whispered. He allowed his wand to lead him, to bring him to where exactly the rustle was coming from. A few more steps to the southwest and he saw a crouched figure. He felt a curse bubble up on his lips, but before he could say anything, the figure stood.

He almost dropped his wand at the sight of her. Hermione. His breath caught as he immediately began to shake his head, the rage building up in his blood again. She was supposed to stay away from this shitshow, not join him. He needed her safe, and tonight, safe was not by his side, ironically enough, it was the battlefield. But there she stood, shoulders back, her hair pulled into a long braid down her back, a curl already escaping to frame her face. She had a fierce expression on, the one that clearly identified her as the Gryffindor she was. Her armband stood out stark against her back clothing, marking her as apart of the Order. "The fuck are you going to do with that?" Hermione said, gesturing to the outstretched wand in his hand. He glanced down at it, dropping it back down to his side. "Merlin fucking hell, Hermione," He said, smacking her lightly on the arm. "Don't do that. I thought you were a Death Eater! I almost hexed you." She rolled her eyes at him, brushing past him as she began to walk back towards the house. Draco grabbed her wrist, pulling her back so that their faces were a hair's breadth away.

Her determined expression was betrayed by one of shock, only for a moment as she stumbled over a root, before it returned, as wilful as he'd ever seen her. "Go back to the field, Hermione." He said, his voice even, one he used when he was giving commands on the field. He scarcely used it with her, he never had to, never wished to. She could usually tell what he was thinking from a single look, from the energy that radiated off of him. She always knew where to be, knew the best strategy, but now, he wasn't sure what to say to make her leave, to make her abandon him there to return to her post. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm here, so I'm going to help you. It's a two-man job. You can't possible manage to cover the whole house on your own." She tried again to walk away, but his grip tightened slightly and she stopped, shooting him a glare, something rarely reserved for him. "I don't need help! I can handle it on my own! Please, Hermione." He said, his voice growing quieter, more desperate, but still strong as he spoke.

"Draco, there is nothing you can do to make me go back short of imperius-ing me. It's not safe for you to be on guard here alone. You were supposed to have a partner, why can't that partner be me? I'm perfectly capable of helping you!" She said, her voice a furious whisper, so as not to alert any Death Eaters of their location. Draco set his jaw, ire coursing through his veins as he spoke, "You were stationed down on the battlefield. You shouldn't even be here! Aberforth will be furious if he finds out you were even up here, let alone that I let you stay. He gave you, specifically you, explicit instructions to stay your post and not to follow me up here, but you did it anyway! I don't need help, it's okay. Go back to your post. I don't need to be saved, Hermione." His heart ached as he looked at her, as it struggled to sort between its desire to give her anything she wished and his primal need to protect her from harm.

The look he received in turn reminded him of why he rarely argued with her: she always won. She was as stubborn as a blast-ended skrewt when she wanted to be, and it was of no use to fight with her when she got like this. It was the sodding Gryffindor inside of her; when she set her mind to something, she was unstoppable. It was one of the things he most admired about her, not of course, when it was working against her best interest. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if anything happened to her. It would be wholly his own fault, not anyone else's, for letting her stay.

He sighed, giving Hermione one last desperate plea, hoping to all deities that she would listen to him, that she would see past her desire to protect him and instead protect herself, despite knowing that she never would. She was too selfless for that. "Neither do I." She whispered, her brown eyes never wavering away from his silver ones, matching him, expression for expression. The words burned as she spoke them. He knew better than anyone what Hermione was capable of, of the strength, the brilliance, the stealth, the sheer raw talent she possesses.

As much as he hated it, as much as he wished that she would go back to the field, he knew he would lose this battle, no matter how hard he fought, no matter how much it ached. "I'm staying, Draco. End of argument. They don't need me down there. You'll need me. I'm not a liability; I'm an asset. I'm a soldier too, and a damn good one at that. You will do well to remember it." She said, almost sneering, her eyes filled with golden fire that burned behind her eyes, raging hot despite the frigid expression on her face. She was terrifying when she was like this, but sometimes, he thought, it was when she was most beautiful. In that moment, he feared for her enemies, that might underestimate her, his Hermione.

Draco dropped her wrist and nodded, whispering, so quietly that the words were barely loud enough to reach Hermione, "I never forgot." Her cold expression melted away like ice on a spring day, her eyes warming to him in the wake of their argument, a crackling, woody brown, bursting with gold. She gave him a small smile, just the barest quirk of her lip before lifting her hand to brush his cheek, resting it there. He wanted to close his eyes, to lean in at the feel of her touch against his skin, but there was no time. So rather than relish in the heat of her hand, seeping into his windburnt skin, he looked at her, trying to convey as much in the expression as he possibly could. He tried to tell her all the things he meant to, tell her the reasons why it physically pained him to let her stay, tell her to be careful, tell her that he would lose his mind if anything happened to her here tonight. Her eyes scanned his face thoughtfully, though he couldn't tell if she was able to read him.

She dropped her hand from his face, saying, "C'mon, let's get back to the house before they come." Her voice was low, but light. She schooled her expression into one of resolve and turned from him, beginning to walk away. Draco nodded, following behind her as she walked back towards the house, promising himself that she would be okay, that she wouldn't get hurt. As if sensing his thought, she looked over her shoulder to him, stating softly, "I'll be okay, Draco." Then, she kept on walking before stationing herself to the right of him.

They stood in a heavy silence, scouting the area, watching the fight from above. They listened through the trees for any noises that would alert them of the Death Eaters' arrival to retrieve the information, but so far there was nothing out of the sort. It was strange. Neither said a word, only accompanied by the sounds of breathing, but occasionally, Draco would glance over at her, at the determination written across her face as plainly as the day. The set of her jaw, the fire burning behind her eyes, her stance; she was ready for a battle.

It felt like an eternity later when he finally heard the crack of apparition from the woods. After the first, several more followed, overlapping so that he couldn't keep count. He immediately jumped into a battle stance, pulling his wand from the holster on his forearm, his scarred one. He took a step forward, cracking the joints in his neck with a fierce pop, causing him to suppress an audible groan. He could hear them approaching, mumbling, rustling as they grew closer. If there was one thing to be said about Death Eaters, they certainly weren't subtle. They didn't even try to hide their arrival from them. And from the sound of it, there were quite a few of them coming.

"Draco," He heard Hermione's voice, barely audible over the rushing that was beginning to build in his ears. The Death Eaters were getting closer. They only had a few more minutes before they would arrive, judging by how far away the sounds were. He turned to find her looking at him, gold eyes blazing. In the moonlight he could see the gleam of the white-gold chain around her neck, the pendant he gave her hidden, resting under the neckline of her turtleneck shirt. She never took it off, not to sleep, to shower, to have sex, not even for battle. Not for a single moment since he'd given it to her. It comforted him to know that a piece of him was always with her. "If we both stay on this side of the house, they'll swarm to the exposed area and pass right through us. I'll take the south side, you stay here. That way, we aren't concentrating all our efforts on one side." It was an order he would have given. It was the right choice, the smart choice.

Draco nodded, knowing that she was right, despite the queasy feeling it gave him. He shook it off, replying, "All right," He said, "You take the south." He affirmed, nodding towards the south side of the house. Hermione nodded once, giving him a meaningful look before turning away from him, beginning to walk away to her post. Draco was unable to take his eyes off of her back, and spoke before he could stop himself. "Hermione," He called, scolding himself for the nervous feeling in his gut. They didn't do goodbyes. It didn't suit, didn't seem right. No, goodbyes were final. This was not a goodbye, it was a 'see you later'. When Hermione looked over her shoulder at him, her braid cascading down her back, he found himself for a moment, at a loss of what to say. "I–," He spoke, stopping himself, shaking his head and starting again, "Don't die, Granger." The moment the words left his lips, he wanted to smack himself across the face. But Hermione only smiled, "Likewise, Malfoy."

Draco turned away, knowing that if he tried to watch her walk away, he would call her back to him again. A moment later, before he even had a chance to do a full scan of the forested area, he felt a familiar hand on his shoulder. He spun around quickly and was met with Hermione's lips on his, gentle and bruising. Draco's heart pounded at the intoxicating taste of her, the one that had become too familiar to him in the past months. They moved in tandem against each other, matching each other's movements, anticipating them as if they were their own. Draco felt her melt into him as his fingers slid into the silky hair at the nape of her neck, his hand hooked around her hip, pressing her to him. Hermione's lips moved against his own, as if trying to tell him something, her fingers ghosting his jaw, gripping the front of his shirt. There was a hidden desperation in the way she kissed him, a heat burning within it, a raging flame. She kissed him hard, she kissed him soft, nipping his lip, swirling her tongue, as if trying to taste every bit of him possible. He kissed her back just as fervently, groaning as she finally pulled away, resting her forehead, for the barest moment, against Draco's.

The kiss wasn't nearly long enough, an eternity and a second, though in actuality was probably a minute. When Hermione opened her eyes, they found his in an instant. Her calloused, yet soft fingertips brushed against his lips in a way that made his eyes flutter shut involuntarily for a moment. "Come back to me." She whispered, the words warm against his skin, her face still bare inches away from him. So close, but too far. They were his words, words he spoke to her months ago, a plea, a question, a confession. His jaw twitched as he swallowed, "Always." He murmured softly, allowing the weight of his words–her words–sink into the space between them. He wanted to stay there, in that moment, for her to stay, not to walk away, for the Death Eaters to freeze in time so that he didn't have to leave her warmth, to let her walk away from him when the crack of a branch nearby caused them to jump apart, Hermione pulling back her hand as if it had caught flame.

Without another word, she jogged off to the other side of the house, her braid bouncing as she did, another curl escaping its plaited prison. Draco barely had enough time to ready himself, shake his thoughts from Hermione, from the way he could still feel her taste on his tongue, his lips, still smell her scent of strawberries and vanilla, stuck in his nose, before a flicker of a silver mask caught his eye. Immediately, Draco drew his wand, taking out the approaching Death Eater with a stunner before he even caught wind that Draco had seen him.

Another appeared not long after, managing to take a few steps towards the house before Draco struck him down. Before he was even aware of him, another one managed to grab Draco from the side, a wand now pressed firmly against his temple, an arm around his middle, nearly taking him off of his feet. His blood was pulsing through his veins at a rapid pace as he focused on the situation at hand. He needed to disarm the man, who had a clear advantage at the moment. He was larger than Draco, built like a brick wall, his rancid breath stinging his nose. If there were any scent that would clear him of Hermione's ambrosia, that would be it. Draco allowed himself a moment to hesitate, to throw off the man holding him, who seemed to be muttering something to him, but Draco couldn't hear over the static of his own thoughts and the rushing of his blood.

Without waiting another moment, Draco threw his head back against the man holding him, slamming it into the Death Eater's mask, resulting in a sickening crack. Judging by the immediate way he let go of him and the girlish yelp that escaped him, he had broken the Death Eater's nose. He was thoroughly distracted and equally agitated, swearing that he would "Rip out his mudblood-loving organs and make him a noose out of them." Lovely. With a smirk, Draco sent a particularly strong stunner towards the man as he continued to swear, knocking him to the ground cold with a resounding thump just as he was about to retaliate. He would have killed him, if his orders hadn't been to stun only, as, the Order and their infinite wisdom wanted to bring them in for questioning. As if these men would know anything. No, they were just sent to do the dirty work.

Draco managed to take out at least twelve Death Eaters on his side of the house before they stopped coming. He had been fighting for over an hour on and off before they finally retreated. He couldn't manage to wipe the satisfied smirk off of his face, but at the same, time, couldn't shake the same queasy feeling he had before. He was worried about Hermione, though he knew that she was fine. She would have sent up sparks if she needed his help. That is, of course, if she wasn't being the noble Gryffindor she could sometimes be, the one who rejected any and all help, even if something had gone horribly wrong.

After waiting an additional ten minutes once he was sure there was no one else coming for his side of the house, against his better judgement, he decided to go to see how Hermione was fairing. He jogged across the grass, around the bend of the house to where he could hear Hermione in the height of a duel, shouting spells, breathing heavily. Once he caught sight of her, his beautiful Hermione, he nearly lost all the breath in his lungs. The way she fought never ceased to amaze him. Every time he watched her, it was as if he were in a trance; she was so graceful, like a dancer on a stage, weaving her way around. She was exquisite; the way she waltzed with her opponent, a man who was twice her size and, judging by his clumsy movements, was at least a few years younger than she is. She managed to outsmart him at every turn, using her size, her speed as her advantage. He wasn't able to keep up with her for very long before she struck him down with a silent stunner that swept him off of his feet and onto his back in the dirt.

He watched her as she took down another, without even turning to fully face her opponent. She had managed to get him down in one shot. Then there was another, one that put up more of a fight. He was a large, hulking figure that seemed as if he could encase her in his shadow, but moved more nimbly than her earlier opponent, meeting blow after blow with one of his own. Once again, he became entranced by her, by the way she moved, the glow that seemed to surround her, the light that followed her, encased her. The Golden Girl. Despite the frigid chill, even from this distance, he could see beads of sweat forming on Hermione's forehead, glistening in the moonlight as she fought, and fought, and fought. She shot off stunner after stunner, hex after hex, and soon, curse after curse, but she never wavered.

She finally managed to best him, knocking him to the ground with a bombarda, and stunning him immediately afterwards, before he had a chance to lift his head, let alone his wand, from the ground. Hermione smiled, a beautiful, victorious smile, before finally releasing the breath she had been holding since he had almost hit her in her wand arm with a necrosis curse. She had been shaken, but didn't hesitate any longer than a second, firing back with even more tenacity.

But as Hermione stopped to catch her breath, believing there to be no more Death Eaters to defeat, beyond her notice, and Draco's, another shot out of the forest, and before Hermione could prepare herself, a curse came bounding full-force into her, knocking her to the ground with a force that echoed across the silent landscape. The scream, the shriek, that came out of Hermione shook the world, or at least, shook his. She sounded so pained, the sound so blood-curdling that it was almost animalistic, but he'd know that voice anywhere. The last time she screamed like that, he did nothing, he stood by, allowing unspeakably evil things to happen to her at the hands of his aunt. He would not let that happen to her today. He would not stand by.

The whole world seemed to stop at that moment in a way so dizzying, Draco could not manage to catch his breath. It seemed to happen in an instant and an eternity, trapping him in that moment, that horrible moment. For a moment, Draco wasn't sure if he could move, wasn't sure if he were able to move his feet from the spot in which they were rooted, but somehow, he was running. He was running, running, running, and it wasn't fast enough. It never could be. His feet were moving independent of his body, guiding him to the place he needed to be before his brain could manage to catch up.

The Death Eater approached Hermione quickly, quicker than Draco could run, placing a large foot on her chest and pressed down until there was a crack that seemed to have resounded into the marrow of Draco's bones, into the cracks in his heart, his soul. His heart constricted as he ran, running faster than he ever had in his life, still feeling as if it he were going slow as molasses. He felt trapped in a nightmare, as if, the faster he ran, the further away she became. He wasn't sure if he was breathing, but it didn't matter. None of it did, so long as he managed to get to her.

As Draco finally, finally got close enough, without taking his eyes off of Hermione's cowering, seizing, struggling figure, he lifted his wand and shouted a killing curse at the man standing over her. In his peripheral vision, he saw the man's body collapse in a heap on the muddy ground. He didn't even care that he'd just killed a man, that he defied his orders not to kill. No, nothing mattered unless he got to Hermione. He needed to, like he needed oxygen. With every step, he heard a voice in his head shouting, 'your fault, your fault', reverberating in his skull until the thought was all-consuming.

When he finally reached her, he didn't remember his knees hitting the ground as he dropped down next to her, he didn't remember putting a hand to her face, cradling it, ice cold to the touch from the brisk weather and the blood she already lost. He didn't remember anything other than her, than the anguish that was glittering in her golden eyes, than the blood, oh, the blood. It was everywhere. There was so much of it, pooling underneath her body, underneath his knees, that, for a moment, he was unable to locate where it was coming from. But as soon as he managed to focus enough, his breath caught in his chest, constricting, choking him, as he saw the giant, gaping wound in her midsection. That was an understatement. Her stomach was ripped open, torn to shreds. Looking at it felt like getting a knife to the chest, to the heart.

He knew he was muttering, talking to her, assuring her that she'd be okay, but he couldn't hear a word of it. No, he couldn't hear anything other than the struggled hiss of her breath as she tried to breathe, than his heart beating in his ears more erratically than ever before. "Hermione, brace yourself, I'm going to lift you for a moment, only a moment, all right?" He asked, to which she gave him the barest of nods, as if she couldn't bare any more movement than that. Hermione's body tensed as she prepared herself, sucking in a breath. He took off his jacket rapidly, lifting her body, which seemed so, so very frail at that moment, and wrapped it around her as tightly as he could, so as to staunch the bleeding, if only a little bit. "Tergeo." He whispered, his wand shaking as he worked, using the minor healing spells he knew to try and stop the river of blood from rushing from her body. Hermione winced as she took in a breath, her whole body contorting in pain. Tears rushed down her face, burning hot against her skin. "Granger, Hermione," He said, his voice raspy, weaker than he wished it to be. "Hermione, love, stay with me. Please." He emphasized his 'please', letting her know, in a word, how much he needed it, needed her.

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she struggled to keep them open, as she struggled not to lose consciousness. Draco's hands were all over, looking, searching desperately for her portkey, but he couldn't find it. He looked everywhere, looked for something to stop the bleeding, to take away the pain, but as this was supposed to be a low-profile mission, she must have left her necessities back at the house. She didn't even have Dittany with her. "D-Draco," She said, the single word came out breathless, laced with agony. He stopped searching for a moment and looked at her. Her golden skin, usually so vibrant, filled with life, was a dull gray, paler than he'd ever seen her. Her cheeks were sallow, devoid of the rosy color that usually garnished them. Her eyes were dim, as if the galaxy of golden stars in them had gone out, leaving only a mute, deadened brown. They were filled with tears, tears of pain, of hopelessness. Her lips were a shade darker than the rest of her face, the color having left them with the blood rushing from her body. The necklace he'd given her gleamed around her bloodless pallor, demanding attention.

"I-I'm o-o-okay." She forced out, each word weaker than the last. She heaved a breath, shuddering as she did. "L-leave me." She managed, her eyes closing as she seemed to ride out a wave of agony, fighting back the groan that slipped through her lips. Draco swore his heart broke as the words left her colorless lips. He shook his head, continuing to do whatever his could to slow the bleeding. "Hermione, where's your portkey?" He asked finally, unable to find it. After inhaling with immense difficulty, she managed to answer him, albeit in three words, "L-lost it r-r-running."

He felt his heart stop in his chest for a moment as she said so. Lost? Of fucking course it was. Her eyes closed as she finished speaking, the use of speech seemingly stealing away the energy she had left. "Shit." He breathed. His hand, now covered in her blood, dark, thick, and warm, came up to her cheek, coaxing her awake, while the other remained on her wound, applying pressure, as the makeshift tourniquet he made had already been soaked through with her blood. "Hermione, stay with me. You have to stay awake. You're going to be okay." He said, repeating his words, more for his benefit than hers. Maybe if he kept repeating them, he would eventually believe them.

Once Hermione opened her eyes again, the brown even duller than it had been before, Draco's hand immediately went to the chain around his neck: his portkey. He was about to pull it over his head when a delicate, shaking hand wrapped around his wrist and squeezed, ever so slightly. "N-no." She said. "L-leave, Draco. P-please." When he began to shake his head, she squeezed his wrist again, this time, with all the strength she seemed to be able to muster, which wasn't much, and it scared him. "P-protocol." She said, her eyes carrying a sad, but determined look, that never seemed to fade, not even as her life drained out of her.

As soon as she said the word, Draco knew what she wanted him to do, what she was asking of him. And he couldn't deliver. Protocol demands that, in times of desperation, if one man is injured, and is holding up the team, the other(s) must leave without them, even if it means certain death for the one who they were leaving behind. Hermione was asking him to leave her there to die. And yes, she would die if he didn't get her immediate medical attention. She was bleeding too much, too fast. She was breathing too shallow. He wouldn't, couldn't abandon her. Not when it meant certain death. No. He couldn't. It was the one thing in the world he wouldn't do, the only thing he would ever deny her. How she could ever ask this of him, he didn't know. "Hermione, I can't." With Hermione, he wasn't going to fail. He wasn't going to lose her. He was going to get the chance he never had with Theo and his mother and he wasn't going to waste it.

He ripped his eyes from her face and back down to her wound, scouring away some of the blood, but it continued to replenish relentlessly. "D-Draco, p-please." She sounded exasperated and so, so tired. When he looked back to her face, her eyes were struggling to stay open. "T-there's m-more coming." She muttered, but it was barely audible. "G-g-go." She shuddered in pain, her face contorting, whimpers slipping through her gritted teeth. He increased the pressure he was putting on her wound in an attempt to push back against the blood pouring out. As he did, he felt her body tense under his touch, her breathing becoming staggered.

As much as he wished to deny it, she was right. There were more Death Eaters coming. He could hear them in the forest, advancing towards them in their distracted state. Turning around to face them, he only had a minute or two before they would be within firing range. "Shit, shit, shit." He spoke under his breath, attempting to take his portkey off and give it to her again, but she stopped him, her hand tightening around his wrist. Her fingers were, so, so cold. "No, Draco. No. Just go." Her voice shook, but she fought the stutter than previously shook her, feigning strength in an attempt to get him to listen, but he wouldn't.

If she wasn't going to let him give her his portkey, he wasn't just going to leave her there. He would get her out of there, one way or another. "Brace yourself, Granger." He said, adjusting the jacket wrapped around her to be a bit tighter around her. She looked confused, the hand on his wrist falling to his chest, knitting her fingers loosely into the fabric of his now-bloodied tee-shirt. He took her hands in his and interlocked them behind his neck, albeit, weakly. Her eyes were falling shut again as he placed an arm under her knees and another behind her back. Before she could realize what he was doing, he lifted her into the air, clutching her as close to him as humanly possible.

Eyes fluttering open, Hermione began to struggle against him with what little strength she had, one of her hands coming to push feebly against his chest, but her attempts were to no avail. He wasn't going to put her down, no matter how much she kicked and screamed against him. She was speaking to him, pleading with him to put her down. She sounded so desperate, so scared. The more times she told him that she was okay, that she was fine, that she wasn't hurt all that badly, the more breathy she became, the more difficult it was for her to keep eye contact. She knew just as well as he did that she was bleeding out, and that if he didn't get her back to the house for medical attention soon, then she would die.

He turned, repositioning her so that he could maneuver his wand. Before drawing his wand, he wiped his hands on his jeans, trying desperately to get some of the slick blood off of it. Then, he flicked his wrist, his wand coming into his hand from his holster, He could feel the warmth, the stickiness of her blood against his skin as she continued to bleed, coating him in red. He felt as if he might be sick for the second time tonight. So. Much. Blood. Coating him, coating her, coating the ground. It made a squelching sound against his boot as he had stood up. It was becoming too much for him. Blood, normally, he could handle. But her blood. That was what he was having such a difficult time digesting. Seeing this blood terrified him more than most things in the world ever could. He shook it off and willed himself to focus on something, anything other than the blood, than the cool feeling of her skin, than the way her eyes now fell shut and no longer fluttered, than the fact that she was losing consciousness.

He raised his wand as the Death Eaters approached, readying himself to fight, despite Hermione's dead weight in his arms slowing him down. He took a breath, glancing down at Hermione one more time before firing stunners at the oncoming offenders. There were seven of them approaching, and it didn't seem like there were any more of them following, thank Merlin. Immediately, he struck down the closest, just as the man raised his wand. He hoped that that display might have scared them off, but he knew better than to believe it. The remaining six kept inching closer, aiming spells at Draco and Hermione, firing even crueler ones once they caught sight of the witch he was holding, doused in red. To them, it must look like she was dead, that he was a hopeless fool. He brushed the thought away, not allowing himself to even entertain the thought of Hermione being dead for any longer.

Draco blocked each spell, countering most of them with ease. He fought hard, his hands shaking as he occasionally glanced down to Hermione. He knew he was probably jostling her a bit too much, but he tried as hard as he could to hold her to him so as to keep her as comfortable as possible. There were only four left now, each advancing on them from a different direction, two of them closer than the others. One of them was maskless, licking his lips as he caught sight of Hermione. He was an ugly man, his face twisted in a sneer, a puckered scar running from his temple to his lip in a jagged line. Breaking the shield he had around them for a moment, he shot at him, knocking him unconscious, but not before a stinging jinx hurled towards them, colliding with Draco's shoulder.

Blinding pain coursed through it, burning with every beat of his heart. But he held his wand steady, despite the shaking, despite the pain, because he knew he needed to get Hermione out of here, no matter the cost. He was just lucky the man didn't use a more damaging spell. He could feel the blood oozing out of the wound in his shoulder, slow and warm, but it was nothing compared to the blood Hermione was losing. Shaking out his arm in a feeble attempt to banish the pain, he turned to the remaining Death Eaters, all of them closer than they had been before.

Without hesitating, Draco shot off three wordless curses in their respective directions. One hit its target, made known to him by a whimper and a thud, while the other were blocked. Two more. Two more and he could take Hermione out of this place. Two more and he could save her. His heart pounded against the confines of his chest, seemingly trying to give some of its strength to Hermione's weakly beating one. Blood was rushing in his ears, thumping like the beat of a war drum. His shoulder ached, but he refused to give into the pain, despite his sudden lightheadedness. He wished it away, not even allowing himself to consider giving up. He would never give up, not if it meant he would lose her.

Allowing himself a single moment for breath, Draco prepared himself, taking in the silence of the scene. The Deaths Eaters shot curses at him, but none were strong enough to penetrate the shield he put around the two of them. He carefully retracted it, and as he did, he shot off spell after spell, knowing that they would soon crumble under his relentless attack. The first one fell quickly, not expecting him, but the other managed to block all of his shots, even shooting back a few of his own. Draco advanced on him, his face stone cold as he flicked his wand and sent the man to the ground in a heap.

Finally releasing the breath he had been holding, Draco allowed himself to check on Hermione, whose eyes were closed. Her breaths came in harsh wheezes, too shallow for his liking. She was so pale she was almost translucent. He returned his wand to his holster with a flick before taking his hand and brushing it ever so gently against her cheek, his touch a feather. She looked so fragile in that moment that it terrified him. He was running out of time. Without waiting another few minutes as he should have, Draco pulled his portkey necklace into his hand, glancing between him and Hermione before activating it. It was only a second or two later that he felt the familiar pull at his navel tugging him back to the house. He held Hermione close, clutching onto her for dear life as if she were his life force, and, in a way, she was.

It took countless agonizing hours to heal her injuries. He had stood there, helpless, as Lovegood healed her as swiftly as she could, trying to do everything she could to save her. He had only assisted her, handing her things that she said she needed, forcing a potion or five down Hermione's throat. She wouldn't allow him to do any of the real healing work. So, instead he paced about the room, unable to stand still as Luna worked. After he had forced himself to calm down a bit, he sat down in a chair next to their bed, unable to take his eyes away from her. He held her hand, though not too tightly, drawing light tattoos against her skin almost absentmindedly. His other hand weaved its way into her hair, which was still half-in a matted, muddy braid. He peeled the bloodsoaked locks away from her face, eventually taking a cool, wet rag to her forehead, which, as Luna worked, became feverish. He supposed it was an improvement, as she was no longer as cold as a corpse. He whispered to her, sweet promises he hoped to keep, soft words of comfort, though he knew she wasn't able to hear him in her comatose state. He didn't admit to himself that the words were more for his own benefit than for hers.

He also had the displeasure of discovering that Luna hummed to herself as she healed. He wasn't sure how he never noticed, as she had healed him, healed all of them in the past. But it was an incessant tune that wouldn't stop playing, even now, as he stood in the kitchen, the melancholy melody bounced around his skull, echoing in his ears. It was a lullaby of death, the tune reverberating into his bones. He knew that if he could ever find sleep, it would haunt him there too. That, and, of course, the sound of Hermione crying out in pain, the scream that emanated from her as she was struck down, the wheezes she continued to produce as she attempted to take a deep breath.

He was so caught up in Hermione that he'd forgotten that his shoulder was injured altogether, feeling only a dull ache for hours as he watched. When she had tended to his shoulder, he refused to leave Hermione's side, despite Lovegood's insistence that he lie down as she reattached the tendons and damaged muscle tissue. He held Hermione's hand as Lovegood worked on him, focusing solely on her, rather than the pain. Only after she finished working on both him and Hermione, did he let himself breathe, did he go to the bathroom and heave up the meagre contents of his stomach for the second time tonight. He dry-heaved until there was nothing left but bile, burning the back of his throat like acid. He then let himself cry, to sob and sob in a way he only did seven times in his life, all in his weakest moments. He sat on the floor, his head in his hands, wiping at his eyes, pulling at his hair for the longest time, knowing that if he tried to stand up, he'd only fall back down, as he wasn't strong enough to hold himself up. He had almost lost her. His Hermione. The only person he had left in this world who truly cared about him. Only when he felt as if he could shed no more tears, did he stand up and wash his face of his breakdown, wash the blood–Hermione's blood–from his body.

He had almost lost her and it was his own fault. He had stood there, watching her fight, like the dumbstruck idiot he was, rather than sensing the Death Eater's approach. He should not have been watching. He should have been aiding her. No, she never should have been at the house in the first place. It wasn't her post; she was supposed to be on the battlefield and he let her stay. She was so damn stubborn. The damn Gryffindor in her, needing to save everyone, to throw herself into situations that would get her killed without a second thought. When he pleaded with her, she refused to leave him, to let him handle the ambush on his own, despite it being dangerous. He allowed her to stay. His constant desire to give her anything she wished for had blinded him from the reality of the situation. He conceded to her argument and allowed this to happen. It was his decision that almost got her killed, that almost caused him to lose her, the only person in the world left for him.

He hadn't been able to focus on anything other than his mistake. Not even when Aberforth had screamed at him, reprimanding him for breaking protocol. He never broke protocol before so blatantly. He had just stood there, his eyes on the wall behind the older man, taking every word he had yelled at him. He knew that what he had done was wrong, both by letting her stay, and later not leaving her behind. He didn't need Aberforth to tell him that nor reprimand him. He was thoroughly atoning for his sins; he didn't need someone else to point them out. He had told Aberforth as much. The older man had given him a grave look that reminded him of his late brother, Albus, before doing something that his brother would never had done. He had pulled Draco to him in an embrace that said more than any amount of words could. He knew that Aberforth had recognized the ghosts in Draco's eyes, his unspoken words, his reasons. When he had released him, Aberforth cleared his throat and ordered him to bed.

So Draco paced, and paced, and paced through the kitchen. Back and forth, back and forth. His jaw was set so tightly that his teeth felt as if they were going to crack if he clenched any harder. He ran his hands through his platinum hair, pulling on the ends in an attempt to feel something, anything other than the rage that threatened to consume him. He couldn't look at Hermione without feeling guilty for every pained breath she took, for every wince that shook her. That guilt turned into anger; angry at Hermione for staying, angry at himself for conceding to let her.

With another slam of his glass against the table, Draco argued, "I was fine! I had it covered! I didn't need you there in the first place! You should have reported to the battlefield like you were supposed to!" He was increasing in volume as he spoke, not really caring who heard their argument. It definitely wouldn't be the first time. They didn't argue often, but when they did, their fights were explosive in nature, though he knew, this one was on the track to be the most violent they'd ever had. He hadn't been this angry towards her since they were children, since he had been an arrogant little prick, hating her because she single-handedly proved everything he believed about muggles and muggles and muggleborns to be untrue.

In the wake of his shouting, Hermione's face physically recoiled, shuddering away from the rage that was not usually directed towards her. But in contrast, Hermione, being who she was, the voice of reason, kept her voice calm, even when she spoke, not allowing his irate behavior to phase her further than her facial expressions. "You were not fine, Draco Malfoy; don't even try to say otherwise. There was absolutely no way in hell you would have been able to take all of those Death Eaters on by yourself. It was almost too much for the both of us combined and we're both more than competent fighters." She said, taking a brief sip of her drink as Draco filled his glass to the brim once more. "Besides," She spoke knowingly, as if she was merely stating a reputable fact, which only put more of a sour taste in his mouth. "I could have just as easily been struck down on the battlefield."

"Even if I wasn't fine–I didn't need your help!" He shouted, throwing back another glass of whiskey, sloshing it around his mouth in an attempt to banish the sour taste. "Please stop doing that guy thing where you pretend that you had it covered, even though you didn't, just to save face." Hermione said, rolling her eyes and waving a hand in the air dismissively. Draco clenched his teeth further, groaning in frustration as he placed his glass back down onto the table. "You were almost killed, Hermione! You almost died! Can't you see that?" He bellowed. He was now towering over her currently frail frame, his face almost nose to nose with hers. He could feel her small, harsh breaths against his cheek. With a light palm to his chest, Hermione lightly pushed Draco away from her. He backed away, leaning against the back of his chair. If he really wanted to, he could have resisted easily, as she was in no condition to be sitting up, let alone using any muscles, so there was no power behind her shove; an empty threat. "But I'm not dead, am I Draco? I'm here; I'm okay. I'm alive, so what does to matter? Stop dwelling on it." She said, her voice soft, with a sting laced in. Comforting, but still dismissive, final.

But as much as she wanted to dismiss the subject, Draco found that he couldn't banish it from his mind. He couldn't suppress the 'what ifs' from surfacing, from attacking him, suffocating him until he could think of nothing else. His heart ached with them, burned, throbbed. What if she had died? What if he had left her there? What if he lost her and never got the chance to tell her everything, from the simplest statement, to his deepest secret? What if he never got to tell her what she meant to him, how he ached? What if she bled out in his arms, if it happened so quickly that he never got his chance to save her? What if she had left him all alone in this world, truly alone?

Did she truly not see how much it affected him to have seen her almost die? Did she not understand at all why he was angry with her? Did she not see how much tonight had broken him, despite her having survived? Did she not know that he would have actually lost his mind without her? His hands shook harder at the mere thought of losing her. They actually hadn't stopped shaking since she was hit, and he wasn't sure that the tremors would subside anytime soon. They were cruciatus tremors; they always resurfaced when he was at his most vulnerable, his most broken. And at this moment, he felt shattered, obliterated by the events of the night. Usually Hermione would hold him close, rub the muscles until they gave up on their spasming or give him a calming draught or even a muscle relaxer if the spasms became too much, but he wasn't going to ask, not tonight. He didn't need her to worry about him when she could barely walk.

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hand, still slightly from having washed it in the sink. "It was too dangerous for you to be there, Hermione, can't you see that? You shouldn't have been there! You should have been where you were ordered to be; it was safer there!" He grumbled, his mouth pressed into a firm line, his silver eyes molten with ire. She wasn't hearing him, wasn't understanding his desperation, his perspective. But he knew she had heard his last words, because as he spoke, rage flickered through her calm demeanor, behind her pain laced eyes, slicing through like a hot knife. Finally, her voice raised, beginning to match his in volume. "And who are you to decide what's 'too dangerous' for me?" She accused, her cheeks, her neck, flushing deep red with fury. Her voice was low, threatening, a warning of sorts, perhaps, but he didn't heed it, plowing through so as to get to his point. "I had to make that decision for you because you and your stupid suicidal Gryffindor courage were too blind to see it! I wouldn't have had to make that decision if you had been using your goddamn brain!" He shouted, his eyebrows furrowed together. He was standing straight again, his injured arm crossed over his chest while his other held his glass and an accusing finger, pointed directly at her from across the room.

He watched from afar, his expression reflecting the piqued feeling that he fought to contain as Hermione finally yelled, "I was trying to help you, you stupid, arrogant prat!" She pounded her fist into the table with as much force as she could possibly muster, causing the glassware on it to shake and the spoon that was sitting there to fall to the ground with a clatter. "You don't get to make that decision for me, Draco. My decision to stay and fight with you was mine, and mine alone. And it was a well-thought out one at that. Don't think I didn't know what I was doing. I made a mistake; I was careless and I'm paying the price for it. Now, let it go." She said, her voice sharp, laced with a venom that she so rarely used on him. It caused him to recoil a bit, but he didn't back down.

"I'M NOT GOING TO LET IT GO, HERMIONE!" He shouted, his voice reaching new levels of loud, so loud, in fact, that Hermione flinched. It made his heart twinge at the sight. He never screamed at her like that, never directed his anger towards her. She didn't deserve it. His usually colourless face was tinted crimson with exasperation. She still, still, even hours after, wasn't seeing his perspective. Draco took a breath, releasing it slowly so as to try and calm himself down, but to no avail. "Besides, you didn't even help. All you did was slow me down with your so-called 'mistake'." He said, his voice hushed, his pitch low and dangerous, filled with more anger than his shouting could muster.

At this, Hermione glared at him, her usually warm brown eyes burning with rage like a crackling flame. Draco took a few steps forward so that he was standing just behind her chair. She clenched her fist tightly, so tightly it was shaking. She slowly tapped it against the wood, the sound delicate in comparison to their voices. When she spoke, it began quietly, just barely above a whisper, but as she continued, it rose, jumping decibels to a shout. "That was your choice, Draco Malfoy. Don't you dare try to pin this on me." She said, pointing a furious finger at his chest, bare inches away. "You should have left me, like you were supposed to! You're the one who broke protocol, not me, so don't even try to tell me that I 'slowed you down' by getting injured! Your orders were to leave me there!" She bellowed, the gold flecks in her eyes more prominent than he'd ever seen them, glowing like a raging flame, a conflagration. Her expression was fierce, her mouth a set line, her jaw clenched slightly. She was chewing on her chapped lip, gnawing on it incessantly.

Draco took a step closer, his brows furrowed together, his fist shaking with tremors at the memory of her lying there, pale as a ghost, on the muddy ground outside of the house, soaked in her blood. Her bloodless lips whispered to him, mustered pleas for him to leave her there like some sort of sacrifice. His head pounded, raged with a migraine so intense that it was beginning to give him blurry vision at the edges. He exploded then, as he look at her, remembering what had happened, remembering the blood, the gaunt tone to her skin, the way the life seemed to be draining out of her with each second he wasted arguing with her. "IF I HAD LEFT YOU THERE, YOU WOULD HAVE DIED, HERMIONE!" He shouted, closing his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to take a breath as he held onto the back of his chair, gripping the frame with an intensity that turned his knuckles a ghostly white. He could feel the same desire he had felt the night his mother died begin to creep up on him, the desire to destroy everything in sight.

As Hermione began to speak, he poured more firewhiskey, choking it down. This time, Hermione's voice was weary, tired, shouting less intensely than she had before. "This is war; we do what we have to do, even if it means leaving someone behind! It's every man for himself out there." She spoke gravely, her eyes deadened, the embers that had burned behind them dulled to a flicker. "People die everyday in war; this is no different! I knew what I signed up for when I volunteered to fight for this cause, in this war, Draco! I knew that death was more than likely, that it was almost guaranteed! I knew the risks; I full well knew that there was a sizable chance I wouldn't make it, and you did too!" She said, her voice firm as she breathes through her pain. As her voice faded out, her wheezing returned, stronger than before as she fisted the hand that rested against her abdomen. She put her chin to her chest and closed her eyes, taking one, two shaky, but deep breaths before looking back up to him. Her golden brown eyes were laced with agony. "I knew what I was doing when I told you to leave me." She said softly.

Draco forced a breath out of his nose in an attempt to contain his rage, but he found himself unable. He was, unfortunately, going to need that calming draught. As he stood there, the cruciatus tremors plagued his fingers horrifically, and the whiskey was doing nothing to soothe him. He was quiet for a few moments, studying her with intensity. When he finally spoke, minutes later, he was no longer screaming. No, he was so tired. His voice was desperate, honest. "I couldn't leave you there, Hermione. I couldn't leave you to die. I wouldn't–wouldn't be able to live with myself if I had left you." He paused, glancing down to the table, considering his next words before he spoke them. "What you were asking me to do was impossible. I couldn't do it."

Hermione seemed to consider his statement, one of her eyebrows raising slightly. "What do you mean, 'impossible'? You could have walked away, gone back to the other side of the house, checked the perimeter, like you should have, but you didn't! If you had left me, then your shoulder would never have been struck." She said. "Impossible my arse, Draco." She muttered. It was becoming harder and harder for Draco to breathe. His fingers twitched as he maneuvered them into the fabric of his shirt. His breaths came harshly, each one practically choking him. He looked down at the floor, studying the cracked and faded tile. Each one of Hermione's words hit their mark, hit him right in his heart with a pang that reverberated throughout his whole body like a shudder.

"I–" He tried, but couldn't seem to find his voice. Draco closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. When he opened them, he lifted his chin to find her watching him, his every movement, every breath, seemingly anticipating his every move. She seemed furious, curious, exhausted, and in such great, great pain. He swallowed back the storm of emotions that was brewing beneath his skin, forcing it back as he tried again, "I couldn't–" He spoke, his voice rough, thick with the same emotions he was fighting so hard against. "I couldn't leave you there, Hermione. I couldn't." He turned on his heel, and with his uninjured arm, poured himself another glass, drinking half of it before setting it down.

"Why not, Draco? Why couldn't you? You were reprimanded for not leaving me, I know you were. You're a rational, pragmatic person, Draco. I know you. I know it wasn't in your nature to go against the protocol. So why not?" Her question echoed in his ears, repeating over and over again, screaming to him, demanding an answer, one he was afraid to give. He found that he could only shake his head, only stating what he already had, his voice, his rational mind, not allowing anything more. "I just couldn't." He mumbled, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

Hermione sighed a wheezing sigh, her face contorting as she did. "Just give me a reason," She said sharply, "Give me a reason and I'll drop the subject." Draco only shook his head, his mouth unable to form words, to say what he needed to, the answer she needed to hear, the one he had been holding back for months now, though he'd only realized recently that he was. "Why not? I just don't understand. It's not that hard. Just tell me why." Hermione kept speaking and speaking, pushing him to give an answer, but Draco only continued to shake his head, the rushing in his ears getting louder and louder with each passing moment. It became harder and harder to ignore the irrational part of his brain, the instinctual part that had made the decision not to leave her in the first place.

He found the only words he could, growling them to her harshly, "Stop Hermione!" His voice sliced through the noise in his head, if only for a moment. For that moment, Hermione paused. She brought her golden eyes to his quicksilver ones, examining them as if she could see his naked soul through their lenses. "Why should I, Draco?" She asked. He had no answer, no rational response as to why he wanted her to stop, to why he wouldn't answer her in the first place. Only this sick sense of self preservation. He needed to tell her, and yet–and yet he couldn't. In fear of what she'd think, in fear that he'd lose her just as completely as if she had died tonight. He didn't know what she'd do, what she'd think, if he told her, and honestly–it scared him more than anything else in this strange and fucked up world.

When Hermione spoke again, her voice was loud, hollow, and utterly exhausted, but she yelled on relentlessly, determined to get an answer out of him. This was the same stubborn Hermione who had almost gotten herself killed tonight and didn't see the fault in her decision. "WHY NOT, DRACO? JUST FUCKING TELL ME ALREADY! PLEASE!" Something seemed to snap inside of Draco at that moment, whether it was all of his control, or his rationality, or maybe just his sane mind, something snapped all the same. It was as if the pressure valve inside of his head had finally exploded, had finally grown tired of warring with itself and had given up entirely.

His breathing was laboured now, his expression contorted in an effort to prevent the avalanche of words that he knew was coming from spilling out of his mouth like vomit. He barely lasted five seconds before his efforts became fruitless, the pounding in his head, his heart, his ears, drowning out any logistical thought he had left. The words flowed out of him before he could censor them, before he could even think it through, shouting them at her, at the world, no longer holding anything back. "IT WAS BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, HERMIONE!" He said, taking a step back from her, throwing his arms up wide on either side, ignoring the searing pain that cut through the wound in his shoulder as he continued to speak, his voice still booming, "Don't you get that? Is that what you wanted to hear? Because I do! I love you so fucking much, so much, that it actually hurts, aches with every fibre of my being! I couldn't leave you there! I couldn't have, not even if I had wanted to, even if I thought it was the 'right' thing to do! I couldn't do it, you daft beautiful bint! It was physically impossible for me because I'm in love with you!"

When he finally found a way to stop speaking, he heaved in his breaths, the air feeling like a cold rush against his lungs, but the damage had already been done. He could feel his face burning a bright scarlet, his head was spinning. He couldn't believe the words that had come out of his mouth, that he had said them aloud, to her! He had said them loud enough for the whole damn house to hear, and anyone else within a one-mile radius. He almost didn't care, didn't care that he might have woken the whole house, most of which, probably weren't even asleep to begin with, as they had only buried Lavender, or at least, what was left of her, a few hours ago. He only cared that she had heard. In that moment, no one else, nothing else, mattered.

He looked down at his feet, not allowing himself to dare a glance at Hermione, who had gone as quiet as the dead. "I love you, Hermione. I love you so much that it actually scares me some days. I have never loved someone like this before, have never cared this deeply about another person. I couldn't leave you there to die–I just couldn't." His voice faded into the silence that hung over them like a boulder, threatening to drop and crush everything and everyone underneath it.

The room was silent for what felt like an eternity, but was probably no more than thirty seconds. He needed her to speak, to say something, anything to end this deafening silence. It was killing him. He could feel her eyes on him, watching, staring at him, despite her lack of a response. When he was sure she wasn't going to speak, he knew that he was just going to have to look at her and try to gauge her reaction, as much as it terrified him. Draco swallowed thickly, forcing himself to look up at the woman sitting in front of him for the first time since his admission. It took more courage to lift his eyes to hers in that moment than it took to fight in most battles.

Slowly, Draco raised his eyes looking everywhere and anywhere else in a desperate attempt to escape from this moment, from the pressure of her gaze, from the weight of his confession on his shoulders, from the fear that threatened to consume him. Before meeting her eyes, Draco scanned Hermione's facial expression. Her mouth hung slightly agape, a thin wisp of breath escaping with a slight noise that cut through the silence slightly. She looked as if she were unable to move, unable to say a single word. Her arm was curled into her side tighter than it was before, pulling on the worn fabric of the shirt she was wearing–his shirt. She wore an expression that might have come across as if she had been slapped across the face, the shock written into her features.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Draco finally lifted his eyes to meet hers, which were studying him with an indescribable glint in them. The gold flecks in her eyes glimmered strangely, in a way he'd never seen them look before. It was completely unreadable, something that was rare, as he was almost always able to gauge her emotions, but this time, he had not the slightest clue. And it petrified him. As he looked back at her, he was sure that his heart would give out, the pounding in his ears louder than any drumbeat. His breathing remained laboured as they watched each other intently, seemingly uncertain of who should make the next move. He still stood halfway across the room, his arms now carefully folded across his chest, putting a breathable distance between them, though it still felt as if she was too close for him to breathe.

A few moments later, Hermione finally closed her mouth, a slow, small movement that would have gone unnoticed if he hadn't been watching her so intently. She immediately set at chewing on it, as she always did when she was thinking, or was worried, her expression morphing as she did, the ire fading away from her face into something else. He still couldn't read it, but he watched her carefully, his silver eyes glowing with curiosity. Her eyebrows furrowed, but not in anger, almost in… endearment? He narrowed his eyes in an attempt to watch her further as her expression continued to shift as she shook her head lightly. Draco was sure that if she didn't speak soon he might actually explode.

Her eyes finally ceased contact with his, looking down at her lap instead. He stared at her as her lips, those lips that he loved so much, as they slowly quirked up into the smallest, most beautiful of smiles. It was only a moment later, though it felt longer, that she looked up again, tucking a lock of curly hair behind her ear as she did. Almost immediately, a soft glimmer on her cheek caught his eyes, so small, that if he wasn't paying attention, he wouldn't have seen it. At first, he wasn't sure what he was seeing, but a moment later, his suspicions were confirmed as a tear rolled down Hermione's pinkened cheeks. He wasn't quite sure what to do, or even what to say, so he just stood there like an idiot. Hermione sniffled, wiping the tear away, her smile widening as she spoke for the first time since his confession, "Come here, you prat." She mustered, the words uneven, though her intentions were made clear as she gestured for him to come closer.

Draco hesitated for a moment, not immediately understanding what she was trying to get at until he looked down at her abdomen and caught sight of the arm she had thrown around it protectively. Her wound. He had forgotten; forgotten that she was injured, that she couldn't even walk. He had momentarily forgotten where they were, what they had been doing before, that Hermione had been hurt in a mission, that Lavender Brown had died tonight, that Hermione almost had, that there was a war outside these walls. He had forgotten everything but the two of them in this moment and that was a dangerous thing.

In three long strides, once again pushing away all thoughts of the war, Draco sat down in the chair next to her, in his chair, so that he could be eye level with her. He was much closer to her now, as he could see the light brown freckles that littered her face like shavings of gold, but not close enough to feel her breath on his face. A comfortable distance, and yet, his heart was pounding in his chest cavity, feeling as if it could give out at any moment.

Now, well, now he could read her expression, read it as plain as the day. He could see her soul, just as he had bared his to her with his confession. Tears spilt down her cheeks, prompting Draco, without even realizing he was even doing it, to bring his thumbs up to either side of her face, gently wiping away the tears that dampened her cheeks. Hermione's eyes flicked down to where his fingers still delicately rested for a moment, taking one, two long breaths before looking back up to meet his eyes. For the first time, he noticed that the hand that wasn't wrapped around her abdomen, clutched at her necklace–his mother's necklace, as if it were her lifeline.

Not even a full breath later, before Draco even had time to register what she was doing, Hermione released her death grip on the necklace and instead reached across the space between them, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, tugging him, with all of the strength she had in her weakened state, close enough that their noses were bare inches from touching. Without hesitation, she brought her lips down hard on his, so passionately that he nearly fell off of his chair in surprise. The hand that was tangled in his shirt slowly made its way to the nape of his neck, leaving a trail with her fingers that seemed to burn his skin as she did. She kissed him hard, nipping on his bottom lip enthusiastically. He kissed her back just as fervently, meeting every nip, every bite, every touch of a tongue with one of his own, trying to convey to her how perfectly true the words that he had spoken, the words he had held back for too long, were.

Hermione's nails dug into his neck, scratching her desperation into his skin. She pulled his bottom lip into her mouth and sucked on it lightly before pulling on it with her teeth. The resulting groan that came out of him was guttural, feral, almost, as he reached his arm around her, weaving his fingers into her brown locks, pulling her closer, closer. She whimpered under his touch, inching her body closer, managing to wedge her knee in between his legs. His other arm wrapped around her body as carefully, so as not to injure her further. as he could, hooking onto her hip gently. All the while, she continued her assault on his lips, eliciting groans from both of them in her attempt to tell her in the only way they both knew how, how she felt. He could feel her response to his admission written into the passionate way her lips moved against his, the way that her fingers gripped him, the way that her tongue eagerly tangled with his, as if she could never get enough of him.

The kiss was bruising, unlike any other kiss they had shared. It was filled with brutal honesty, a rawness that so rarely shown through in a world where you needed the thickest of skin in order to survive, where weakness could be the death of you. He could feel her vulnerability entangling with his as he kissed her, wrapping around them until there was nothing but. Her lips felt like fire on his, raging hot, almost molten, searing him, but all he wished to do was get closer to her. He would burn for her, as he ached for her when they were apart. He loved her, Merlin, he loved her.

She was crying, he could tell, as tears ran down her face, the salt of them intermingling with the taste of her. Her tears were scorching against his skin, almost as hot as the kiss itself, only heightening the tension between them that sought to be sated. He kissed her hard, crushing his lips to hers in an inelegant clash of lips, teeth and tongue. He groaned against the feel of her, her lips, her tongue, her teeth, her skin, her fingers. Each gesture bringing him closer to breathlessness. This, he thought, this was bliss. He was sure of it.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

He tried to tell her in every way that he knew how, in every touch, every caress. She needed to know just how much he meant it, how his blood sang at her touch, how his heart raced at the sound of her voice, how, when he entered a room, he could sense her presence, his eyes immediately falling to her like a magnet. He needed her to know that he could no longer fall asleep if she wasn't there with him, that she kept the worst of his night terrors away. She needed to know just how much he needed her, how she was the only person in entire world that he had left that he loved, that he genuinely cared about.

In a desperate attempt for oxygen, he begrudgingly ripped his lips from hers, placing one, two, three, more hot, bruising kisses against her lips. She chased each one as he retreated, seemingly desperate to resume their kiss, despite the heaving breaths that seemed to wrack her body with searing pain. Hermione's eyes were hooded as he worked, fighting to stay open as he pulled away from her. Draco then pressed another to her neck, before forcing himself to stop, knowing that Hermione was in no fit state to go any further. She could barely handle this. So he took a cleansing breath against the skin of her neck in an attempt to calm his stirring cock, but in retrospect, did nothing but rouse him further. So instead, he pulled away completely, just relishing in the sight of her. Her eyes cracked open, a sated smile smeared across her face.

The hand that was embedded into Draco's nape trailed its way to his cheek, down to his chin, where her fingers traced the shape of his now swollen and bruised lips. He inhaled slowly through his lips, watching the way her fingers brushed against him. His eyes met Hermione's then, he needed to see her, the silver of his eyes meeting the gold of hers, the ensuing eye contact making Draco feel as if she had read every aspect of him through it, and yet he allowed her to. Allowed her to view him unguarded, only as who he was, rather than who he often pretended to be. It was a scary thing, seeing the truth of a person, but yet he allowed her to continue to examine him. He watched her carefully, the expressions in her eyes for any signs of outright disgust or the tiniest twinge of disappointment, but he found none. She didn't seem surprised, only intrigued, endeared. So he looked on at her, memorizing everything about her face, her eyes in this moment, from the drying tears on her face, to the faded pink color of her cheeks, to the way she bit her swollen lip, looking absolutely delectable so that it took all his restraint not to close the gap between them.

It was only a moment later when Hermione broke their eye contact, pressing a kiss to his cheek before moving her head to the crook of his neck. Her left hand still remained on his lips, while the right, the one that had been curled over her midsection, was tangled in his hair, twirling it in a way that sent chills down his spine. Draco inhaled sharply at the feel of her placing kiss after chilling kiss down the curve of his jawline. He could feel his muscle jumping under her touch in an attempt to stay still as she continued. Her scent was invading him once more, intoxicating him beautifully, infusing him with such intense desire for her that he was sure he was shaking. His eyes fluttered shut, leaning into her ministrations, relishing in them. If she didn't stop soon, he was sure he was going to have to go to the bathroom to go relieve himself of his little issue like a fifteen year old.

Hermione kissed every inch along his jawline, running her nose, which was considerably colder than her lips, along as well as it trailed, until she reached the crest of his ear. Her breath was warm against it, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she spoke, soft, melodic words, that almost seemed to counteract the weight of them, "I love you, Draco Malfoy. I love you despite and because of your flaws, because you're not perfect, but that's what makes you so. You're my North Star in the darkness of this war, this world, Draco." He wasn't quite sure that he was breathing, or even that his heart was beating. Everything seemed to stop in that moment, from his heart in his chest, to the crickets outside, to the low rumble of whatever was on the telly out in the living room.

The words sounded so beautiful, so foreign coming out of her mouth. At first, he wasn't sure that he had heard her correctly, but once he assured himself that he indeed wasn't hallucinating, it took everything he had in him not to pull her as close to him as he possibly could and take her right here. He knew that they couldn't, and he cursed the fact that she was injured once more, for an equally selfish reason as he had all of the previous times, though probably the most sinful.

He didn't let her linger on the statement before he pulled her back a bit, turning his head to caress her bottom lip with his thumb, for fear that she would take it back. He gave himself a moment to back up a few inches and truly look at her, to memorize every facet of her appearance, to commit it to memory how she had looked in this moment, so that he would never, ever forget. He allowed himself to take all of her in, every minute detail of her, from her bushy hair, to her flushed cheeks, still sparkling with the remnants of tears, to her swollen lips looking even more kissable than they had a few moments ago, to her exposed collarbone thanks to his oversized shirt, to the injuries that currently plagued her body, the way that her hand was wrapped around herself, to the gold of her eyes, shining brighter than he ever remembered it to, like flecks of starlight dancing about her irises. He needed to remember it all.

Hermione leaned forward again, pressing a gentle brush of lips against his temple before resting her forehead against his. She allowed her eyes to close, the words falling from her parted lips quietly, hanging in the inches between them, "I love you so much, Draco, so much." His breath caught in his throat as she said it, barely believing that he was hearing them. He would never tire, he knew, of hearing her utter them. "I mean it, Draco." She whispered, trying to lean across the space between them into another kiss when Draco moved back from her. Instead, he brushed his nose the sensitive column of her throat before trailing his tongue across it in the way that he knew would make her squirm. She pulled on his hair, her fingers raking through the hair on the back of his head as she moaned, causing him to smirk into her skin. He sucked, nibbled and bit everywhere on her neck that he knew she liked before pulling away completely, leaving her breathless, the way she was able to do to him with just her words, a glance, or a chaste kiss.

He then brought his face close to her, inches away, but still not touching and slid his hand from her hair down to the back of her neck, still nestled in her curls, yet resting against the warmth of her skin. He sucked in a breath, tucking an errant curl behind her ear before speaking, his voice low, "Please don't ask me to do anything so impossible again; I won't be able to. I couldn't leave you there, Hermione. I can't even stand the thought of losing you to this shitshow of a war. I can't lose you, Hermione. I–" He broke off, swallowing hard, "I can't stand to lose another person I love; I just can't. First Theo, then my mother…" He drifted off, shaking his head. "I can't lose you too. You're the only person I have left, Hermione." He whispered, unblinking, his voice strained. He could feel tears pricking behind his eyes as Hermione nodded compassionately, drawing indecipherable patterns against the back of his neck with her fingernails. She listened intently as he spoke, her eyes glittering with tears, with understanding. "You won't lose me, my love. I have no intention of going anywhere. I'm afraid you're stuck with me." She whispered. For a moment, Draco couldn't speak, remembering the way that Theo had spoken those same words to him on the night that he had died. He bit his lip at the memory, forcing down the tears that threatened to claw their way free.

"I went against protocol, yes. I should have left you there, but I didn't–I couldn't. I almost lost you tonight, and if I had left you there, I would have, no question about it. I don't care that I was reprimanded, what are they going to do, kick me out of the war? It was stupid and reckless that I did and I would do it all again to save you." He said, his fingers trailing down her face, tracing the shape of her cheekbones, her jawline, her mouth, avoiding eye contact in a pathetic attempt to save face. "I don't want to argue with you about this any longer. I hate arguing with you." He said, clearing his throat before placing a chaste kiss at the corner of her mouth.

He then leaned back in his chair, draining another glass of Firewhiskey. When he placed the glass back down on the table, Hermione spoke for the first time in minutes, her voice playful, a smile playing at her lips. "I don't know about you, Malfoy, but I quite liked the outcome of this argument. Maybe we should do this more often." The smirk that spread across her face caused him roll his eyes lazily at her. Hermione laughed then, a beautiful symphonic laugh that he wished he could hear on loop for the rest of his days. But, she winced a bit as she did, causing Draco's smile to falter into a worried expression. "I'm fine." She said hastily, intertwining their fingers, reassuring him as best as she could, her cheeks pink with exertion. She squeezed his hand, giving him a gentle smile. He nodded as she turned her head to look at the clock that hung on the wall beside them. As she did, a few stray curls fell forward to frame her face so perfectly that he didn't even reach out a hand to brush them back. "I just think I'd like to go to bed now. It's been quite a long day." She gave him a hopeful smile to which he rolled his eyes again, knowing that he was the only way she'd get back to the bedroom, as he had carried her to the kitchen in the first place.

He squeezed her hand back as he nodded, stating, "It's time for more of your pain potion as well, love. Just give me one minute and then we'll go." Hermione gave him a brief nod back, curling her other arm tighter around her middle once more. Draco could feel Hermione's eyes watching him as he poured the last of the firewhiskey from the bottle into his tumbler. He took a deep breath as he stared at the amber liquid within the glass, preparing himself before lifting it into the air toasting it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hermione hastily following him with her mug, picking up on the ritual she'd witnessed many times now.

Draco hated this, hated that he had to do it, hated this war and what it was doing to them all, hated that people wouldn't stop dying, wouldn't stop killing each other. But, nonetheless, he had to do it, had to pay his respects to those that they lost in the only way he knew how without falling to pieces. Then, just as he was about to speak, he hesitated. Hesitated because he could have been toasting to the woman sitting beside him. He gripped her hand harder, pushing aside the thought, not even letting himself entertain it.

He closed his eyes and took a long breath, swallowing hard before reopening them. His eyes glanced to Hermione, who was watching him in waiting, her eyes wide. He looked back to the glass in his hand, tipping it as he spoke, his voice thick, "Lavender Brown; may she find the peace we're all seeking." He then brought the glass up to his lips and swallowed the drink down hard in one gulp, burning as it went down, wiping the bead of whiskey that was dripping down his face with the back of his hand. He blinked back the tears that followed.

Hermione slurped down the rest of her sugar milk, making him chuckle the slightest bit before handing him the empty mug. He rolled his eyes, but didn't complain, taking the mug out of her hand and walking it over to the sink along with his empty glass. He placed them in quietly, not that it made any difference, since he'd probably woke all of the people who might have been sleeping with his screaming, but he did nonetheless.

He walked back over to the table, stopping in front of Hermione's chair. Draco then shot Hermione a weak smile, "Brace yourself Granger. This might hurt." He said, bending down to pick her up as he'd done earlier. When they had gone to the kitchen earlier, she'd attempted to walk with him, but she'd fallen just trying to stand up on her own. The curse that had hit her had nearly torn her in half, so he carried her, much to her dismay. Granger was independent and stubborn; two of the many things he loved about her, but it made it hard for her to relinquish control, even to him.

Hermione let out a shaky breath, wrapping her arms around his neck, lacing her fingers together, tangled in his blond locks before giving him a firm nod. She tensed in preparation of the pain that was sure to follow, her jaw clenched. Her eyes met his, complete trust laced within them. He swallowed, putting one arm behind her knees and the other behind her back carefully before easing her up into her arms. He felt her wince from the movement and bury into his chest to release a small sob. He nuzzled his head into her shoulder in attempt to comfort her, not that it did much.

"As soon as I get you back in bed, I'll give you more pain relief potion and a sleeping draught." He said softly, kissing her temple. She attempted to nod, but barely managed to do so as he began to walk through the doorway into the hallway beyond. "You're too good to me, Malfoy." She breathed out into his chest, her breath warm. He couldn't disagree more, knowing that she deserved much more, much better than anything he could give her, but he kept quiet, not wanting to argue with her further tonight, absorbing her warmth along with the scent that he loved more than anything.