She was consumed in a fire that sparked on her lips and spread out wild against her skin.

Hermione was shell-shocked, overwhelming sensations taking over her body and leaving her mind miles behind the rest of her. Her heart was stuttering, no longer able to keep up with what it had desired only moments before; it's secret out in the open when it wasn't ready to be told. And the roar in her blood as it boiled and spewed like lava through her veins, heating her fast and hard, muted the sounds of havoc that surrounded them. And, despite the heaviness of her heart and her body, she couldn't feel the reality of the ground beneath her or the soot clinging to her palms. The only pull she felt was of Malfoy's hand, nestled in the depths of her curls, strong in its demand to keep her there as his lips gained knowledge of hers.

And they didn't take long to discover every dip, every solitary ripple in the thin skin that kept him from diving into her bloodstream.

The force, the urgency of his kiss shattered her bones and revealed what was caged inside: a soul that longed to return this, whatever it was. And she did, because God he tasted like home. He tasted like home and she'd been without it for so long that she couldn't control her own urgency. Her hands were on him, clutching the deep-set sides of his cheeks and stroking them as if to imprint them in her deprived mind. Her lips replied to his demands, pressing hard against his and trying with all their might to drink him in, to take in every sensation his being provided her with.

Because, this was a stolen moment. And she relished it, not even daring to pull away for air.

And like that, it was over. An ember stomped out as rushing feet threatened to destroy their peculiar oasis in the middle of chaos. She yanked herself away, hair carelessly pulled out of its bun as long, determined fingers tried to keep their clutch on it.

In a gulp, Hermione took in all the oxygen she could, trying to clear up the steam in her mind- only to come up even more lightheaded. Everything was a bit of a blur for a moment, her Olympian heart pulsing loud in her ears and almost hushing the stampede of Order members that entered unknowing to the exchange they'd interrupted.

"Two more, over here," Neville called back to the others before rushing over to Hermione and Malfoy, who to any oblivious eye looked like they'd been trying to help one another off the ground. And, of course, Neville was oblivious.

"Hey, you okay? You look sick," Neville huffed as he held out a hand to help Hermione up. She could feel herself growing pale with each passing second, her fire's fuel shutting off completely and leaving in its absence a dull lull of emptiness.

She blinked, trying to get her head together, while avoiding looking at Malfoy at all costs.

"Yeah, just a little lightheaded. It's Malfoy that needs a little help," she brushed off as casually as she could, her voice shaky.

If she weren't trying so hard not to pay attention to Malfoy, she would have sworn she heard him hiss.

"No, I'm fine. Don't bother, Longbottom," he grunted, and finally she anxiously glanced back.

"You just got shot! And with what, I don't know," Hermione prattled on, flustered as Malfoy pulled himself up off of the ground while brushing off his jeans.

When he caught her gaze, she regretted speaking. His eyes simmered, scorching her skin, before dying down into the cool gray she was used to or, rather, preferred.

He nodded towards the unconscious boy, still lying against the opposite wall since the others were dealing with securing Dolohov.

"Well, I do and it was the killing curse. The boy didn't have it in him to do it right, though," he remarked with a humorless smile. "He must be new." And the heaviness that bore down on his words made his smile ever more startling, unnerving.

She was looking at him, truly seeing once more the lines on his face that had been engraving themselves there since his father had been imprisoned, the shadows under his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks growing into a darkness she could never fully comprehend. She was a child of the light, and he'd been bathed in the night.

How many had he killed in those months under Voldemort's watch? He'd been new once, but she knew if he raised his wand at her that very moment and uttered those two unforgivable words, she would be dead in an instant. He knew how to deliver death's blow, so how many had fallen because of this? And did they follow him now, clinging to the skin on his face, dragging them to make the weary lines she now saw and grieved over?

He caught her once more staring, and she turned her eyes to the boy Neville was now trying to wake up. And she saw in that boy everything Malfoy had been, and hoped that maybe there was hope for this one yet. That there was hope for the boy, the man beside her.

Her lips tasted tainted with the tang of blood.

With a spoon and a bowl of soup in front of him instead of a wand, the boy, Blake, was no longer a child soldier. He had just turned sixteen that year and had been immediately initiated by his parents into the ranks. There was a way to how he held himself, stealthily hiding the mark that stamped him as the enemy by folding his arms or sheltering it around the bowl itself even though the pool of a sweater George lent him covered it.

"Harmless, isn't it?" Luna asked lightly as she sat down beside Hermione at her table. She was used to Luna's random outbursts by now and didn't even bother looking over as greeting. She sighed, turning her spoon around in her own soup that had, by then, grown cold. It was also a disturbing gray color that instantly dissolved her appetite.

"I guess so. He doesn't seem comfortable, though," Hermione remarked lamely, peering over every once in a while to watch Blake's rigid body become even more so as Order members rustled about the kitchen tent. Most of them were indifferent to his presence, informed on how the interrogations had gone only hours ago. It was common knowledge that he was to be accepted as one of them now that he'd gotten away from the deatheaters, though some were on site as prisoners of war.

"He? Flowers are asexual, Hermione," was the strange reply to which Hermione finally turned her head. The confusion on her face faded the instant she caught sight of the pot Luna was holding in place of food. Inside of it stood a stronger, vividly colored version of the Vagus Luna had recovered only days ago. The bleak petals were still so towards the core of the flower, but the outer edges had turned a bright pink that almost hurt Hermione's retinas after all the shades of gray she'd been accustomed to.

"You're good at healing things, Luna. I'll give you that," Hermione commented, observing as the flower leaned into Luna's index finger as it moved closer to its stem. "But, shouldn't it have left by now?"

Luna shrugged, petting the delicate petals with the soft tips of her fingers. "Yes, but, it doesn't want to. I even went so far as to take it out of the pot, but it clung to the dirt with those tiny roots of its. It seemed… very determined to stay. I'd like to think it fancies me," she admitted with a distant smile.

"Oh," Hermione absently responded, nodding awkwardly as she slowly gave her attention back to the soup, and the newest member of her group.

"He looks harmless too. Who is he?"

Hermione felt her heart clench. "Just a boy."

"We were all that at some point, boys and girls. Now look at us," Hermione continued, muttering sourly at the roughness of everything. Her skin, her face, her trust, her beliefs, all jaded before their time. Grown up before her time.

"I'm looking, and I don't see anything wrong," Luna replied calmly, watching Hermione's face as her frown grew. "There's a beauty in hardship, Hermione. I can see it in your eyes."

"There's nothing beautiful about being worn down, Luna," she scoffed, churning her soup instead of acknowledging how uncomfortable she felt.

"I beg to differ. It shows we survive. You can't expect to pull through a rebellion and be the same as before. And that's not a bad thing. People change, war or no war, for the worse but also for the better. Try not to forget that- Oh, I forgot why I came in here to begin with," Luna rambled, unsettling Hermione further. She forced herself to glance back at the other witch, who was trying to apparently remember the real reason she was here.

And here, she'd thought it was for Luna to preach.

"Oh! Kingsley," the name instantly caught Hermione's attention and her head shot up. "He's insisted I take a break from watching over him and now he wants to see you."

Oh, boy.

Hermione swallowed down the clumps of gunk from her soup and gave Luna a nod; it was more to assure herself than anything else. She pushed away the bowl and got up, not saying a word as she left because she wasn't sure she'd be very comprehensible.

Kingsley had found out. It was inevitable, but she still dreaded his reaction.

She trudged through the camp, watching a specific tent's light flicker in strength. The closer she got to it, the more vengeful the lamp's fire seemed to get, raging against the tent sheets, trying to get at her. Of course, that was just her mind playing tricks on her. Her guilty conscious having a go, reminding her of a kiss she shouldn't have given, and orders she shouldn't have hid.

All because of one man, one annoying, misguiding, unintelligible fool who loved to eat at her reputation bit by bit.

And that was the clashing thoughts and emotions that fueled her as she stepped into Kingsley's quarters and realized there was another occupant, tale and strikingly blonde and pale. For once, he did not greet her with a knowing sneer.

He was looking paler than usual.

"Miss Granger. Finally, you've managed to find my tent," Kingsley boomed rather harshly, yanking Hermione's attention away from the haunting look on Malfoy's face to the turmoil Kingsley's possessed. She felt her own blood drain out.

She had to remind herself that she was the leader of this group, that she was the one in charge. But under his fierce stare, it was hard to assert herself.

"I'm sorry, Luna became sidetracked," feeble, she wanted to leave.

As if he never heard her, he went on. "You've went behind my back, without so much as an utter my way as to what was to happen. Pardon, I will take that back. I was told you were going out for 'supplies'. I was never informed that those 'supplies' were deatheaters," Kingsley nailed both Hermione and Malfoy to their crucifixes.

"It was a precautionary measure, sir. We were trying to avoid putting you in danger-"

"And so, instead, you put nine people in danger without consulting me," he charged, his eyes pinning her in place.

Malfoy remained silent.

Hermione gaffed, stammered, and tried to find her footing. "But, Kingsley, we discussed enough in previous meetings. It shouldn't matter when-"

"But it does! Granger, it does! How are we to know that was everyone in the area? They should have been under surveillance for longer, to map out their patterns, before attacking to ensure nothing was missed!"

She blinked, balling her hands at her sides to keep them from shaking. "But, it worked. We got them," she muttered defiantly. "No one was hurt, we got in, we got out. And according to the reports, the amount of targets present matched the general count."

He just shook his head, his own body giving out and he fell back onto his bed. He looked worse for wear, and Hermione wondered how Luna could have even thought of taking leave from nursing. His scars were reopening.

"I misjudged your leadership."

And now, hers were reopening too. A bitter taste filled her mouth. She stood there, unsure of herself as the room filled with a silence thick with wretched disappointment and useless, unheard excuses. Her mind couldn't find any that could fight back against her idol.

"You may go," he sighed, not even looking up as he dismissed her, Malfoy too no doubt. She could care less. He'd just stood there, a lame duck. But why would she expect him to stand up for her?

She shouldn't expect anything from him. She had only herself to depend on.

And so, she turned with as much dignity as she could summon and left. Her feet guided her to her own shelter, unaware of the feet that were following close behind.

The sting of tears threatened and warned her, made her move faster and she threw herself into her room, only to finally hear the sound of a wand flicking through the air.

"Get out," she hissed as she whipped around, already knowing that scent, that presence that haunted her every moment. "Get out." Teeth bared, but she didn't look a bit threatening did she? She could feel the blood rush to her cheeks and nose, turning them ripe with rage and that weak sadness she'd fought back for so long.

Malfoy's face was solemn as he drew back his wand, sliding it into his pocket. "Go on, get it out," he muttered.

"Get what out? What did you do?" She snapped, glaring at him as harshly as she could muster past the wetness in her eyes.

"Silence charm, now you can yell all you need. I know you do," he admitted with a shrug, his eyes never leaving hers. He looked so tired, the bags under his eyes just as pronounced as her own. But she didn't give a damn.

"How dare you, how dare you come in here like the coward that you are and tell me it's okay to yell at you now? Now? Oh, no, don't bother speaking as Kingsley tears into me for actually following your suggestion," she heaved, already in hysterics. She hated how affected she was by his presence. His very being set her on edge, and she was already teetering.

"I'm sorry," was his ridiculously calm response. Her nostrils flared fiercely, only bringing in more of his intoxicating scent.

She hated him.

"Fuck you," she spat violently. "You apologize? Because that fixes everything, right? Though, really, why should I have expected you to come to my defense?" She laughed, delirious in her unreasonable anger. She shouldn't be this bothered by his apathy. This was Malfoy, she tried to remind herself. This was Malfoy, this was what he did.

"I couldn't," he mustered to say, his Adam's apple pathetic as it willed something in his throat to go down. He wasn't looking at her anymore. His eyes were digging a hole in the ground, possibly his own grave.

Hermione laughed again. "Shocker. You're too weak. You didn't want to own up to anything, shock. Shock, shock. I'm astounded. Why didn't I see it coming?" She shot sarcastically.

His head was up in a flash, a heat melting his irises, making them stir- making her stir and she caught herself before she could go on with her accusations. He was glaring so intensely, but it held more than hostility.

It struggled to hide something.

"Don't mock me, Granger. I'm trying to do right by you, as little as it might be. Don't spit on my apologies. They don't come frequently," he simmered, a warning. She didn't take it lightly.

"Oh, so I'm supposed to feel blessed? I owe you nothing, Malfoy."

"I saved your li-"

"And I yours! Bravo, you were a hero for a day. But for what, Malfoy? What ulterior motives do you have hiding underneath that sneer of yours, hmm?" She pressed on, her feet pulling her forth without consensus.

A low growl rolled through him and she could see she was pressing all the wrong buttons. She liked it. It made her smile.

"I don't need ulterior motives. I'm a human being, and I was just trying to help," he snarled, his entire body growing more and more rigid with pent-up anger.

She wanted to see him burst. She wanted to see him fall apart, as she was so prone to do around him.

"Well, you're not doing so great of a job, Malfoy. I'd suggest you just stop," she bit back, a humorless smile playing on the tips of her lips.

Snap.

He was upon her, towering over her frame and blowing heated breaths against her face as she looked up with matching burning rage.

"So you want me to stop being human? You want me to hate you with every fiber of my being, just to make it easy for you to hate me back? You want me to stop having a heart that beats, to stop craving some kind of compassion from others? Is that what you want? You want me to just stop?"

She wavered, her humanity silently fighting against that fire that was searing into her brain. She grit her teeth, determined.

"Get away from me or, I swear, I'll hurt you," she forced out between clenched teeth. The glisten of her backed up tears blurred his face, softened the roughness of his bones, made him look like a boy again. But he was a man, and men were dangerous.

He was dangerous, to be so close.

"Go on then," he breathed, heavy smoke in his words as they hit her face. "Hurt me. Give it all you got, Granger."

They stood there, a thread filled with seething rage between them, and yet she couldn't raise her hands, point her wand. She couldn't hurt him, despite the demands roaring in her head.

She glared at him, frustrated with herself.

"What?" He asked, mock surprise in his voice. "Too much of a coward? Or do you have trouble fighting someone you just kissed?"

Her fists went flying on their own accord, aiming for that blur of a face that came into defining clarity when she needed it most. One small fist hit its mark, she could feel it in the pangs of her knuckles as they slammed against his cheek.

But when the other went to give a match on the other cheek, hands seized control of her wrists. They tightened, sealing her in, caging her.

And he was pulling her by the arms, and she was yanked against his body, and his lips were clashing angrily with hers, and she was losing herself.

Those same hands that imprisoned hers were on her hips, imprinting her everything into his entity, and she didn't feel a need to pull away. Those same hands that swung at him were now clinging to him, grabbing handfuls of his smooth locks as the deprived clenched at hope. She was kissing him hungrily, the fight silent in the attacks of their lips and the strategy behind the moves in his hands.

They were starved, running up and down the length of her body, each part of her screaming at his touch. They were in her hair and on her thighs, grabbing at her rib cage hard enough to break them and release her from her prison. They were on her torso, her curves, searing onto them, clawing at them, making beautiful scars on her hips.

Her own hands were moving with abandon, discarding her mind and running around like madmen on his body. She tried to pull away, her palms streaming down his chest, pushing him into the supporting pole of her tent, relishing in the clench of his muscles beneath her fingertips. She was sneaking under his shirt, and her skin flared against his, and they both cried into the other's mouths.

Tongues flew, clashed together in a duel of passion and the taste of him was divine.

He was pulling her close again, their bodies molded into one, steaming against the other so audibly that it was a blessing the charm hushed the tent to others. There was a fire, and no one but them knew about it.

She could feel everything against her curves, every move of his body becoming a move of her own, and she felt his deep pleasure pressed against her thighs. Her own pooled between her legs, a barely contained wildfire that ate away at the forest of thought she kept to protect herself against these attacks.

Her entire body was under attack, and Malfoy was the invader.

Hermione tore her lips away from his, and both of them were gasping. He pressed his forehead to hers, frustration in the arch of his brow but a smile of relief and passion on his face. She tried to think, closing her eyes to focus on her thoughts only to realize her other senses had peaked. Everything felt much more intimate.

She was trying to clear the steam in her mind as Malfoy's hand cradled her neck and arched it back for another kiss. She pushed against him.

"Stop," she heaved and the groan that followed was no shock. "Stop," she repeated in case he tried to take advantage of the pause. She was trying to remember something that was prickling at the back of her head. There was something, someone she was supposed to be keeping in mind… but it was melting, tricklingaway from her conscious; Malfoy's hands rubbing so persuasively over her skin as one slid beneath the protection of her shirt and grazed her burning skin. The steam was growing heavy, making everything so much harder to focus in on- except for his touch.

"Don't tell me you don't want this," he breathed heavy against her neck, planting too sweet kisses on the supple flesh there.

Her heart was stuttering, forgetting itself. She was forgetting herself.

She couldn't even form words, only barely audible sounds of bliss as Malfoy's hands and lips worked their way into her soul.

"Just say the word, and I'll stop," he murmured, his voice rough against her jaw as his devilish lips traced the delicate lines of her face, kissing and nibbling to his heart's content. She was trying, her mouth moving, letters forming in her throat, only to fizzle out on her lonely tongue.

"What word?" She sighed, and then his lips devoured her, his body reacting with such vigor she could barely keep up.

She was turned around, her body hissed against the coolness of the pole, but singing all the while as he eased her legs apart, yanking them up against his pelvis where they clung so naturally. Their bodies melded perfectly with him nestled between her legs, and his chest fusing with her own with hands stripping off layers of each other. Her shirt was gone, lost in the haze as he roamed once more over her body, only to pause as she yanked his T-shirt off.

Soon, it was only their indestructible flesh separating them from one another, but the way with which they clung to one another, with which their fingers tore at the flesh on each other's hips and shoulders, it was clear they wanted nothing more than to destroy that barrier.

But, the closest they came to breaking it down was when he sunk into her, exhorting a cry from their entwined bodies and lips so piercing, it meant to shatter glass.

And they found themselves on her small, dismal bed, but without a care in the world as he dove into her depths. And she found herself hating him less and less with each stroke, her body unable to deny the desire, the hunger that only he could satiate, her whole unable to deny the way they fit together.

She couldn't hate him with the kisses he bestowed upon her body so forcefully and so reverently, the touches his hands imprinted onto her bones, the moans her own caresses would elicit. She couldn't hate him.

But, damn it, she hated him for the feelings he rose up in her wave after wave, crashing against her sensibility and knocking out all the wrongs she knew this was filled with.

She hated him.

And so, when the last cries and moans had faded into sleep, she remembered herself and crept out into the darkness of the early morning to escape her fate.