I Will Not, Cannot Go

by odairrieres

After running away from the shadows of the war and finding a new life and fiancé in muggle London, Hermione is faced with a ghost from her past who refuses to let her go on living a lie.

34. Something New

[A/N: I know this is yet another long-time-coming update, and I thank you all so much for the support you continue to show! I reread the reviews all the time. Enjoy, and thanks again!]

Come home, come home.

The silent mantra washed in on soft waves and landed like a kiss against Draco's chest, where Hermione's head rested. Every exhale of hers whispered promises of that elusive thing: home. Warmth pooled into him. He was home, with her; she was safe, with him.

Then, those same waves withdrew with her inhale, suddenly leaving his entire body shivering in the sand. In the sand, on a beach somewhere that was not home at all. Draco was miles away from the Manor, from his childhood. Bodies surrounded him, speaking, looking at him- people that were not his family. They were classmates who were practically strangers. Moments ago, they were enemies. And now? Were his mother and father the enemies? Was he still the enemy?

Hermione exhaled again: you're home.

Draco instantly clung to her, heart full, and he tried to stand.

She inhaled again. The sand slipped away from his feet; it was unwilling to support the weight of them both. Draco gripped onto her tighter and his palm stung viciously. His eyes flew to where his hand held onto Hermione's arm. Staining her sweater, and his hand, was blood. As he stared, a frigid wind slapped and turned his face. His vision went white with sand, writhing waves, cloudy skies. There was pain and cold everywhere, quaking through him.

Hermione's breath kissed him again, swiftly washing away the panic.

He refused to let her go, even as they sunk.

"Give her over," a voice called and immediately Draco recoiled. He staggered back, fell on his knees. When Draco looked up, it was to see Ronald Weasley above him. He hovered with arms open, resolved to take Hermione away to an unseen destination.

"Over my dead body," Draco challenged, and ordered himself to rise- even as the ground ran from him. Carefully, he stood; he watched as Hermione remained unconscious in his arms, undisturbed by his struggle. Solace came at the feel of her breath again, at the sight of her sleeping. She blanketed his anxiety. Whatever shaking his limbs were up to ceased for her sake. When they did, he took a step towards Ron. "I've got her. Just show me where to go."

"Unless you plan to make Hermione sleep on the beach, we should get a move on it," Harry butted in before Ron could explode. Behind Harry, making their way towards a lone cottage not far down the dreary beach, were Dean, Luna, Ollivander, a goblin and Dobby. It was dizzying to see such a misfit group. It was nauseating to see all the people who had been prisoners of his household free, tired and scattered on a coastline. Who would fill the dungeon at Malfoy Manor now?

Draco's parents flashed across his vision.

"You heard Harry, let's go," Ron snapped. Draco, disoriented, obeyed.

Each step sunk him. The cold air made him chillingly more aware to where he was, who he was with, and what the present would do to his future. All the while, he became sharply aware of Hermione's weight, her burden… her warmth.

"She's too warm," Draco panicked as they neared the cottage. Harry stopped at the doorway, where two other faces greeted the group with alarm.

Hermione's skin burned everywhere Draco touched her, like coal fresh from the fire. He winced. She shuddered; with a harsh note, a gust of wind escaped her mouth and blew out the heat completely. The embers inside her went cold. Yet, Hermione's face twisted in pain, mouth slack and beads of sweat trailing down her forehead. Her skin, pale.

Frantically, Draco pushed through the horde and into the house. "Something's wrong!"

A woman he vaguely recognized approached him from behind, staring wide-eyed in horror at Hermione's distraught state. When she spoke, the french accent snapped his memory into place. "To the bedroom, quickly," Fleur said as she gestured towards the staircase.

Stubborn will and terror allowed Draco's flimsy body to make it up to the second floor. Though, his legs nearly gave out as he rushed to the first room he saw. Even after he had laid Hermione safely onto the bed, he stood guard.

The others pooled in after him; Fleur was the first at Hermione's bedside, seated there and pressing the back of her palm to Hermione's clammy forehead, cheeks, neck. Fleur frowned. "She must have been running a fever, but it is gone now."

Fleur was standing up- Draco shook his head and blocked her from leaving. "No, that was not a fever, that was-"

Fleur raised her hand to stop him, "she just needs rest-"

"No!" Draco snapped, "would you just listen to me?"

"Why should I?"

Draco's face flushed, a snarky thought blinding him for a moment; he must've been running a fever too, since his brain threatened to explode with anger. He opened his mouth-

A scream stunned him silent.

Draco's head snapped towards the bed, where Hermione was upright and hunched in on herself. Her hands were pale and strained as they clutched at her hair; those curls he loved to tease now yanked and coming undone. Impulsively, Draco shoved Fleur aside and dove towards her.

"Hermione," he sighed, his arms opened and reaching, ready to comfort her. She looked up and her bloodshot eyes met his.

She screamed.

Hands- Hermione's hands- slammed into his chest and fell him. Draco hit his head against the wall, the distress of it amplified by Hermione's continued screams. This was the sound he had imagined, locked in that room away from her. This was the wound he had hoped to heal. Instead, it tore fresh and ripped at the walls, as Hermione's hands lashed out at the people who tried to restrain her. She thrashed and seized, screamed obscenities and frothed threats Draco never thought Hermione could conjure- not towards her friends. Yet, not once did she lash out with magic. She bit on her own tongue, drawing blood in her struggle, in her madness.

In the small respites between screams, there was a whimper; she was pleading for help.

Draco scrambled up, trying to find his way back to her, thinking if he could hold her-

"Get your hands off her," he demanded, swatting the various arms that looked to him, and to Hermione, like bars on a cage. When he pushed through, he meant to reach out, desperate to touch.

She saw him, again, and cried out with such suffering they both recoiled from the shock of it.

Draco was paralyzed. He was paralyzed, only for a moment, nonetheless it was more than enough to mean something. It was long enough for him to be replaced.

In his reserved space, Luna appeared. Before Draco could feebly protest, the girl was upon the bed with Hermione secure in her arms. Hermione continued to thrash, to resist the false promise of safety.

Like a python, Luna continued to pull her in, hugging her and rocking her to the tempo of the waves just outside the window; waves Draco and the others could finally hear as Hermione's anguish calmed. Her eyes, once crazed and wide, drooped with exhaustion. Yet, she remained stiff- fists and arms clutched to her chest and the tension in her neck too terrified to allow her head any peace on Luna's shoulder.

Hermione's body was locked in a battle Draco could feel waging in his own bones. Luna, somehow, felt it too. She knew how to win the battle, and mentored Hermione in gentle whispers. To hear her better, Hermione clenched down on the screams, teeth pressing like tectonic plates against one another; the pressure erupted in more shakes and sharp, sore breaths. Even as Hermione seemed to drift off, something savage would rise from within and strangle her back awake, make her scream out only to fade away again.

Patiently, Luna cradled her; silently, now that Hermione's violence had subsided. Until, finally, Hermione's body collapsed in on itself; the battle was over. All the while, Draco had stood on the sidelines, terrified of the fight and his inability to fight alongside her.

As Luna and Fleur guided Hermione's body back onto the bed, Draco was confronted by her battle wounds. The gruesome tattoo on her arm was angry and pulsing, blood smeared over her skin. Raw lines marked her neck, dried beads of blood reborn and dripping from the new dampness of sweat. She was covered in sweat: her clothes, her curls, her face- Her face, even in sleep, did not look peaceful. There was still a war going on just beneath the spasms of her skin.

Again, he tried to be with her. Draco stepped forward, reached out to touch her hand-

Someone shoved a roll of plaster into his chest.

"You're bleeding. Get cleaned up and bandaged," Fleur ordered, an edge to her voice that had some to do with him but mostly to do with Hermione. Before he could respond with even an expression, Fleur was turned to her patient and instructing everyone to get out. "Except you, Luna. I'll need you."

Draco stood, useless, waiting for someone to contradict Fleur- waiting for himself to contradict her. To say, "no, you'll need me. Hermione needs me."

Of course, he couldn't say that. It wasn't the truth anymore. It probably had never been the truth.

Somehow, Draco managed to follow orders and get outside the room. Just barely. He reached the outer wall, a mere few inches of plaster blocking him off from the bed Hermione now rested in. There was where he dropped his weight, and pretended for a second he could lean against that wall and stand. The pretense lasted long enough for him to attempt to bandage his bleeding hand. Immediately, the bandaging fell apart from his flustered, shaky maneuvers. He bit his lip to stop the trembling, but couldn't do anything about the rest of his body. With a strangled cry, he yanked the bandaging off and tossed it down the stairs, before finally collapsing to the ground. The wall barely kept his upper body from dropping like a corpse, as the rest of him did from exhaustion and shock. His limbs were not solid anymore, and neither were his eyes. They were fire, yet flooded. Whether he shut them or opened them did not matter. He could not see or do anything. His whole body rendered him useless. He was useless.

"Yeah, you are," Ron stated bluntly from somewhere above. Draco didn't know he had been speaking aloud. He opened his eyes and found the righteous Weasley standing right in front of him. "So, how about you make yourself useful?"

Draco glared at Ron. "How?" he grit out in a classic mix of self-loathing and cynicism.

Without missing a beat, Ron tossed a sack at him. "Do the laundry."

Draco peered into the bag and saw Hermione's clothes, and a bundle of sheets. His throat tightened. He choked on his own idiotic narcissism.

"Luna and Fleur managed to change Hermione into something comfortable, but she'll need more clean clothes and sheets," Ron supplied needlessly. He seemed to be holding onto his calm facade much better than Draco. Nevertheless, there were telling cracks. "What she was wearing is covered in- well-" Ron winced and cleared his throat of things better left unsaid. "Fleur said she's going to sweat her way through the new set sooner rather than later."

The things Ron left unsaid stormed Draco's skull. His ears popped from it, rang deafeningly, and nausea curled tight in his gut. He scrambled up and left in search of the laundry, and the lavatory.

In the end, he only threw up what little he'd had for breakfast. All the guilt festering in his stomach stayed right where it was, refusing to be flushed away. It built up to dizzying extremes when he found the laundry and dumped the contents of the sack into the basin. The smell punched him right below the ribs; it brought him low, knees banging against the basin's edge, and brought that guilt right back up in his throat. It stayed right there, and left him dry-heaving.

Grappling for the faucet, Draco turned on the water. It flooded out over the clothes and sheets and stains; it raged to clean them. Only then, as Draco reached into his pockets in search for his wand, did he realize the boiling of his hand and the heavy absence of his wand.

The water ran frantic in Draco's stillness.

Bone slammed and cracked against ceramic. The water became feeble background to Draco's assault, as he smashed his bleeding hand against the corner of the basin again and again. Each time, the abuse struck through and deepened the wound he'd made himself. Eventually, Draco's strength waned, his hand grinding hard into the blunt edge of the basin. He did this until all he felt was that particular affliction. Until he sagged from the effort of feeling it.

When Draco pried his skin away from the surface, his blood made it nearly impossible to see where the opening was. For a while, he breathed in the scent of iron and let the sting drown out everything else. And then, he lowered his hand below the running water and watched as the blood flowed over Hermione's clothes and down the drain.

Silently, he grabbed loose fabric from the counter for bandaging, as well as the scrub for washing.

He began to clean the mess.

---

Hermione slept through the day; minus two eruptions of screams and panic, subdued with the help of sedative potions and charms. However, there was no charm to ease the tension in the cottage while she slept, or potion to drink away the past. Everyone tried to keep busy, fixing up their own wounds or fixing up food and bed for ten. From the ten inmates around him, Draco received perhaps ten words in total. Which made sense, given the tension and the past between him and the others. He had no right to be in the same home as them, but he was.

Home, however, was not what he felt at night as he lay on the floor. Sleep refused to comfort him, and the creaky ceiling offered no distraction from his thoughts. It only reminded him of who was above him.

It took three hours of staring, at where he thought she must be sleeping, for him to finally get up and go to her.

It took three seconds, of standing in the doorway, for him to gather his nerve and step into the room. There was something about the way she slept- the sedated nature of it- that kept him at bay. The last time she had slept that way, it had been his fault and their undoing. Now was not much different. And now, just as then, Draco could not stop himself from wanting to seek her comfort, her touch.

Quietly, Draco approached the bed, scanning from her peaceful face to her hand; it lay, slightly curled as if just released from a fist. He reached to hold Hermione's hand. Alas, his eyes snapped up to hers and recalled the look of bloodshot terror. Draco's hand froze as her scream echoed in his head all over again, as his head ached with the injury of her pushing him away. The dark mark on his arm flared. He dropped his hand.

Draco had no right to this moment. And yet, he proceeded to steal another. He placed the blanket and pillow that constituted his bed on the ground, and he lay down.

Like clockwork, Draco's body rotated to face Hermione's silhouette. He watched her until he wasn't, until he was fast asleep.

When he awoke, it was with a jolt, a sudden embarrassment and fear that someone would walk in and see him there or, worse, Hermione would. She didn't. When his eyes flew to hers, they were still sealed shut in sleep. So, he would have just a little while longer with her. Relief made his limbs flimsy. Still, he managed to rise and approach the bed once again; this time, he did so in the daylight, without the haze of panic or a horde of people to distract him. Now, he took her in completely as she was.

Light broke in from the window beside the bed, attempting to revive her. But, the clouds were too heavy and dimming, making her lackluster. Or, at least, Draco convinced himself it was the poor lighting that drained Hermione, and not the past. However, nothing could explain away how small she looked; a feat, to be sure, in the tiny bed she was given. She looked small, and aged- by the bruising under her eyes and the deep lines in her skin, where pain was ripped from her. The screams of yesterday haunted him from dried cuts on Hermione's lips. He noticed that, although Luna and Fleur had applied balm to the minor cuts on her neck and face, the scar on her arm glared red through the bandaging- mudblood. It accused him when she could not.

So, Draco peeled at the layers until the mark could confront him completely, angry and shouting blame. His heart broke from the attack, but could not deny the truth of it. Fault brimmed in his eyes, flooding them and making everything warp beyond recognition. And again, he silently begged for his wand- to briskly wave it in the air and have that wretched evil disappear, have that pain be healed. Instead, Draco spotted a jar of balm on the bedside table. Determined, he opened it and carefully reached for her arm.

The limb yanked away from him.

Hermione was awake.

Draco nearly wiped his eyes with balm in his attempt to clear them of tears. When he blinked past the mess, Hermione's eyes were watching him silently. Blankly. He smiled, for her, and breathed her name. As if to remind them both of who she was. "Hermione." She blinked at the familiar sound, yet remained unmoved. His voice shook, "hey."

She turned her eyes from him.

It was no worse, nor any better than the screams. Draco cleared his throat, and feebly explained, "I'll just apply some ointment, and then I'll go."

She remained silent. Draco reached again. Just before his fingertips could touch skin, Hermione pulled away.

Each time she did that, she pulled at the stitches holding him together. The cut on his hand wept red. "Hermione," the name broke, "the… the cuts need more balm applied."

Again, he reached. Again, she rejected him.

Logic told him he was in the room with Hermione, merely inches away from her, yet he felt far off. He was sinking and, as he tried to latch onto her, she simply stared off through the windowpane at the sea churning grey and heavy. He saw himself in the glass, head reflected just above water. Drowning as she watched.

"Please."

"No." Her voice was torn, one syllable split into a cacophony of many. A quiet shattering of something already broken. It was an even quieter withdrawal when she said, "no magic."

She needed to heal. Draco knew that. She wanted to heal naturally. Draco understood that. But she wanted to heal alone, and he could not do that.

Draco pressed the balm back into the jar, sealed it, and put it down on the bedside table; in case she changed her mind, and knowing she stubbornly would not.

There remained a little smear of the healing ointment on his fingertips, and there remained an open wound in himself.

He wiped the ointment off on his pants and left with a goal in mind. Thankfully, Dobby was more than willing to help when Draco found him, and returned within an hour with a small tube of cream. The elf was the only person outside of Hermione to ever see a smile from Draco. And a "thank you."

However, it was a fleeting moment of relief, as when he reappeared at Hermione's doorway, he was greeted with Fleur's taut face. She looked slightly disheveled, and very preoccupied.

"I need to see Hermione," Draco blurted, eyes darting into what pockets of the room he could see past Fleur. He caught the silhouette of Hermione, slouched and turned away, at the edge of her bed. She was in fresh, warm pajamas. Her hair was brushed and tucked into a braid. She looked pristine.

Despite the newness of her dress and position, the temperature of the room seemed colder than before he had left.

"Now is not a good time," Fleur warned wearily.

When had there ever been a good time for them?

Draco's eyes lingered on Hermione, on how she stared at the floor as if it were a black pit waiting to swallow her whole.

"Come back later."

His focus shot to Fleur then, relentless. "No. No, she needs this." His grip on the white tube was threatening to destroy it completely. He took a breath and tried to release the tension.

Fleur stared at the object, unsure. With eyebrows knotted from concern, she glanced back at Hermione. Fleur's grip on the door never ceased being firm.

Draco was not as strong. "Please."

Fleur's head snapped back to him at that word, concern turning first to confusion and finally tenderness. She sighed and gave a soft smile, her hands slipping off the door as she opened it wider. She didn't even get halfway through her "alright," before he was in the room and at Hermione's side again.

Draco knelt at her bedside, and looked up to search her expression for proof of his existence. She offered none. She continued to stare at the floor.

"Dobby helped me get this," Draco said, the calm tone manufactured. The pleading nature of his offering, the small white tube in his outstretched hand, counteracted his tone completely. Hermione didn't acknowledge that either. His voice remained steady as he continued, "it's muggle, I promise. It's, uh, antibacterial cream? Supposed to help… prevent infection or… something- you know better than me what it does. Obviously."

There was a click of the door closing. Immediately, his facade collapsed, every bone in his body bending from need of her.

"Please," he begged shakily. His knees shuffled closer to her.

Finally, Hermione showed life. Minutely. A small spasm moved her away from him. His eyes burned, and he cleared his throat. Tried, again, to reach her. "Please, at least let me put ointment on it."

The medicine rested as an unwanted peace offering in his hand, fingers withered from rejection over it. His posture slowly caved, even as he determined to remain, as though he were wet clay in need of touch and warmth to hold its meaning. And if he were tearful, wet clay, she was a statue forged by hellfire. Impenetrable, trapped.

"I can do that just fine," she spoke stoically, just before he could fall apart entirely. The touch of her voice at his ears was enough to hold him steady, no matter how cold she was as she spoke the words, "please go."

He refused to leave. His resolve was hardening in the prolonged exposure to her, even if she was overcast with shadows.

Her eyes darkened in warning. "Draco."

"I won't leave until I see you put the ointment on," he stated obdurately, jutting the said ointment towards her, just above her lap.

A piece of her, her eyes, moved in the mold. A small flicker of struggle, a fight of emotion escaped as she looked at his hand, his offering, his need.

Hermione moved, a soft lift of the hand to meet his, fingers brushing against the bandaging on his palm. Something inside him began to stitch together. He sighed in repose as she took the ointment.

However, that was not even one tenth of the battle. Hermione held the small tube, almost in contempt, as she looked from her arm and back to it- never once looking to see the desperation on Draco's face. She did not need to. It was a palpable yearning, touching her when he could not. She sighed, and placed the ointment on the bed.

Draco's mouth snapped open in protest but, before he could bother, she was unwrapping her arm.

There it was again, angrier than before, the word that screamed at him in his sleep: mudblood.

"You don't have to look like that," Hermione's voice came gently to him, a comforting stroke on the cheek. Just... there was something to the touch that felt removed, like a stranger trying to soothe another. It felt obligatory, as did her motions as she rubbed the cream into the wound.

"This word… it doesn't mean anything to me," she continued pensively, staring down at the markings; each clockwise stroke of her fingers was a cog turning in her head. He could hear the thoughts clicking together, but not her heart beating with it. There was a quietness below the head that terrified him. The corners of Hermione's eyes twitched, as though she were seeing what neither of them could hear.

She confessed, moreso to herself than him that "I'm… incapable of finding meaning in most things right now… That… that beast tore into my chest, into my body, and dug out everything that was me. I tried to hold onto it all but my grip wasn't enough. I kept feeling pieces rip away from me - even my rage and my fear until all that was left was this pit."

"Hermione." Draco hated that her name came out fractured. He hated that he held back from holding her. "Why?" He nearly choked. "Why didn't you use your magic?"

Her motions, the healing, stopped. Hermione stared, sight hollowed, at her opened flesh.

"Because it was dark," she muttered. "Everything was so dark…" Her vision narrowed, the hand that once worked to heal now clenched in a fist. "What I could've done to Bellatrix if I'd just used…" Hermione tasted the thought and bit down on it, closed her eyes to savor it. But then her mouth twisted, and she spat it out.

"I didn't, of course." Draco wasn't sure who she was testifying to. He had been foolish enough to judge many things, but he could not judge her.

She seemed to misconstrue the horror on his face, and frantically avowed, "I know I can't. I know it's dark and the second I give into that, it'll all pour in- but there's this voice-"

"You-know-who?"

"No." Hermione shook her head resolutely. "No, not him. It's older than him." She paused, her eyes drawn back to the floor, at her feet as they dangled- refusing to touch. She took a deep breath, arched her foot until the tip of her toe touched the dark wood. She closed her eyes and sighed. "It's older than death. And it promises so much; no more pain, just... power."

Draco looked at her in awe, and concern. "That sounds-"

Her foot snapped up, her eyes open and accusing. "I know what it sounds like, I hear it every damn day!" Hermione flinched. "...Sorry. It's just... I'm weak, for control. And everything is spiraling, and I tighten my hold on the one thing I think I can control- I can feel it controlling me. And I know, I know I can't give into it... But I felt that power course through my veins, black and heavy and electric, and I miss it terribly."

His heart leapt, reached for her light before it could be extinguished by the shadows clinging to her. He knew of only one way to do so. He swallowed, shifted his weight until he was seated on his heels. Draco glanced down at the ground, remembered the darkness of it well from his nightmares.

"I was going to say… It sounds familiar," he avowed. "I was afraid of you- of your power over me, for so long… I thought, maybe I could control how I felt about you… that I could control you somehow. Except I couldn't, and I know now I can't and I shouldn't. It's why I let go that night. Of course, I also let go because I was too much of a fucking coward, so afraid of your hold on me. The way you got under my skin with every word, shocked me with every touch. I could always feel you, and your magic- electric."

Draco closed his eyes, remembering, and smiled softly. "Never heavy. Never dark. Always dancing, lighter than air, and I miss it." He opened his eyes then, and she flooded his senses all over again. "I miss you… but I understand if you hate me."

"I don't." There was no tenderness or malice, no confession to the words. Hermione was reading a trivial fact out of a book. Draco felt a surge of frustration, and it only worked to drain him. He sank further into the ground.

"Then why won't you let me help you?" he asked, the desperation tearing each word apart.

Hermione stared at him the same way he had seen her stare at the ground when he'd first entered. He hated it. He hated every bit of it, and became sick from it. There was again that feeling of nausea, the rise of guilt. He did not think he could feel any worse than this. But then she spoke.

"Because looking at you reminds me of what I almost did," she said, so quietly he nearly lost it to the air. "How I almost killed you, and you didn't even know it. How I almost killed everyone in that room as they stood, watching that demon torture me. I fought it, so hard, but all I see when I look at you is…" Hermione winced, and shut her eyes. Draco could not bear to close his for even a fraction of a second, for fear of her disappearing from him. But even as he locked onto her, held her in his gaze, he knew she was leaving him.

"The image I fantasized comes back to me, and I don't want to see it anymore." Now came the confession, hemorrhaging from malice and tenderness in equal parts: "I don't want to see you."

The floor swallowed him whole and spat him out on the other side of her door. He stood there for a moment, trying to recover the pieces of himself splattered all over. But then he felt eyes watching him attempt to clean an impossible mess. Harry stood across the hall, in front of Ollivander's room, fucking observant as always.

Eyes stinging, Draco growled, "what?"

"There's food in the kitchen, if you're hungry," was all Harry offered before disappearing down the stairs.

It took Draco a few minutes to compose himself, and follow. As he entered the kitchen, the gathered sight of Harry, Ron, Bill, and Fleur besieged him. He noted the absence of Luna and Dean, who must have left sometime that morning when Draco couldn't be bothered to care. He still had trouble working up the appetite for others, or food for that matter.

"How is she, Fleur?" Harry asked, not bothering to acknowledge his own invitee. His body was turned towards Fleur, who was at the stove with Bill, serving out portions for lunch. Ron, however, did very much acknowledge Draco's entrance with a brisk look and an immediate, telling dismissal.

Fleur sighed. "Mm, physically, she is healing. Mentally," Fleur and Bill shared a look as she passed him two bowls of soup. Bill immediately left the room with them, their recipients bed-ridden. As the door swung closed behind Bill, Fleur's lips attempted a reassuring smile. "Hermione simply needs more rest."

"Can we go talk to her?" Ron asked, and Fleur's smile fell.

She cautioned, slowly, "yes… you can. But, don't expect her to say much back. We shouldn't push her. The mission can wait. For now… for now, she needs time and support."

"Whose?" Draco asked sullenly from where he stood by the doorway, incapable of sitting with them.

"Excusez-moi?"

"Whose support?" Draco enunciated, each syllable inflamed. "She won't let you in, she won't let me in- she's not going to let any of us in! And the more time she takes, the more we lose her."

"The more you lose her," Ron accused.

"I've already lost her. I just want to help."

Ron's face snapped into a scowl. "How long?"

"What?" Draco snapped right back, annoyed and confused.

"How long was Luna tortured?"

Draco's mouth hung open. He blinked, a twitch of the brow and a shake of the head. "I-"

"Did you think of helping her even once?" Ron attacked. The others observed discerningly, the air poignant and heavy around everyone involved. "Why is it you only became a hero when Hermione lay on the ground bleeding? Use your fucking head! She'll let us in just fine. She won't let you in, because she knows! She knows, if she hadn't been in trouble, you would have never saved her friends."

Three pairs of eyes stared at him, but it felt like many more were watching from the walls, the windows, a place above and omniscient. He could not see their faces, as he had refused to be witness to their judgment at Malfoy Manor. Now, they judged him.

Ron channeled their anger, their disgust. "That's the difference between you two, the one thing that will ruin your chance with her! If the roles were reversed, she would have saved your friends. She would have risked her neck for the likes of Crabbe, Goyle- bloody hell, even Pansy! And not just because they're your friends, but because they are people! Being tortured. Unlike you, she isn't a coward!"

No one stirred, the space too tense for motion. The door was so near to him, Draco could have slipped through it easily. He could have stormed off, ran away, vanished. He could have done a lot of things.

"I never tried to be a hero."

Ron looked disappointed. "Well, you should've."

"Really?" Draco gapped, resentful. "So, what? I was supposed to betray my family without a moment's hesitation?"

"The same family that stood by as the love of your life was writhing and bleeding on the floor? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"My family could be dead right now because of the choice I made! MY FAMILY!" The terror was stolen from Draco, as though all those who watched had dug their hands into his chest and ripped it out of him. It now dominated the room, an explosive bang! that shook everything. Yet, at the very moment the fear consumed all in its wake, it collapsed in on itself, on him, and vanished from sight. The only thing that remained from it was a pathetic tremble in Draco's lips. He grabbed at it and pulled viciously, until it stopped.

"You have the luxury of being on the right side of history, with a family who chose morals," Draco clarified, carefully collecting himself back into one piece. "Mine didn't. They chose family and survival… and my mom... She-" His body locked, refused to be anything but strong. "She did what she needed to, for me. Just like I did for Hermione. And no, not for you- not for the fucking chosen one, or anyone else! Because that's who I am. I'm not a fucking hero. I'm just trying… to figure out how to live. I've made a lot of mistakes, sometimes I did nothing at all… but I know now I will do anything for the people I love- right or wrong, I don't give a shit- and I don't give a shit if you hate me for that. And if Hermione does…" Draco's composure threatened to crumble. He took a deep breath. "That's the bed I've made, and I'll lie in it after she heals."

Silence followed, the air no lighter than before the explosion.

"Once she's on her feet again, I'll get out of your way," Draco vowed, expression hard. "But until then, I'm not fucking going anywhere."

"We weren't planning on sending you away, Malfoy." Harry spoke, and the words felt dusty- like it wasn't expecting to need saying. Draco's threat was completely cleaned off him, leaving him standing awkward and confused.

"You know," Ron muttered as he turned to his untouched soup. He stirred it. "Hermione once said 'if he's a Death Eater and he stands by his decision… let him rot." Fleur moved, and placed another bowl on the table for Harry, for herself. "She said she wouldn't grieve, and neither should we. It's that simple'."

Fleur placed another bowl down, for Draco.

Ron stared at it, and then turned to look at Draco expectantly. "Guess it wasn't so simple."

---

Sitting at the table, they told him many things. Harry and Ron told him of the nine months in hiding that eventually led them to Malfoy Manor. He was informed about Hermione's wavering mental state, how the horcruxes worsened the darkness, and how she had neared beating it when the attack happened.

"The cruciatus curse must have closed her off," they worried.

"If Hermione doesn't want to see you, you need to stay away," they warned.

"Fine," Draco agreed reluctantly.

So, she didn't see him.

Draco visited Hermione only when she slept. Unfortunately, that was quite often in the beginning. Whether medicated or self-induced, Hermione remained in her bed and with eyes closed for days. Periodically, she briefly awoke to get her bandages redressed or her person redressed, bathed, and to attempt eating. He would vanish then, just as her eyelids began to stir. He would slip off to do mindless housework rather than wait, a deprived beggar outside her door.

Though, a beggar he was. Draco took anything Hermione offered in her sleep: a soft sigh, discrete smile, the turn of her head catching the moonlight in a way that caught his breath along with it. He swore not to ask for too much, as he was already taking more than she wanted him to. He would only sit in the wicker chair, pressed against the opposite wall; far enough away even his breath would not touch her. He would not fall asleep or fool himself into a false sense of comfort or welcome. He was an unwanted guest, afterall. So, these were the parameters of his stay.

The parameters were broken after two nights.

Something about the day bled anxiety into his night. He had been paralyzed one too many times by fear for his parents. There were growing pains from adjusting to life with heroes, and soreness from a day of keeping blindly busy. All of this, or some of it, or just the excuse of it, drove his chair a little closer to Hermione's bedside.

Instead of by the opposite wall, he sat by the door; he stood guard of things beyond that door a part of him knew terrified him much more than it did Hermione. She looked too peaceful to be afraid of unseen monsters and futures. The dark shadows under her eyes had lessened since the night before, and the night before that. Or perhaps it was the moonlight softening her, preserving her youth in sleep.

Draco leaned back into the chair, leaning into the sight of Hermione well-rested and healing. He closed his eyes to her breathing in harmony with the gentle waves outside her window.

He fell asleep.

By the grace of an unknown god, Draco managed to wake up before Hermione. But not before Fleur could enter and see him gathering his pillow and blanket from the scene of the crime. She stood aside, not saying a word, as he left. And he swore he would not be so selfish again. He would not return to her room.

As twilight emerged, Draco did too, with his chair directly by Hermione's bed. He swore it had nothing to do with selfishness. It had everything to do with her.

She'd had a terrible day.

No one had needed to tell him, and no one had wanted to- but he had heard regardless. It was hard to conceal the truth in such small confines, with pathetically thin, defective walls. From the washroom downstairs, Draco had heard the eruption of screams, the shattering of fragile things, and worse: the silent aftermath. It was a silence he was familiar with; a manufactured silence that eased no one, least of all the person he knew was still screaming within its cage. Draco had felt her raging inside the muffliato charm, had felt the vibrations shaking the very foundation of the cottage as she stormed the room and as someone else- Fleur, Bill- tried to restrain her. Eventually, the shudders stopped. The silence became genuine. The damage done and superficially fixed. And he had stood, clutching that damn basin again, letting the water run.

So, Draco sat beside her that night.

This time, when he awoke at sunrise, Hermione was very conscious and very much watching him. Draco's mouth popped open, horrified and prepared to say something- a defense, an apology… but nothing came out. And as she did not say anything either, they remained just like that: rested and seen.

Afterwards, Draco entered Hermione's world for longer and longer periods. He entered with the laundry to put away, with food trays he insisted on seeing her finish, and with books to read to her. And sometimes, on better days, books for her to read to him. On worse days, the door was locked to him as Fleur tried her best to heal whatever part of Hermione broke upon waking. But always, Draco was there when night came, to sleep in his chair beside her.

Each dawn, there was something different about the way he woke up to Hermione. She slept like a soldier, face towards the ceiling and body braced against the bed for impact. But in the morning, she would be turned towards him. First, it was just the head, a gentle roll of it onto her left shoulder. Then an arm, and then the other… until, one morning, he awoke to her whole body turned and curled towards him; until, at night, she would fall asleep like that, and he dared to touch the edge of his chair to her bed.

Once, as he dozed off, his arm slipped off its rest and onto her bed. He woke up softly, softly to the embrace of Hermione's hand around his.

Every night after, they fell asleep holding hands. Even if she had not talked to him the whole day, or anyone for that matter, they had that one moment of contact to cling to. And Draco swore things were getting better. Hermione was getting better; some days she left the bed, even left the room, to explore, to converse. She was finding herself more and more; his hand was a line for her to hold onto, to help reel her back in.

"How'd you get this?" she asked one day, as they lazed through the late hours of the morning. A gentle stroke on his palm, like the hand on a clock, ticked away the seconds Draco snuck away with her. He glanced down at where she touched him, her fingers lightly tracing the scabbed cut back and forth, back and forth- healing it with each idle swing. His fingers curled into her touch.

She stilled, and so did his heart.

"I was doing something stupid," Draco muttered as she pulled away. She tucked her hand beneath her pillow. Despite the retreat, Hermione smiled and rolled her eyes.

"That covers a lot of scenarios with you. You'll have to be more specific."

"So you can scold me? I don't think so."

Hermione laughed at that. The sunlight intensified, kissing gold and love onto her cheeks. She pushed herself up from the bed, and swung her feet off the side. Hermione was finally ready for the day ahead.

"One way or another, I'll find out," she vowed and Draco swore he was helping somehow, if only a little bit. Finally.

The thought warmed him through the day, until the dark stole in. A sharp sound, part nightmare and reality, awoke him to the early hours and the numbness of absence. The room was devoid of light- no stars or even a hint of moonlight, as though the sky had been taken. If Draco squinted, he could make out the fragile outline of the world around him. However, he didn't need to see to know. His hand lay bare on Hermione's bed. She was gone from him. Buried beneath the sheets, she lay curled up, in the fetal position, on the opposite side of the bed. Eclipsed.

Draco waited and watched the eclipse in its totality, fully expecting it to wane. Hours passed. The clouds parted. The sun began to color the world in. Outside, purples and blues pushed against the darkness, pressed hard against the windowpane. But the attempt to enter Hermione's life was futile and painful. She remained enclosed, hardened in darkness. The sky began to bruise.

"Hermione?" Draco called, knowing full well she would not answer. Praying she would prove him wrong. She did not.

He stood up from the chair and reached for her, thought better, and pulled back. Tried not to sound terrified, heartbroken, as he said: "did I mention yesterday- it's my turn to make breakfast? You should've heard Ron snap at me for not doing my part- as if I'm not always holed up in that stupid washroom all the time. You'd think for all the laundry I do, they would give me something decent to wear as thank you, but all I ever get are these raggedy hand-me-downs that stink of hay."

Draco waited for a comment, a grumble of discontent at his whining, but nothing came. Her entire body was rigid, snapped shut, cold. A cruel, hushed part of him preferred the screams to this.

He took a deep breath. "Do you want anything? I already have a scroll of requests from the others. They're still screwing with me, you know that right? But, for you… anything you want, I'll make it."

Still, nothing.

Terrified his touch had been a push too far for her, Draco receded. He backed up, into the doorframe. Urged himself to remain level-headed as he said, "I'll bring it up to you. Some pancakes, eggs, a little of everything. So, don't worry about coming down today. I'll bring it to you. As soon as I can, okay?"

As Draco closed the door behind him, he thought he heard an "okay" back. But it was probably just the creaky hinges.

The same creaking welcomed him to the kitchen, not a soul around at such an early hour to give him a proper greeting. Not that anyone would. With that begrudging thought souring his mood further, Draco yanked out from his back-pocket a crumpled paper; it was the list of breakfast requests Ron had shoved at him the day before.

He was about to rip it to shreds when the door swung open, and an "Oh! Good morning!" jolted him. Fleur stood shocked at the doorway, hair rumpled, body stiff and dark bags under her eyes. Clearly, she had not expected to encounter anyone at the break of dawn.

"What are you doing up so early?" Fleur asked, and sleep clung to her voice. But hope perked it up as she asked: "are you making breakfast today?"

Draco stared down at the list in his hands, his fingers crumpling it further; he thought to toss it at her, or destroy it completely. "It's just for Her-"

"Would it be too much to ask for juice?" Fleur continued, relief and gratitude relaxing her shoulders. She slouched against the doorframe and covered her mouth against a yawn. "There are some oranges in the pantry I meant to squeeze. I do love fresh juice."

Draco wanted to yell no, fuck off!

Fleur looked absolutely exhausted.

He sighed. "Yeah, of course. With pancakes?"

"Oh, yes, please!" Fleur clapped her hands together and smiled. "You know- maybe I'll have breakfast in bed today with Bill. It feels like that kind of morning." She reached for the doorknob, ready to leave now that her responsibilities had been transferred. "I'll be back in, what, 15 minutes? Thank you, Draco. Really, thank you."

As the door shut behind her, Draco stared back down at the list. "Fuck."

There was absolutely nothing rewarding about altruism. Draco had long known this, but had never experienced it. Now he had, and he loathed every bit of it. From the hassle of calculating how much of each ingredient went into making pancakes for eight, to just finding those fucking ingredients in a kitchen that wasn't his- it made for a morning of incredible suffering. But when the jug full of orange juice he had just squeezed tipped and spilt over everything? He completely lost the plot.

And of course, this was the exact scene Harry Potter entered: Draco in Fleur's apron, cursing and raging over an orange waterfall.

"Don't say a fucking word, Potter," Draco warned heatedly as Harry approached. The smudge of pancake batter on his cheek completely undermined the threat.

Harry smirked and pointed a casual finger to his cheek. "See Ron finally got you to do his bidding."

"Fleur, actually," Draco muttered bitterly and wiped at the batter. It felt lumpy. They both stared down at the strange thing brewing in his mixing bowl. Draco frowned. "I nearly got out of it."

"When you make breakfast for one, the rest of us are going to get envious. Now I see we were better off," Harry teased. "Where is Hermione, anyway?"

Draco focused on dumping out the contents of the bowl. He slammed the side of it against the trash bin a little too harshly. "She's not coming down today."

"Oh."

Harry stood in the moment with Draco, far enough away to let him breathe. For all Harry's faults, at least he understood. Still, curiosity always got the better of him. Or perhaps it was his annoying need to comfort others.

"Bad night?" Harry asked, as he stepped on an eggshell. Draco grimaced. "I thought I heard something."

Harry bent down and carefully picked up the broken thing, placed it in the compost while Draco composed himself.

Draco inhaled sharply. "Yeah," he heaved, and started over with the batter. "Yeah, I thought she was getting better."

"She is."

"Yeah." Draco hated Harry's conviction, hated more that he didn't feel that in himself anymore. He cracked an egg, felt his head split. "Yeah, of course she is. It's just…"

It had been three weeks. Three weeks since they had first arrived at the cottage, and Draco wondered how much of Hermione's stalled recovery was due to him. Everyone else looked at him and saw a constant reminder of the hell they had escaped. He was treated as a roadblock, a hazard to turn away from. And Hermione had turned away enough times for Draco to know he caused more pain than healing.

"I could go to another safe house, like Dean or Luna," Draco said coolly. The pancake batter was perfected, and poured onto the pan. It bubbled and spat angrily at him. "It would be better for everyone if I left. I should go."

"Maybe."

Draco turned and balked at Harry. The boy stared straight through him, unapologetic as he said, "but you won't."

For a beat, they were locked in mental combat- Draco ordering Harry to stand down, and Harry challenging Draco to contradict the truth. Neither of them were capable of doing what was demanded.

Draco was the first to lose. His slack mouth slammed shut, his jaw stubborn. He turned back to the pancake, attempted to flip it. It was stuck.

"See?" Harry continued cockily. He leaned against the counter. "So stop moping. It's pointless."

"Shut up before I burn your pancakes."

Harry snorted. "You already did." The bastard was right again. Harry moved, grabbing at something in his pocket. "Guess I should've given this to you sooner."

When Draco turned to dump the contents of the pan, he was reunited with the sight of his wand. In Harry's hands. Draco looked from it to Harry; his spirit was completely spent.

"You had it the whole damn time, didn't you?"

Harry shrugged. "Yeah."

Slowly, not even having the energy to punch Harry like he wanted to, Draco took his wand back. He scowled. "You really thought I was going to turn on you?"

"No," Harry answered promptly. It was moving, how Harry could annoy the hell out of Draco with just one syllable. "Some of the others did. But no. I knew you'd take Hermione the first chance you got."

He wasn't wrong. Draco hated that he wasn't wrong.

"Also," Harry grinned. "I liked the idea of you washing clothes with your bare hands."

Before Draco could bake Harry instead, the chosen one wisely left. This left Draco with another attempt to get things right. With his wand, things began to run smoothly- but the wood felt odd after so long a separation. As though it had changed. Though, just one look at his palm clarified the matter. He had changed. Not much, but enough for his skin to be calloused where it had been soft before. At one point in Draco's life, not so long ago, that feeling would have terrified and angered him. As would the idea of making breakfast for a lot of morally superior Gryffindors. But that all felt so little now, and his world so much bigger than before. And he began to enjoy making the pancakes, even when the batter got under his fingernails. The mess of it didn't seem so daunting.

Despite this, when Fleur came to collect hers and Bill's breakfast for bed, Draco added another plate to the tray. Hermione's.

"Make sure she eats," Draco said meekly. Fleur hesitated at first, confused, but accepted the task.

Hours later, she returned with the tray, and Draco was still in the kitchen as though trapped by the worries he had cooked up in there. He sat at the table, drying plates by hand. She sat down beside him, an odd look on her face.

"She enjoyed the pancakes," she started lightly, watching him. "I think we all did."

Draco fiddled with the dish rag in his hand. "Good. How is she?"

"You know… she was expecting you."

He twisted the rag, stared at the water bleeding out onto the table. "How is she?"

Fleur sighed, pried the cloth from Draco's grip. Tried to hold his hands. He ducked them beneath the table, but could not avoid Fleur when she confided: "Hermione's still in bed. Still expecting you."

Draco winced. It hurt him just to think it, let alone to say aloud: "it's better if I don't."

"She's better, when you do." Fleur's expression was soft, but persistent. "You see, I can only help heal her body. She is the only one who can heal her spirit. But you, you are healing her heart. You owe it to her to keep going, no matter how painful it might be."

Draco would always be one to piss on inspirational speeches, especially when they were directed at him. And most definitely when they were spoken by French people. However, something about Fleur's hopefulness was contagious… and suspicious enough to pry Draco from his petrified perch. He stood in front of the stairs, overwhelmed. To him, it was no different from a sublime mountain, on whose summit would be a sight that would bring him to his knees with formidable love and terror.

Yet, despite already knowing what waited above would cripple him somehow, Draco was not prepared. When the door opened, and he saw the window ajar, Hermione on the ledge, a scream of sheer pain escaped him. He dove to her, not thinking, his arms wrapping around her to pull her back from the edge. In his panic, he didn't even hear her speak. Not until she was turned in his arms, cradling his head.

"Hey," she said lightly, a small laugh caught in her throat. She stroked his hair. "I'm okay. What did you think I was doing?"

Hurt, and offended, Draco ducked out from under her embrace. He eyed her, bewildered and breathless. "What were you doing?"

Hermione knew better than to laugh. She sealed her lips and smiled instead. "I was enjoying the view."

Having stepped back, Draco could see Hermione as she was. Not as fear had painted her, teetering on the edge. She was sitting on the window ledge, the sun beaming down on her back, her skin glowing, hair freed to curl among the clouds, lungs breathing in and out seabreeze. The world no longer pressed against the glass to be with her. It flowed through her, the shape of her strong enough to hold as it did so.

"I'm glad," Draco sighed, smiling. Relief made his frame collapse. From the collapse, dread broke through. If she was strong enough to hold herself, it was time for him to let go. His hands dropped from her waist, fell limp on the windowsill.

Hermione's glow waivered. "I liked the pancakes," she said, making conversation where there should be none. He should have walked out, but he was stuck to the spot. Stuck to her, his eyes unable to leave the sight of her.

She reached for him, touched his hair, smoothed it. Her legs, at either side of him, brushed leisurely against his thighs. He didn't dare breathe. "You told me you'd bring them yourself. Why didn't you?"

"I was afraid," Draco confessed freely. With another stroke of her hand, he said, "I was afraid you finally realized you hated me. That you would tell me to go."

"And if I told you to stay?" Hermione's voice cracked, an agonizing reminder that she was still marked fragile. No matter how much sunlight burned inside her. She cradled his cheek in her hand, and he felt himself cracking too. "How would you feel?"

"Terrified."

"Me too," she breathed, and kissed him. No matter how long they stayed apart, he would know this kiss. And no matter how many times she kissed him, it would always feel like a stolen moment. Draco hesitated, still afraid- still images of her hand pulling away stuck in his head, sticking him to the spot of guilt.

Hermione pulled back to look at Draco, and saw that uncertainty. She smiled sadly, hopefully, as though a cloud had passed in front of her and she determined to beam through.

She was tired of being stuck. She was tired of being trapped inside herself- in a snare of rage and despair. For weeks, she had stared at the ceiling, tracing the place scars had once been on her palms, on her neck- hearing Luna's voice warning her, guiding her. "I forgive you," Luna had whispered into her ear in her worst hour, when the darkness consumed her sight and left her screaming, terrified and lost. Ever since, she had wandered her mind, looking for pieces of herself. Not realizing she was searching all that time for forgiveness. Not realizing forgiveness was a piece she could not find on her own.

Hermione found forgiveness in a kiss. She pressed her lips into it, felt the familiar shape of Draco. She pushed harder, until the piece of forgiveness broke and slipped between both of their lips. And like that, it dissolved onto their tongues, and Draco dissolved along with it.

Draco kissed her back, a desperate, slipping plea that fell down to her jaw, her throat, until he was spilling kisses all over her shoulder; his arms the only solid thing about him, anchored and terrified around her. He embraced her, body shaking, and her shoulder wet where his eyes came to rest. She rested her head on his shoulder too, and held him right back. Her legs, wrapped snugly around his waist, pulled him into her. With each breath, his shaking subsided. Replaced, instead, by a rhythmic stroking of her back. Each touch of his hands sewed back together where she had been ripped apart.

The sun continued to warm her back, but something began to change. The more he stitched her spine, the more she felt. There was a new warmth spreading from Draco's fingertips.

Hermione dipped her lips and nose into his shoulder, and breathed in deeply. She familiarized herself with him again, remembering how close they had once been and how close they could still be. She kissed the nape of his neck. When he shivered, she opened her mouth to taste it. His pulse panicked beneath her tongue, more still when she drew his skin into her mouth and suckled. His fingers clutched at her ribs, mouth agape at her shoulder, his body tense between her legs. Her heart fluttered up to her lips as she continued to draw her love onto his neck, his ear, as she pried him up with her hands and took his parted lips between hers one after the other.

Unexpectedly, Hermione pulled away. Terror struck cold down Draco's spine. She stared at him, focus finely pinned on that trepidation.

"Say you'll stay," she ordered, and the sun seared his eyes, her hands scorched his cheeks.

Draco was surprised he even managed to breathe, "Hermione-"

Her hands spread and raged fire down his chest. She clutched at his shirt. "Promise me you won't go."

Draco, fevered, tightened his arms around her, desperate to pull her away from the window before they both burned. Then she kissed him, and he knew nothing could save him from this. When they parted, he leaned in, chasing that heat down.

"I'll stay," he said, voice smoke. "I won't go. I promise."

This time, when she kissed him- the sun, the sea, the very room that held them- none of it was there. She burned it all down. It was just her. Her hands, wrenching his shirt over his head. Laying him bare. Her lips, ardently marking Draco's promise onto his chest. And true to his promise, Draco stayed. Or, at least, he tried to stay put, lightheaded as she continued to kiss his chest, his shoulders, his flushed neck.

There was a conductivity to both their bodies, a magnetic frenzy that transferred heat and need from one to the other in a constant trading. And it was overwhelming, as though every touch they'd resisted these past three weeks had surged back ten-fold, demanding to be known. Beads of sweat rose wherever she caressed him, a bruising tan branding wherever her lips touched. He filled in every pause in her motions with a rush of his own, twisting and bending to kiss her right back. He clutched at her hair; the curls turned into hot copper in the sun. He hissed, and seized her by the waist and away from the window.

His legs crashed into the foot of the bed, body in no way braced for impact as his upper half fell backwards onto the mattress with Hermione atop him. She didn't miss a beat, swooping in to swallow the curse from his lips when they landed, those fiery curls cascading around him, searing his cheeks, leaving him utterly breathless in the smoke. His nails dug into the back of her shirt.

The haze suddenly lifted as Hermione sat up to yank at her pajama top. She didn't bother with buttons or patience, and hauled it over her head. Before he could register the new expanse of skin, Hermione was upon him again, besieging him with her tongue- and her hands. They raced down his chest, his waist, and latched onto a lock. The moment she unlocked it, and her magic locked the bedroom door, Draco sprang up from the mattress like a jack-in-the-box, an outstretched hand keeping her attacks at bay long enough for him to gasp in air. She still straddled him, and there was a rock of anticipation in her hips that nearly made him lose the plot for the second time that day.

"Hermione, wait," Draco heaved. She grinned at the hoarseness in his voice, the heat in his cheeks. It rose red and embarrassed to his ears as he pointed out: "we don't have… you know… protection."

Hermione's smile turned sheepish as her eyes went to the bedside table. His eyes followed, and landed on a small bottle. "Fleur did." The bottle was empty.

"Oh," Draco said, and they both felt all his blood drain from his head. He swallowed. "Of course. And you drank it already. Prepared, as always."

There was a shift on his lap, a painful one, as Hermione slid off. She had registered his nervousness, and looked abashed where she stood. "Draco, if you don't want to, that's ok-"

"No!" Draco exclaimed in wide-eyed panic, leaping up and clasping onto her. "Merlin, Hermione," he breathed, touched her face. "No. No, if there's anything I've ever wanted, it's this. It's just I…" He sighed, incapable of finding the words in the fumes. He shook his head. "If you keep going on like this, you'll be the death of me." A snort left Hermione, and Draco's blush deepened. He dropped his head, closed his eyes, and tried to focus. "Can we… can we slow it down?"

Draco opened his eyes in time to be soothed by the soft glow of Hermione's smile. She held his hand at her cheek, and pressed her forehead to his. She nodded gently. "Of course."

Hermione granted Draco rest then, a moment to breathe and feel her in all her nearness. It had been months since he'd been touched by her like this, and he had never been this close. They had approached it once, and fear of that moment hindered him in this one. Made him want to take so much care this time around than he had before. Made him want to bathe in it, to simply be in her light. It sung out of every inch of her skin, calling out to his, and making every nerve dance in euphoria. The smoke began to clear, the air fresh. When he opened his eyes he could see the Hermione they had both been missing all this time: a kind, observant spirit, her strong features almost entirely bare to him. He didn't think himself worthy of such a sight.

Fingers curled in around his hand, moved it from Hermione's cheek. She looked down at the scabbing wound again. "Are you going to tell me about this now?"

Draco's jaw clenched. He shook his head. "No."

Hermione stared at him for a moment, an argument in her eyes. But then she dipped her head and kissed down the wound. Her lips were firm and lingering, trailing back up the same path as she raised her head after thoroughly kissing him, healing him. Silently, he reached for her cheek again, but her hand held his, as her eyes held his, as she guided his touch down.

Down, his hand was dragged from her cheek to her jaw, her throat, her rising and falling collarbone. Each deep breath of hers was a wave under his hand, growing more frequent and deeper the longer he touched her there. She guided his hand further, to the edge of what little fabric was left- the edge of her bra. His hand went rigid, his gaze heavy and locked onto her eyes as she slowly let go. His chest swelled painfully, his lungs crying from lack of air and his heart from lack of courage. Meanwhile, her chest continued to rise and fall in cresting waves, a rapid and strong current underneath where her heart was, just beneath his hand. He remained perfectly still, afraid of crushing that heart in a moment of weakness. And she, she moved her arms slowly, slowly behind her, as though not to terrify the beast touching her.

He heard a clasp come apart.

With intent, and careful calm, Hermione reached for the flimsy straps on either shoulder and pulled them down. As they moved, so did Draco's fingers, laboriously bracing down on her skin. Hermione took a deep breath, he held it, and the fabric fell away. Draco's jaw groaned from being clenched, though he didn't remember when he began to do so.

Hermione only let her breath go when her hand returned to his, and he let his hand, his jaw, relax. Enough for Hermione to steer him again. She watched him, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes- but not enough to break past the anticipation and desire she felt in Draco's expression, in the firmness of his touch as she dragged his hand, slowly, slowly, down her breast. As his thumb trailed by her nipple, he instinctively clutched down, thumb flicking, making her gasp out and arch into him. Finally, without any encouragement, Draco grabbed beneath her breast and pulled her flush to his chest. The contact of his skin on hers was a crashing of two waves, and it sent an overwhelming ripple of arrival through them both. They let out a trembling breath.

"How long?" Draco asked raspily. He licked his lips, and tried again. Never once did he let up on his grip. His fingers sunk into her, wanting more. Yet, no matter the steel of his hands, his voice still shook- all nerves and impatience. "How long does the potion last?"

Now it was Hermione's turn to blush, to feel absolutely lightheaded from his want of her. "All day," she managed to say.

"Good," he sighed before swallowing her mouth with his hunger. It was a slow devouring, his want to enjoy the taste of her overruling, thank Merlin, his need to satisfy himself. He kissed down the length of her, descending to his knees as he pressed his lips to one hip, and dragged them across to the other, unzipping a part of her that didn't know patience or nerve either. Her thighs clenched as his mouth came to rest below her navel. He gave a open, hot kiss to the skin there, his tongue licking up heat from below. After a pause, he looked up at Hermione expectantly, and she did her best to pace her breathing and nodded.

In one move, Draco pulled down her pajama shorts and parted her legs. And in another, more impatient tug, he removed her underwear. He kneeled for a moment in front of her, letting her center herself, relishing the feeling of her fingers clutching desperately at his hair and shoulder for anchor and support. He braced himself by folding his arms around her legs, and clasping down on her lower back. And then he leaned in and kissed up her inner thigh. Before he could even reach the place he wanted to kiss the most, Hermione's grip on his shoulder became pronounced. And when he did reach and kiss her folds, her legs folded in with a strained yelp. And he decided it was best to move, before both of them could lose all function. He wheeled her towards the bed, where she willingly fell.

With a brisk tug, he pulled her legs farther off the mattress and apart, and he eagerly slipped between them, his tongue slipping over her. Draco had only a second to wonder at the plumpness and taste before Hermione writhed back and clenched her thighs shut. In the next second, she let out a rattly breath as she tried to compose herself. It was the complete opposite of what he wanted from her.

He dipped his arms below her thighs and hooked around them, pulled them apart so he could venture to prove his worth and be gifted another part of Hermione. It was easier said than done. The primal throbbing inside him spiked wildly each time he touched her and she moaned; first, that throbbing spiked with crazed impulses and then with pride, as he suppressed those impulses and focused on her pleasure. New courage and curiosity led him further down her path, and his tongue entered her.

Hermione bit down on a shocked cry as he moved inside her, her body coiled in anticipation. Her mind was at once a void, and filled to the brim with wordless sensations. Draco stroked at her softness, his own mind confused and amazed by the strange touch and warmth of it around his tongue. And the longer he stayed there, the more she warmed up to him, relaxing around him.

Draco took the encouragement and explored further, quelching her sigh of disappointment when he removed his tongue by testing out other regions; kissing and probing through dark curls and lush folds, while Hermione let out a "no" or moaned out a "yes" to steer him in the right direction. When he got a domino fall of yeses back to back, Draco knew to press on, and undertook the project of a small nub he had found. With playful flicks and loving circles, he learned how it moved Hermione. Her body undulated from that one sensitive spot, rolling from the balls of her feet and gloriously cresting at her breasts. Her head was arched back into the mattress, the only expression viewable to him the flush and strain of her neck and stuttering chin. Her hands clutched desperately at the sheets. He let go of her legs and reached for her. She latched on, her fingers digging into his lower arms. Each flick of his tongue sent her nails deeper, until finally she snapped, with a pulled cry, like a band beneath him- clenched tight and then broken loose. Her mouth agape, and body relaxed. His arms were free, and stinging pleasantly. His lips and tongue, raw and covered in her. He licked the taste one last time before leisurely kissing his way up to her expression. It was bliss.

As he nipped at her jaw, she practically purred, her legs weaving over and around him likes vines to the sun.

"I hated this bed," she murmured with a dopey smile. Her arms stretched out over her head and spread out over the sheets until her hands found his. "It's not so bad after all."

As much as her words spread hope and pride through Draco, he was too busy to reply. He was planting kisses all over her body, each one a seed of touch he had once stupidly chosen to leave unnourished. Months of dreams and longing were suckled onto her skin, no patch left unloved. He turned her over, much to her giggling, and lavished her shoulder blades, her back, and down until her laughter dissolved into heady sighs against the sheets. When he eventually resurfaced, it was to adore the last part of her he had not touched.

Mudblood, the scar tissue read on her arm. It had healed nicely with the help of the antibiotic cream, but not like it could have with magic. Draco bit his tongue against mentioning that. Instead, he raised the scar to his mouth and apologized with words, and lips.

Hermione turned beneath him, until she was facing him again, the arm he held resting against his cheek, her hand in his hair. He expected some kind of resentment in her. There was none. There was only an openness, to be with and to be loved by him.

"I cut my hand on glass," Draco admitted finally, throat tight. Hermione's eyebrows flinched, confused. But she waited, listening. "When my mother took me away from you, she locked me in my bedroom. So, I broke the window and put a glass shard to my neck, until she let me go. That's how I got the cut on my hand."

And though the cut was explained, there was nothing to say of the opposing markings on his arm. Deatheater, it hissed between them.

She pulled her arm away, and Draco winced… widening his eyes only a moment later as she grabbed his marred hand and brazenly placed it between her legs. She nudged until his fingers curled into her, and she breathed out past the feral throbbing. He focused on easing her want, rubbing his fingers against her walls and watching her expression for those yeses and nos. This completely distracted from the threat of her hands inching towards his jeans. Her fingers, cold against his skin, jerked him back into awareness. His breathing hitched.

"Hermione," he said, an aimless call that was neither warning nor pleading but was definitely supposed to be one of those.

"Draco," she teased back, and unbuttoned him. His menstruations stopped. He pulled out. Hermione groaned, and yanked at his zipper. "Draco, so help me God-"

"It's not a good idea," he blurted, suddenly utterly red in the face.

"Well," Hermione huffed. "Nothing I've ever thought was a good idea panned out so well anyway, so I don't care."

Draco sat up on his knees, retreating. She chased after him.

"Draco," she sighed, sobering to his emotions. "The only way you can fuck this up is by worrying about fucking it up. I want you. I want this with you, now. Not because you deserve it, or because I deserve it. But because we want it. And because I'm tired of waiting, and thinking- thinking of why we should or shouldn't." She shook her head, frustrated. "There are so many things that can happen outside this moment, outside this room- bad or good, or completely senseless- but that's beyond us. For now, we have this moment. Just us, for us, and we should have it."

They sat, just the two of them on a bed, staring at each other. Exposed.

"I've never done this before," he finally said, quietly, as though whispering it would hide the underlying anxiety. Hermione found it easily, because he had hidden his fears in the same place she had hidden hers. She smiled empathetically.

"Neither have I."

"I might hurt you."

"And you might not," Hermione countered and shrugged. "Even if you did… it's okay. I'll tell you if it hurts, and we'll take it slow."

Draco shook his head stubbornly. "I don't think I'll be able-"

"I trust you." Hermione shot the final bullet in the fight. His mouth hung open, his argument dead on arrival. Her gaze pierced through him. "Do you trust me?"

Now he shook his head for a completely different reason: disbelief. "Of course I do."

Exasperation and relief came out of Hermione in a groan, as she snatched his shoulders and yanked him into a bruising kiss. She quickly released his lips, only to tie him down with her eyes as she stared at him, and sighed in frustration: "then get inside me before I lose my fucking mind. Again."

"That's not funny," he pointed out solemnly, the point missed as she cupped his face and teased his lips again and again with hers. Her smile rubbed off on him with each playful kiss, until a nervous, giddy energy started giggling out of them both. Having eased him, Hermione helped Draco tug free of his pants; her curiosity and coyness got the best of her hand, which brushed against his exposed length the second Draco was preoccupied with kicking off his clothing. He froze, and keened at the touch. And, of course, she took it as encouragement to grip him in her fist. She marveled at his penis, like a specimen to investigate, and she took notes of every change and sound of his as she squeezed and fondled.

Draco's hands were tearing at the sheets. Every muscle in his body straining and squirming as he fought the sudden urge to rut like the stupid teenager he was.

"I'm not going to last long if it feels anything like this," he warned. But it sounded more like despair. If it felt anything like this, he wanted it to last much longer than he knew it would.

Hermione let go of him and cocked an eyebrow, in challenge. "Then we'll do it again, and again, until you do."

She was out to kill him. That was only reasonable conclusion for why the sight of her did him physical harm. He stared at her, paralyzed in reverence as her voice, her look, her breath wound around him like a rubber band so tight, too tight, that he felt his blood hammering in a frenzy at that specific point of binding. Right between his legs. And he knew the only way to not lose all feeling, to not lose a limb from the closeness of her, was to lose himself to the feeling. Only then would she be able to undo his binding.

Suddenly, Draco pushed Hermione down onto the bed, giving her just a little taste of the constant state of shock she put him in. She let out a small gasp as her head hit the mattress. He didn't even bother giving her a moment to scrap around for a pillow before he swooped down to kiss her deep, her head sinking into the duvet. His tongue dove into her mouth, distracting her from the awkwardness of his hands trying to adjust her. The distraction failed. Hermione giggled, something tickling or unnerving her enough to break out of the kiss. She helped him, moving her body to accommodate him. Draco mentally cursed himself, and frowned, but she was all smiles as she folded her legs over his sprawled thighs and craned her neck up to kiss him. Draco steadied himself on that kiss, that soft encouragement and positioned himself.

They said nothing, just breathing and staring at the place they most intimately met. Using his hand, Draco guided the tip of himself between the swollen, saturated lips and slid right to her entrance. With a shuddering breath, he removed his hand. Hermione grabbed onto the back of his arms and gently guided him down. Hesitantly, he began to lower his body, and the tip of him entered. For him, that alone was the equivalent of slipping into the most heavenly, warm bath. For Hermione, that alone was enough to make her hiss in pain, fingers and walls clenching down.

"Merlin," Draco moaned, his voice sounding as fluid as the feeling of her tightening around him. "I'm not gonna make it."

"Shut up," was Hermione's breathy, curt response. He nearly smiled. Except he was terrified of moving a single muscle. She took a deep breath, and relaxed around him. "Just… slowly."

So, slowly he slipped down and into her, pausing any time she winced and moving only when she urged: "keep going." When he was low enough, thighs pressed into the sheets, he kissed her and rocked his hips. With a sharp pant, her lips ripped away from his as her head craned back. Only to ebb back to him with a praising keen of "good" into his open mouth. The sound of that praise nearly made him lose the last, and possibly only, thread of control. The sound of his withdrawal, lewd and lathered in her moisture and moans guaranteed that loss.

Draco snatched Hermione's hip in one hand, and hitched into her again, harder than he had meant. She groaned, her knees jerking up to his shoulders and sinking him deeper. Zealously, her hands wound over his back, pulling him in until his chest was pressed to hers, squeezing his hand harder at her pelvis and angling her in a way that made them both shudder when he thrusted anew.

Draco pried his hand from between them, bracing himself against the bed with both arms; distantly, he felt his fingers slip into curls. His head, dizzied, hung low and he breathed heavy at Hermione's neck; his lips kissed there when he could think, and sighed heatedly when he couldn't. She was much the same, lips kissing his shoulder before disappearing as her head fell, her arms at one moment loose over his back and, in the next, dragging down his spine with stifled whimpers from her throat. He managed to lift himself long enough to touch her and kiss her well a few times; his hand gripped at her breast and belly as his movements grew more frantic, and their mouths moved cravingly against one another in a similar fashion to their bodies. She wantonly grinded into his thrusts, and his hips struggled to glide, rather than leap, back to her flesh. Despite the valiant struggle, his motions sped ahead of him anyway. The calculated strokes turned into a heartbeat, striking her core, passionately pressing all of him into all of her. And he could feel her closing in on him, tightening and taking him in with eager gasps and desperate hands. Draco broke from her mouth with a cry, his arms giving out as his body moved of its own volition; his length dove once, twice, and then the pool of warmth closed in entirely upon him and he spent himself inside her.

Hermione remained wrapped around him, all languid kisses and content sounds as he mourned over the brevity of the act. For something so significant, he thought, it ought to have a length equivalent to its meaning. At least, for them. He had spent so long away from her, that this felt like a cheated moment together.

So, Draco made good on his promise and stayed, and worked to make the moment between them last longer.

The moment lasted until dusk, with the room seeped in a rich blush, night falling in the corners and on the bedside table where two pairs of emptied dishes and cups were strewn. Light lingered on the bed, where Draco and Hermione lay spent and pressed together beneath the sheets. She curled up with eyes closed, Draco's chest to her back and his mouth lapping at her ear. His arm moved languorously beneath the sheets. It roamed away from where it was wrapped around her, his hand leaving the breast it had kneaded and trailing low; his other arm remained, committed beneath her head, hand knitted tightly with hers. A soft rippling widened and shrank in the duvet from where his hips rolled and pressed into her backside. From the pillow came a final deep, guttural sigh of euphoria, where Hermione's head pressed in to muffle the sound, as Draco committed one last, firm seeding inside her. He kissed Hermione's shoulder from where he lay behind her, and pulled his hand away from where it strummed at her clit. He hugged her to him, still not quite able to believe she would move as she did, curling further into him with a sleepy smile. His mouth openly paved its way up from her damp shoulder, to the silhouette of her flushed neck and face to her hair, wet and splayed as it was over her head and pillow.

He rested his head against hers for a moment, smelling the mix of sweat, sex and seasalt, and listening to the waves outside until they gradually became white noise to Hermione's breathing. The inhale, the exhale, said the same thing to him: you're home. You're home.

Another inhale. Exhale. The subtle rise and fall of her body under his arm lulled him deeper into happiness. He was home. And, knowing this, he exhaled and said:

"Hermione?"

"Hm?"

She stirred idly in his arms, that smile of hers never wavering as she drifted in and out of a sated slumber.

Another exhale, and he asked:

"Will you marry me?"