Time couldn't be held in his hands. It ran through the cracks between his fingers and flowed over the edges. The more Draco failed to find an answer to his antidote problems, the more desperate he became. Saturday he went through three cauldrons and about a dozen new ingredients. Even more methods and incantations. Until he quite literally collapsed from exhaustion and Tippy apparated him home. He'd slept a few hours and knocked back two doses of pepper-up before starting again.

During the day his mother collected more research for him while he went to different apothecaries to ask about the use of human blood in potions and what one might put in an antidote. If the Ministry learned he was asking questions, well, he already had a Golden Girl in stasis on his sofa. They had enough to throw him in Azkaban on that alone. A few questions at potions shops were the least of his worries.

Sunday was, officially, the worst day of his miserable little life. Theo checked in on him around noon, offering a few books and notes he and Potter had written down. Tippy brought him plates of food he didn't touch when he was at the flat. He kept leaving to seek answers. First from apothecaries within the limits of his apparition, then the library at the Manor. Flipping through truly foul books, hoping to find anything he'd missed about blood magic and its use in potions. He wished he'd had time in the library at Nott Manor to do anything other than race through its maze and plead with the Guardian.

"What would you give to me to be with her once more?" The Guardian had asked.

It was barely a question — he nearly told it anything, would have given anything to be with her. Instead he replied, "What is it that you want?"

The Guardian loved its riddles and spoke one, just for him. "Something that is only yours, until you give it away."

Draco had sighed. "A secret." It was too easy, he'd thought. Things had never been easy at Nott Manor.

"Indeed, Master Malfoy. A secret shall do nicely."

"Right. Well, I hate goose liver pâté. Find it disgusting. I've never told anyone."

"That's not quite a secret, is it?" The Guardian mused. "Sounds more like a preference of palate."

"No one else knows it, so by the very definition it is a secret and I've answered your riddle. Now show me where Granger is."

The Guardian clicked its tongue. "I should think not. Your secret first. I want to know when you realized it."

"Realized what?" He swallowed.

"That despite what you were raised to believe you're not different or special. That your blood is just the same as hers. And it didn't bother you."

"Sounds like you're asking for more than one thing. You said a secret, not spill my bloody soul to a fucking vase."

"Language, Mr. Malfoy. Sounds like you're not in much of a rush, if you're challenging everything I say," the Guardian replied. "Pity, that you'll have to leave your witch behind because you're not in an honest mood. She was more than willing to share."

Draco looked at the dragon, stretched across its vase. The little floral patterns swaying in a nonexistent breeze. Granger had given something up — for what, he did not know. And unless he gave up what he kept pushed out to sea, he'd never get to her. He'd tread water until his legs gave out.

"Part of me always knew we were the same, I think. From the moment we stepped off the train she was brilliant. Effortless with magic in a way that most weren't. Answering every question, mastering every spell. She—she always fascinated me, being so different from what my father told me about Muggleborns. Nothing like what he'd told me."

"And when did her blood stop bothering you?" The Guardian asked.

He closed his eyes and thought back. Through all the memories he'd had to keep tucked away, out to sea, behind walls of bricks and meditation. To third year, when he'd been so sure the Mudblood was going to hex him and instead had hit him square in the jaw. The feel of his tooth cutting the inside of his lip. The pain ringing in his ears. To just before fourth year, when he'd been told to stay hidden while his father and friends played at terror, and he'd delivered a warning to the bushy-haired Muggleborn outside the World Cup. To the Yule Ball, watching a pretty witch twirl on the arm of a quidditch star, from a pureblood school. Proudly displaying her. Kissing her hand. To fifth year, and every challenge at Umbridge's lessons and regime. Until he landed on it. The moment he knew.

"In sixth year I had failed to complete my task from the Dark Lord. I wasn't eating or sleeping, really. Just skirting by in my classes and avoiding all of my friends. I didn't really talk to anyone and no one talked to me. No one really looked at me anymore and I didn't care. But at breakfast one morning everyone else was leaving and I just kept staring into my coffee cup. Occluding so much that I wasn't really focusing." He took a breath and closed his eyes again, and he was back on the bench at the Slytherin table. Chin resting on his hand. Watching the reflection on the coffee. Something startled him out of it and he looked up, only to lock eyes with Hermione Granger. Across the Great Hall, alone at the Gryffindor table. "She saw me. In that moment she wasn't a Muggleborn; she was just a girl. And she saw me."

"And?" The Guardian sat patient, painted eyes gleaming.

"And I knew she understood me."

"Will you run for her?"

He thought of the sculpture room. Of being held by the throat, high in the air. "I'll do anything for her." The path opened, and he ran.

Now, in the library at the Manor, he wished it was as easy as giving up a secret. He'd spill every drop left in his very soul for the answer. Would spill his own blood, willingly. But there was no Guardian to give him the answers and he was running out of time. He wouldn't find the answer in a book. Not this time. Theo owled again to check in and Potter had sent a patronus, encouraging him. As if they were friends.

It was late in the evening on Sunday. Tippy had sat with Granger while he failed to bring back an answer once again. He couldn't eat, though the elf had left him dinner. Sleep seemed pointless — surely he could sleep in his prison cell the next evening, once the aurors came and arrested him. Or he'd sleep when he was dead.

There was nothing left to try. So he sat beside her for a while, holding her hand in his. The smooth skin soft and not quite warm enough. It didn't grip his fingers or squeeze the knuckle bones. He wouldn't figure the antidote out in time, and if the Ministry did their job and figured it out, he wanted to leave something with her. So that no matter when she woke, she would know that he tried.

The pendant that he gave her to hold Theo's blood was a family heirloom. When he was fifteen, he'd gone to Gringotts with his mother to tour the vaults and collect a few pieces of jewelry she wanted. While they were there she'd given it to him. For when you have a witch to cherish, she'd said. The pendent was meant to hold something special from the heir. A Black family tradition, for men to gift their paramours. In the past they'd been filled with hair. Sometimes a poison. His grandmother, Druella Rosier Black, wore a vial of her husband Cygnus's blood, from the day their betrothal agreement was signed until they were both buried in adjacent plots.

Restless, he started working on a new potion. Granger carried little bottles of blue flame in her expanded bag. Constant light in darkness, even a darkness curse. He sought to create something like that. Something that never diminished. He'd seen a few different brews for light sources in his various texts and began to fashion his own. Pouring everything he felt into the steps. While he waited for the incomplete antidote to brew once again. Hoping that something would spark inspiration.

Anxious and scared for her, he let his emotions sink fully into his magic. The way that she lit up his darkest impulses. The way that her touch was like fire. Dragon scales added luminescence to most brews, and he paid a lot of galleons to get his hands on those of a Hebridean Black at the Vine of Plenty. Adding them last, with careful stirs, until they were incorporated. The potion was a pale, silvery glow, almost like a patronus, in the cauldron where he'd been experimenting. He worked on the little light. On the warmth in his bones when he pictured her smile. The heat beneath his skin when he thought of her kiss. Until he'd created a little star.

He added the silver light to the pendant, sealing it with a spell. It glowed in his hand and he had to put it in his pocket. Everything would remind him of her. Every glimpse of the sun beyond the walls of Azkaban or reflected on water, in his mind, when he pushed thoughts of her to sea. They were tied together now, like the knotgrass he used in potions.

There had been knotgrass in the poison, of that he was positive. The Dark Lord's followers —the Sacred Twenty Eight — bound themselves together, knowingly or otherwise. Blood taken without permission from those on the other side. Those who fought against the Dark Lord. Like the Longbottoms, tortured to madness beneath his aunt's wand. Was that when their blood had been taken?

What could cancel them all out? Death would only add permanence. And so many of the remaining pureblood families had perished in the war or in the years since. Losing bloodlines wouldn't work and he wasn't the murdering type anyway. Draco thought about his conversation with the Guardian, and how he'd always known that Granger's blood status couldn't really matter in the way he'd been taught. Because if a Muggleborn witch were that extraordinary, he could acknowledge that they were the same. Their blood was the same. And with that, and crossing the property lines into Nott Manor with Theo's blood, he thought that maybe it was more simple than he'd let himself believe.

A sacrifice. Magic liked poetry and symmetry. He pulled Granger's books on runes from her satchel. Reading through them and writing down different runic combinations. Then he began to work on an incantation using a few different existing incantations for sacrifice and even some for binding rituals, the kind that linked souls. Alliges duplicia sounded like a place to start. To bind in two.

The antidote simmered. And using his silver knife, the one he kept on his person, he spoke the first words, anima mea, anima vestra, idem — my soul, your soul, the same — and pressed the blade into the soft flesh of his palm. A bead of blood gathered at the tip, and he added it to the cauldron. It turned the liquid near golden. The smell was soothing. It was midnight and the poison from Nott Manor was still almost full. There wouldn't be much time to test anything else, so Draco siphoned a drop of the poison and a drop of the antidote. Testing them in the suspension he'd kept under stasis.

The golden antidote spread into thin tendrils, reaching around the inky poison. Until it covered it completely. The droplet doubled in size, and with a gasping sigh, it dissipated. Leaving behind clear, pure water.

Draco stared at it, gripping the table so tightly it creaked. He turned to look at Granger, asleep and perfect on his sofa. Gathering the antidote in a small vial, he stepped towards her. Heart racing. His owl tapped on the window, and he waved his wand to let her in. Another note from Theo, dropped on the work table.

He knelt beside the couch and gently eased her body to lean against the armrest. Supporting her with one arm around her shoulders. Then he pulled her bottom lip down with his thumb and placed a single drop of the antidote on her tongue. Holding her and waiting. Feeling his heart stop.

Color returned to her cheeks first. Little inhales and exhales through her nose. Lashes fluttering. Then she let out a contented sigh, as if waking from a nap. Blinking at him.

She smiled, and it was sunlight. It was warmth and health and alive.

"I told you you were brilliant," she said, and he folded over her, burying his face in her neck. The warm skin. Right where he could feel a pulse against his cheek. Steady. Breathing in the peppermint and shortbread and rose. He trembled beneath her touch where she carded her fingers through his hair. Smoothing the strands over and over. Her other hand on his back. "What's wrong?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He said, muffled.

"What?"

He pulled back just enough to look at her. Casting a diagnostic spell as he did so. Marvelling at how undamaged she was. How perfectly Granger her response to it all was. "Do you have any idea what I've—how could—are you—"

Granger sat up and brushed his hair back, running her hand over his forehead. "Draco just breathe. Your heart is racing—"

"Of course it is, Granger, you've been in a coma for days and it's after midnight. My heart's been racing for three fucking days."

"What does the time matter? Was I really asleep for that long? That can't be right, I just barely closed my eyes."

He couldn't believe how angry he was. And how like his mother he was when he was angry. Quiet and cold. Seething, not simmering. "The time matters because Potter gave me until Monday morning to fix this, to get a proper antidote before he had to tell Robards. It matters because if you hadn't woken up-"

"They would have arrested you?"

"I would have lost you!" He said, voice raised. "I don't fucking care about being arrested, it's happened to me before."

She cupped his cheek and forced him to look at her fully. Into the eyes that saw him. "Hey," she said, and leaned forward, resting her forehead on his. "You didn't lose me. You won't. I knew you could do it."

"Don't you know it's foolish to place your trust in someone like me?"

"I've done it before," she said, pulling back slightly and gripping his hand. "I'd do it again. I don't have to think twice about things, remember?"

He breathed for a few moments, until the fear that had taken over slithered off of him. "You're probably tired—or maybe hungry." Leaving his spot on the floor he released her hand and went to the work table to get the letter from Theo. Update? It said. He grabbed a quill and ink and wrote a reply across the back, Figured it out and she's alright. Going to rest now. Tell Potter we'll bring the antidote to him first thing in the morning. If he shows up at my door I will hex him. Hesper waited on her perch and he attached the letter before sending her off into the night. Shutting the window behind her.

There was some soup Tippy left and he made her eat it. Watching her lift the spoon to her lips. Casting diagnostics and making tea and asking her how she felt. If she could sense anything different in her magic. She cast some spells, first simple then more complicated. Bloody brilliant as ever.

"If you can manage you might want to send Potter a patronus, just so he doesn't show up here unannounced again," he said, giving her some privacy while she cast the charm that alluded him. Whispering a quick hello to her friend.

He cleared the work table, organizing everything and shrinking the ingredients back into the case Tippy had brought them in. Then he cleaned the cauldrons, putting the completed antidote into a flask and vanishing the others. He pulled more of his blood and added it to a separate flask, placing it with the antidote and instructions for brewing it. Until there was nothing left on the tabletop but scraps of parchment and some books.

"Where's my necklace?" Granger asked. She'd stood from the sofa and now leaned against the table beside him.

"Your what?"

She blushed. He'd missed that. The way it crept down her neck, half hidden by curls. "The pendent you gave me. I was wearing it — before."

It was heavy in his pocket. He hadn't thought he'd get to see her hold it. Making it was like a goodbye. And now it was more momentous than he'd prepared for. He cleared his throat and pulled the chain from his pocket. Holding the pendent at his chest, covering the glass in his fist.

"When you were—I thought—I wanted to give you something." He gradually opened his hand, letting it shine. "It's like your little blue flames," he said, watching her reach for it. She looked at the glass, tracing her thumb over the stars. The glow dusted across her face. "It will glow brighter in darker places. The lights in here aren't—"

"You made this?" She breathed, and he nodded.

"Yes," he said. When she looked up at him her eyes were lined with silver.

"It's for me?"

He took it from her hands and moved her hair off of her neck. Clasping the pendant in place. She held it again, and when their eyes met he said, "It's a Black family tradition. It's yours. If you want to keep it." I'm yours, he thought, maybe I've always been yours.

When the first tear fell she pressed onto her toes and kissed him. It was delicate, and he felt the tear slip from her cheek to his, running down his throat. She looped her arms around his neck, tugging him closer. Until they wrapped together. Holding each other as close as they could.

"I'm sorry," she whispered against his lips, taking them back and with them every bit of anger he'd felt at her recklessness. "I'm so sorry for scaring you." He moved to her jaw, peppering it until he reached her ear. "I'm sorry I put you through that."

He pulled away slightly. "Just…Promise me you won't give into your worst ideas without at least running them by me first."

"I'd rather it be me than someone else," she said, and he clenched his jaw.

"And I'd rather it never be you again."

They looked at each other, and she touched the pendant again. "I do want to keep you—to keep it," she said.

"Then you have to promise." The words were low, taken from him. "Never again."

"I promise."

"Good," he said, "Good." And for the first time in days he kissed her how he'd wanted to. Slipping his hands under her jumper to hold her hips close. She tugged at his scalp and opened for him, letting their tongues meet again. Losing himself to the feel of her, the taste. The way she sighed and melted against him, leaving no space between their bodies. Just heat and friction. Hands roaming while they kissed. Slowly, at first. A languid pace while they shared more than just breath. Draco thought that he felt their magic touch. Two souls reaching for each other in the dark, meeting in the bright spark between them.

In the stories, it was a kiss that brought the heroine back. And she'd come back to him with vigor. Taking the lead and spinning them so that she could lean against the table. Pulling him so that her back bent, and he broke away just long enough to sweep the remaining stacks of parchment and potions texts to the floor. Forgetting that he could have levitated them neatly. Then he lowered the table with quick transfiguration and lifted her onto it at the perfect height. Slotting himself between her legs. She pressed her knees to either side of his hips and squeezed.

He'd missed her. The ardent way she held the skin at the back of his neck. Tracing his throat with her thumb. How she tightened her grip on him, whether it was with her legs or her arms or her fingers laced with his. As if she couldn't imagine ever letting go. He missed her lips, and the gentle kisses. He missed the lazy, soft kisses with just a slip of tongue. He missed the ones that made him dizzy, with tugs from her teeth and increased pressure. The little moans and hums and sighs — he thought he missed those the most.

Pulling away to look at her, he took in the flushed skin and rosy lips. The darkened eyes and fluttering lashes. Yes, he quite missed when she looked like this. But mostly he'd missed her. The way her mind was like an endless cavern of a library. How she challenged him and believed in him. Talking with her. Just being with her.

He kissed her lightly, rubbing his thumb across her cheek. The other circling her hip bone. They had hours before they had to report to the Ministry, and as selfish as he was raised to be he knew he had to get permission first. To make sure she knew that if she said yes, he wouldn't leave any time. It would be everything.

"We should— You should rest."

"I've been resting," she kissed his neck. "For what was it, three days?" That spot just beneath his jaw that made him mad. "You're the one who probably needs to rest." His lips again. Slowly.

"You know I don't sleep," he said, the words skating across her mouth. "Not without you, anyway."

"Do you want to? Go to sleep?" She scratched patterns across his chest, over the scars and his heartbeat. Looking up at him.

"Never been more awake, Granger."

Draco tugged her blouse over her head, tangling one hand in her curls. Claiming her mouth once more. With nimble fingers she undid his buttons and pushed his shirt to the floor. When she started on his belt, grazing him in the process, he groaned. He'd missed her hands.

There were faded marks on her collarbone. He sucked them, pulling the skin between his teeth and watching the skin bloom once more. She was his, and he wanted everyone to know. The Wizarding World at large could get fucked for all he cared. Because he had Hermione in his arms, singing little bits of praise and shoving his trousers down. It was trickier to remove her own, yanking them off her legs and tossing them aside. He pressed a kiss to her knees, running his hands over her calves as he stepped out of his trousers.

She pulled him back up, taking his mouth again. Their hands clasped, fingers linking while he leaned over her, pressing her closer to the table.

"I missed you," he said, and using one hand he guided her to lay across the table. She leaned up on her elbows and watched as he began a trail of hot, open kisses from her sternum down. Right next to where the pendant of light rested on her chest. She'd worn a matching set — which meant she'd thought of this, thought of him, when she'd put it on. It was the kind of lace that begged to be seen. To be admired. To be kissed.

He let his nose nudge at the top of her knickers and she smiled down at him. When he placed a chaste kiss on the little bow at the center she grinned. And he thought they could play this game whenever she wished. For as long as she wanted.

"I think I missed you too," she said, and he moved his eyes from the goal of his journey to find hers on the ceiling. "Even though it wasn't — It only felt like a few minutes. But I miss you when you're not with me." She looked down at him again and he stood tall, leaning over her. "Is that too much?"

"Granger, I'm fucking spare without you." He kissed her again, never enough. Never enough of her. "Don't you understand? I'm so bloody yours." She whimpered when he slipped a hand between them, under the lace to feel her.

"You're mine," she whispered, brushing his lips with the words. "And I'm yours."

He traced her, dipping into her center and back, a slow path while they kissed. It was consuming, he thought. To want nothing more than to touch her forever. To show her everything he couldn't articulate with words. To feel her respond in kind.

Once more he left her mouth, making his way down her body. Kneeling in front of her like a supplicant. He removed her knickers and placed them on the floor beside him. Intent on nothing but giving her pleasure. Of feeling every shiver beneath her skin.

He focused on light, teasing strokes. Listening to her breaths. Reveling in the taste — better than his memories. Everything was better than he'd let his mind focus on over the last week. From the way she reached down and laced her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp while he worked her to the quiver in her thighs, desperately trying not to clamp on his head. The mewling sounds she made when he hummed around her clit, wrapping his tongue around it over and over. When she came it was silent, her face scrunched and her throat clicking while he worked her slowly, easing her down.

As she caught her breath he licked her again. Thought he could do it for hours. Alternating between that and sucking the skin of her thighs. Her hips.

"Please," she whimpered, one hand tugging at his hair and the other reaching for his jaw. He looked up at her, with the wild hair and flushed face. Perfectly imperfect. And his.

He tasted her skin, just above her hip. The spot he loved to hold onto. It was soft and supple, the skin warm and inviting. "Please what?" He asked, taking one of her hands in his as he traversed the path he'd made down her body. Swirling his tongue around her belly button. Kissing beneath her breasts. Kneading one while working the other, sliding her hardened nipple beneath his tongue and between his teeth. Teasing her while she moaned.

"Please," she said again, panting. Her grip on his hand tightened and he released her breast to press a finger inside of her. Slick with pleasure. He was hard and he wanted her more than ever. "Please let me touch you."

Now he wanted her more than ever. His cock twitched and he surged forward for her mouth, delving inside with his tongue while she reached for his trunks. Vanishing them and tossing her wand behind her. The wood clattered on the table and dropped to the floor. She held his face in both hands, kissing him hard enough to bruise.

When she stroked him he stuttered — he'd missed her hands. The way she'd twist at the end. The way she knew how much pressure he liked.

"Fuck, I missed you," he said again. He'd missed her. He'd missed her even though she hadn't left. It was dizzying, how much he'd needed her. How much he'd wanted to ask her advice. Ask what she thought. Talk to her about his theories and his research. To know what she thought. To have her there, but not there. He'd missed her.

Nudging her lower back with one hand, he pulled behind her knees with the other until she perched at the end of the table. Level so that he could press into her with ease. She pumped him a few more times while he played with her clit and sucked at the spot behind her ear.

When she lined them up he pulled back to look in her eyes. At the way they met his. Shining, with pupils blown wide. He sank into her and they both blinked quickly at the sensation. Pressing deeper while she caught her breath. Gripping her hip with one hand and holding her face. Kissing her again. Slow, matching the pace of his thrusts with the movement of their tongues.

She placed her hands on his shoulders. Letting her wrists rest there while her hands held his face close. The table rattled when he went faster. The wood creaked. And they laughed a little at it, pressing their lips together. Humming through the humor. Until he hit a spot deep within her that made her gasp against his mouth. Pressing her cheek against his while she panted. Pulling him closer. He kissed across her shoulder, drawing shapes over her fading freckles with his tongue.

"Oh god," she whimpered, walls squeezing him. Her thighs squeezing his hips. Her hands squeezing the back of his neck and his shoulder. Whispering his name.

He went faster, slipping a hand between them to trace circles over her clit. Loops and swirls while she ratcheted higher and higher. Until her body pulsed, and he could feel himself tightening with each flutter around his cock.

The words spilled from his mouth unfiltered. He'd said them before, when they were trapped in the Manor. When he realized he never wished to be parted from her. He said them now, when he knew he would never let it happen.

"No more heroics," he said. "Never again. Never let anything happen to you."

"I promise," she said, and he kept moving on her, drawing it out as much as he could. "Never again."

"So lost without you," he said against her temple, letting himself breathe in her curls and the smell of her skin. "Need you safe. With me. Always."

He gasped, and his pace became frantic. Couldn't think clearly. Couldn't tell what fell from his mouth anymore. Until at last he spilled into her, holding her against him. Cradled to his chest while she shook. When he could move his limbs he pulled back just enough to tilt her face up to him. Looking for any signs of pain or discomfort and seeing only bliss.

"You're alright?" He said, and he knew it wasn't just for this moment that he was asking. "You're okay?"

She nodded and claimed his mouth, kissing him until he softened and pulled out of her.

"I'm alright," she said, resting her forehead against his. "We're okay."

For a moment they stayed like that, with just their noses brushing. Sometimes they kissed. Then he carried her to the bedroom and told her everything that happened while she was asleep. About the different brewing methods and ingredients. About Potter and Theo. About his mother. About the Princess and the Wiggenweld potion. And she stroked his arm and hooked their fingers and traced the scars on his chest. She asked questions and he answered them. Until it was nearly dawn, and they needed to sleep.

"Draco?" She said, burrowing closer. They were on their sides, facing each other. His arm under her pillow and her legs tangled with his.

"Hmm?" He blinked in the dark, trying to stay awake a little longer.

"If I promise no more heroics you have to promise I can sleep in this bed as often as I like."

As often as forever, he hoped. "What if you drool? Do you know how high this thread count is?"

"No, and neither do you I'd gather."

He nudged her with his nose and she kissed him. "You said you're mine," he whispered.

"I am."

"And I'm yours."

"Actually you said you're bloody mine. Emphasis is important you know."

He pressed her back to the mattress. "I'm bloody yours," he said, and took the words from her mouth. Wrapping around her. Breathing in the warmth and the light. Until he saw her, and she was lovely. She was his.