Week 3 Trope: One Bed
Rating: G
Word Count: 450
Warnings: N/A
Result: Admin's Choice
Exits
The plan was always to run.
If they were outnumbered. Surprised. Losing.
If they had already lost.
It never felt right, but Hermione was a soldier, and indecision had killed too many friends.
She refused to add her own name to the list.
She Disapparated.
The closest safehouse was also the smallest: a one-bedroom cottage in the Scottish Highlands, remote and cold.
A crack rent the silence. Draco staggered in the heath, clutching his side. Blood seeped between his fingers.
"Nothing serious." He wrapped a slick hand around hers, eyes tight with pain.
Hermione let the lie go and helped him inside, hiding grateful tears.
Darkness fell. Hermione's small hearthfire was insignificant against the cottage's chill.
"We should search for them."
"We should wait."
Hermione frowned; he was right.
"Run and wait." Bitterness rode her voice like a plague. "Some resistance we are."
"It's working," he reminded her. "Wars aren't won overnight."
Or over years, it seemed.
Exhaustion settled heavily across her shoulders.
"Do you want the bed?" She knew his answer; it was always the same. Nevertheless, it always felt right to ask.
"No," Draco said, predictably. "I prefer the couch."
Cruel hands gripped her shoulders. Slitted eyes flashed red in the darkness.
He'd caught her.
She screamed. Lashed out. Struck something hard.
"Hermione!"
Draco's face was pale in the filtered moonlight. He let her go, rubbing his jaw.
"Did I hurt you?"
"No," he said. Another kind lie.
"Sorry." She swiped away tears. Nothing new—he'd seen her cry before. They all had nightmares. Unrealized fears for some. Memories for others.
Sleep felt impossible amongst the twisted bedsheets. The room's walls were too close, the air musty and sepulchral. Draco touched her shoulder.
"Come on."
She took his hand and walked with him to the living area. He'd made up the sofa with a throw pillow and a thin blanket.
"Why the couch?" It was time someone asked.
"Exits." He gestured around the room, at all the doors and windows. "I don't like running, but knowing I can helps me sleep."
He pulled aside the blanket. But instead of curling up against the sofa's arm, she rested her head on his thigh. She moved slowly, conscious of his sharp inhale, the tension thrumming through him, their proximity.
They'd never been intimate, but they were intimate, a closeness forged through spilled blood and shared life debts.
"Is this okay?" she asked.
"Yes."
He shifted beneath her and rested a hand on her shoulder, fingers absently threading into her curls.
Her eyes drifted shut. This physicality was new for them both. Uncharted waters. But Hermione felt no fear: she'd faced dragons before and survived.
And that night, they both slept easy.