Notes: Thank you for giving this oddity a chance. Things are finally starting to get a little spicy. The current sexual content is fairly mild, but there are significantly more explicit scenes later in the work for the main pairings, so it's not always sunshine, daisies and metaphors. Also I made Shakespeare 100% muggle. In addition, the chapter titles are all lines from Shakespeare sonnets. I think I forgot to mention that earlier.
WARNINGS: mild sexual content, references to canon violence
10. I Desp'rate Now Approve Desire Is Death
"It's a shame about McNair."
Draco doesn't flinch. He doesn't even breathe as he turns to Avery. At least, he thinks it's Avery. With the bloody Death Eater mask obscuring his vision and the other man equally disguised he has nothing but voice to go on. And Avery doesn't have a particularly distinct voice.
"What about him?" He sounds bored. Good.
"Splinched himself on the way back from the last raid. Apparently they found the bloody mess of him in the woods outside the wards." Avery—he's sure about the man's identity now—lets out an amused cackle. "I always knew that moron was going to get himself killed. He spent more time burying his dick in the Mudblood than he did anything useful. I'm sure her poisoned blood soaked into him in the end."
Draco forces the coldest, nastiest laugh he can manage. "Bloody fool."
"Stay away from that bitch, just in case she's actually contagious," Avery warns.
Draco refrains from pointing out Avery trails his aunt like a kicked puppy every time she visits the dungeons. He shouldn't be paying that much attention to what happens to Granger. He shouldn't even remember Granger is at the Manor.
He gives a noncommittal hum and turns away from Avery. The woods are dark, ancient trees bending down with spindly branches that seem to shift with every step. Draco is no longer eleven; he knows the forest isn't reaching for him with haunted limbs, but his breath still rattles in his chest.
The Dark Lord gave no prior warning before launching this raid, so Order members still lurk within these woods. Draco is acutely aware he is indistinguishable from any other Death Eater. He drops back another step from Avery and ducks around an oversize oak. He waits until Avery's steps fade before pulling the coin from his pocket. He whispers a quiet diffindo and a small slash appears across his palm. He lets his blood drip onto the coin for three beats of his heart. The metal flashes in the dappled light of the crescent moon.
Draco closes his fist around the burning metal and warns Potter. He knows it is far too little, too late, but hopefully they will not be caught completely off-guard.
He lets the coin fall back into his robe and leans back against the rough bark of the tree. He tries not to think at all.
If he thinks, he will remember.
But Draco's mind has never been one to settle easily. He can't help the assault of memory, the barrage of fear, the sudden rapid tattoo of his heart. He has become the master of deception to everyone but himself.
He has failed Potter. Granger still sits in her cell, her mind chipped down with every assault his aunt performs. And the only lead Draco has, the only partner, is a psychopathic boy whose taste he can't forget.
Tom and Draco have exchanged a handful of words—the minimum perfunctory syllables required when cohabitating such a small space—in the last two weeks. Neither of them has acknowledged what happened in the depths of the Malfoy dungeon.
While Draco is perfectly fine avoiding the issue—he wishes he could avoid the memory—Tom's total lack of acknowledgement is disconcerting. Draco isn't daft; he knows Tom had an ulterior motive. It's the fact that Draco hasn't been able to figure it out that worries him. As far as he can tell, Tom is simply fucking with his head for no reason at all. But history would indicate that Tom Riddle doesn't simply do things for the thrill of it.
Which leaves Draco jumping at shadows, waiting for the other shoe to finally drop. It's an exhausting existence, especially since he no longer has a private refuge.
That he can't get the feeling of Tom's lips devouring his out of his head doesn't help matters either. He feels he is slowly edging toward insanity.
Maybe that's the point.
But Draco fails to see the advantage Tom would gain if Draco lost his mind. After all, Draco is his safe harbor.
Draco lets out a strangled moan of frustration and tears off his mask. He's not going to follow the others anyway and the thing is claustrophobic as fuck.
"I thought that was you."
Draco swears profusely and turns to face Potter.
"Give a guy a bit of warning. I could have hexed you."
"You seemed more likely to hex yourself," Potter replies mildly. "Hold on to me."
Draco raises a brow at Potter's proffered hand. "I'm fairly certain we've already played this scene, Potter. It didn't end well for me."
Potter's features harden. "Just take my bloody hand, Malfoy. It's not safe to talk here."
Draco's heart absolutely does not skip a handful of beats as his fingers slide along Potter's. The next second he's pulled in a million different directions then snapped back together like a multi-dimensional rubber band. He doesn't stumble or vomit, despite the bile rising in his stomach and the sudden weakness in his knees.
Waves crash into the white cliffs they stand upon. The entire world is bathed in luminous moonlight, Potter's features now gleaming in the cloudless night. Draco takes a deep breath and spins in a circle. He has been transported from the depths of a haunted forest to the edge of an enchanted sea. The sight of the crystalline stars glittering over the churning dark whorls of the ocean takes his breath away. His fingers itch for charcoal and parchment, for the chance to capture this ethereal world before it splinters into memory.
"Where are we?"
"Somewhere near Dover."
"Why?"
"I needed you away from the Death Eaters."
Draco feels Potter watching him, but can't tear himself from the magnificent vista spread before them. "And why is that?"
Potter's boots scuff the white limestone as he shifts beside Draco. "Because you haven't done as I asked, you bastard."
That gets Draco's attention. He snaps his head toward Potter. His emerald eyes breathe fury as he stares down at Draco. "I am trying."
"I want her out."
Draco angles to face Potter. "It's complicated. You know that. I can't simply swoop in and take her out. He would kill everyone I know and plenty of people I've merely talked to. I understand Granger is important to you, but I will not doom people like Astoria Greengrass and her sister Daphne just because you're impatient."
Potter swipes a hand over his face and Draco sees the exhaustion emerge as his ire cracks. "Tell me you at least have a plan."
"I have a plan."
And he does. But right now his plan is to let Tom make the plan. He's not about to tell Potter he's letting a young Dark Lord decide how to save Potter's girlfriend. He's definitely not telling Potter that Tom Riddle is just as furious with Draco as Potter himself. That would mean telling Potter his girlfriend is disturbingly close to the man—well, a fragment of the man—who wants to kill him at all costs. Draco is already up to his eyeballs in this insanity; he does not need to ensure he's in completely over his head and actively drowning.
Potter crosses his arms and stares Draco down. Draco swears he can feel the force of Potter's gaze on the back of his skull. "I don't bloody believe you."
Draco sighs. "I don't honestly care if you believe me or not. It's the bloody truth. I'm doing the best I can while not dying or getting anyone killed. I'm useless to Granger if I'm dead. That's the whole reason I'm doing this and not you. You would just get yourself killed."
Potter huffs, but Draco can sense his reluctant acknowledgement of Draco's words in the hunch of his shoulders. He wishes he could do more, but knows where he is powerless. Draco knows the feeling all too well.
They stand in silence, both of them looking out over the sparkling sea.
"She's at Malfoy Manor, isn't she?"
Draco casts a baleful look at Potter. "I'm not telling you that."
"She's being tortured in your bloody basement, Malfoy," Potter is angry again. Draco takes a deep breath and waits. Potter doesn't disappoint. "You're bloody sleeping in the house that she's dying in. You can probably hear her scream as you tuck yourself in at night."
He cannot, in fact, hear the dungeons from the upper hall, but he's fairly certain Potter would not take kindly to him sharing that. Potter closes the distance between them and Draco is abruptly reminded that although Tom's lips have haunted his dreams, being this close to Potter is truly unbearable.
In the chaos of his entanglement with Tom, he has forgotten the effect Potter has on him. He is reminded in the space of a heartbeat. It is simultaneously unpleasant and electrifying.
Draco can see every shadow cast by Potter's obsidian lashes. His eyes devour every freckle that marks the weathered skin of Potter's face. The lines of his cheeks and jaw are made overly sharp and achingly handsome by the brilliant moonlight. Draco's fingers itch to sketch him, but they burn to touch him.
Potter is completely unaware of the hitch in Draco's breathing, of the sudden tightness of his trousers beneath his Death Eater robes. It is for the best as Potter is still berating Draco for his inability to save Hermione Granger.
"… and you could have planned something months ago! You should have told me where she was. We can infiltrate the Manor—"
"No." Draco manages to follow Potter's rant long enough to realize what he is saying. "No, you can't. The wards are changed daily now. He suspects a mole—you are avoiding his raids far too frequently thanks to my warnings. So he's locked it down completely. Coded to blood as well. Unless you're with a Malfoy or have the Dark Mark, there's no crossing the threshold."
Potter's expression brightens, and he takes an agitated step closer to Draco. "Then you can get me in."
"Theoretically, yes," Draco allows. He absolutely does not notice how warm Potter's breath is compared to the cool night air. He does not lean the slightest bit toward the other boy, like a flower seeking the sun. "But I'm not going to do it. You can threaten me, Crucio me, whatever. Not going to happen."
The darker boy glowers, the emerald eyes biting and hard like the gems they evoke. "I don't trust you to do this right."
Draco closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh. "You don't have another choice."
"I hate this."
Draco cracks an eye. "I don't particularly like it either, but you're going to have to deal with reality at some point, Potter. You may be the Chosen One, but you're not the bloody messiah. You can't save everyone."
"I will not lose her."
Potter is a perfect reflection of Tom Riddle in that moment. It sends a chill down Draco's spine. He is even more disturbed as he realizes the similarities between the two boys far outweigh their differences. Young Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter, two dark boys with danger in their blood and violence trembling beneath their fingertips. Two boys Draco cannot seem to escape. Two boys Draco craves with an ardor that sends fire through his veins and shame into his heart.
His breath catches and stutters in his chest for an inhale or two before he can force his voice to sound strong and sure. He peers across at Potter and prays every crack in his armor is hidden by the dark night. "Then you have to trust me to save her."
Potter's eyes blaze like hellfire as he stares back. "Don't you dare let me down."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
The words are ash in his mouth, a lie he can almost believe. But Draco knows that no matter what fate befalls him, Tom will find a way to save Granger. Potter will get his girlfriend back, but it may not be as he imagines.
Draco looks back out at the infinite sea. He inhales the salt air and the sense of possibility it evokes. He is boundless up here, greater than the sum of his parts. He does not relish retreating to the stone walls of the Manor.
Potter shifts and turns to stare out into the void with him. It is the most peaceful moment he has ever experienced with the other boy. It does nothing for his twisted heart, but something for his aching soul. Perhaps one day a war will not stand between them. Perhaps Potter will see him as he is—broken beyond repair though he may be—and not as he appears. Perhaps he will not survive another week.
His chest aches too much to bear and so he says, "I have to go," and apparates away before Potter can say another word.
His destination ought to be the forest in Romania that the Dark Lord has chosen to ambush. But he is sick of everything. Sick of the Death Eaters and their endless violence. Sick of Potter and the way he tangles Draco into knots he can never untie. Sick of trying to save Hermione fucking Granger, the girl boys can't live without.
The snap crack of apparation rattles the jars on his shelves in the Manor, but Draco hardly notices as they tumble to the ground, his charcoals and pastels spilling to the ground. It is the one advantage of being a true Malfoy, he can apparate directly into any room in the Manor he pleases. The Death Eater horde isn't going to miss him tonight anyway.
"You look horrible."
Draco spins to face Tom. He lounges on Draco's bed, feet crossed and arms behind his head. A smug expression stretches across his handsome features. Draco growls under his breath and turns away.
He is bloody sick of this too.
"Go fuck yourself, Riddle."
"It would be more fun with a partner." Draco can see the come-hither glint descending into those azure eyes even though he faces away.
He rubs a hand across his temple and counts to three in French, English and Russian before turning back to the other boy. Tom's expression is exactly as charged as he expected. Draco shakes his head and practically wails, "just bloody shut up already, you bastard."
Tom hops off the bed and approaches Draco with a decidedly wicked glint in his eye. Draco can't tell if it's a promise of violence or something… else.
"Did someone have a bad day?" Tom mocks, high pitched and whiny. He takes a step closer. "Poor little Draco Malfoy can't deal with being a big boy. All that torture and—"
Draco slams into him before Tom can say another word. "I said, shut up."
Tom starts to open his mouth, but Draco covers it with his own in a brutal kiss. He tears at Tom's lips, drawing blood. He doesn't stop. He doesn't even know what he's done until he realizes his hands are fisted in the ebony silk of Tom's hair, but the other boy isn't touching him. His lips aren't fighting back against the destruction Draco has wrought.
Draco springs back, eyes wide. He wipes a hand over his mouth and it comes away crimson.
"Fuck," he hisses, tearing at his hair. He doesn't dare look at Tom. "Merlin, I'm—"
"Don't you dare say you're sorry."
Draco lets out a hysterical laugh and finally looks at the other boy. Tom does not appear upset, or even ruffled, by Draco's assault.
"I've watched you shrink inward and cower beneath your fear until it eats you alive and makes you so very small. Weak. Pitiable. It's revolting."
"But…" Draco is utterly confused.
Tom sneers across the space between them, the curl of his lip is cruel, but his eyes are cool as the ocean. "I've been waiting for you to crack, Draco Malfoy. For you to finally rise above this pathetic shell and act."
Draco blinks and cocks his head. Tom wanted him to…what? Kiss him? Admit his desire? "I don't understand."
"Perhaps I ought to be clearer. You're utterly useless as a spineless coward." The dark boy licks the blood from his lips as he circles Draco. His breath is hot against Draco's ear when he speaks again. "But you're rather more interesting when you're drawing my blood."
There's no disguising the hitch in Draco's breath. "What do you want from me?"
Tom presses his lips to the nape of Draco's neck and he feels the boy's smile against his feverish skin. "I want to make a deal with you." His alluring lips travel across Draco's skin, spitting lightning as they move. Draco doesn't dare breathe, lest Tom hear the raw notes of his surging desire in the exhale.
"You," Tom punctuates the word with a wet kiss beneath Draco's ear, "will do exactly as I say when it comes to Hermione." He's walked Draco forward with every word and now the mattress hits his knees. Draco doesn't go sprawling only because Tom holds him up, his chest flush with Draco's back. Tom rolls his hips forward and Draco can't help the breathy moan that escapes his lips. He has never been this close to a boy before, not when the air practically drips with sexual tension
"And I will give you that release you crave so badly you can hardly sleep at night."
Tom abruptly spins Draco to face him. "Do we have a deal?"
Draco hardly remembers how to breath, let alone what Tom has said. He closes his eyes, shutting out Tom's magnificently crafted jawline and divine features. He can't think when all his blood is rushing south. Something about Granger. Tom wants the authority in their plan to rescue her. Draco chokes back a bitter laugh. It's essentially the same request Potter made.
But unlike Potter, Tom isn't oblivious. He knows exactly what he can offer to make Draco's thoughts turn to gravy. There are a million good reasons he shouldn't let Granger's fate—and his own by extension—be orchestrated by a half-souled killer, but he can't think of a damned one right now. He can't bloody think at all.
He reaches for Tom before he can stop himself. He can focus on nothing except the pressure building in his trousers and the promise of relief held within Tom's wicked smirk.
They tumble onto the bed together, Tom's weight pressing down on him in just the right places. Draco's hips buck up, desperate for more friction. Just more.
The dark boy laughs, the sound of victory. "I need to hear you say it, Malfoy."
"Yes," Draco rasps, his hands roaming the broad expanse of Tom's back. "We have a deal. You lead. I follow."
Toms lets out a low hum of appreciation that shoots straight to Draco's groin. He can't wait a moment longer. He grabs the silken curls at the base of the other boy's skull and yanks him down. Their mouths crash together and Draco trips over the precipice.
He's been teetering on the edge for weeks, the tension between them ratcheting up with each charged look and seemingly innocuous touch. From the moment they faced off in the dungeons, they have been staggering toward this moment.
But Draco has been searching for this far longer than Tom Riddle has been guiding him here. He has wandered lost through the arms of countless girls, into the dark of his own forbidden thoughts, but he has never allowed himself to fall.
And now he is falling apart at the seams, the lies he's cocooned around himself unspooling.
And just as suddenly he is no longer falling, but flying. Like a butterfly, he has found his wings and now he soars, the world so much more than it once seemed.
He soars upon clouds of ecstasy, luminous azure stars lighting his way. His body trembles and breaks and is made anew. His mind fractures until he is only the pant of breath and the slide of skin. And in this surrender, he finds the sweetest freedom.
They do not sleep until the blush of dawn caresses the verdant hills beyond the Manor. Until there is nothing left for one to gain and the other to forfeit.
It's been a week. A week of steady meals and plentiful water. A week of the bucket reeking of human waste—her body's pitiful refuse—vanished daily.
A week and she almost remembers how it feels to be human. The boys—either Tom, Draco or both of them together—have found a way to check on her every day. She recalls hearing something about a ward they crafted inside the Manor. She wasn't in the right frame of mind to understand when they told her. Even now, days later, she's still only one step ahead of the fog that threatens to swallow her whole.
But for the first time in memory, she has regained the sense of days, of time delineated by more than eternal darkness and fading wounds and breaths counted until her last.
The food they bring is rich and she can often only manage a bite or two before her stomach rebels, but it is heavenly to taste again.
She didn't realize the toll her lost senses extracted until they returned to her.
The luxurious taste of food. The gentle touch of Tom's satin-soft lips across her brow. The sound of Draco's high-pitched whine. The sight of stormy eyes beside those of the bluest skies. Her mind is tumbling, free of its prison, but utterly unable to grasp the abundance swarming around her.
She does not mind this kind of wandering oblivion.
She cried, long hiccupping sobs that must have echoed to the far reaches of the Manor, when Draco brought her a rose from his mother's garden. Its pale pink blossoms reminded her of sun-kissed clouds, its scent the sweetest blend of forgotten childhood and new beginnings.
She does not know who Draco's mother is—can still recall nothing of her time before this fate—but she imagines a stately woman with Draco's sharp features smoothed into soft femininity. She imagines his mother is kind and beautiful, but the light in Draco's windswept gaze dampens when she asks. He will not tell her anything of the woman who bore him, but his reluctances speaks for him.
The boys are different too. The hostile energy between them has morphed into a quiet tension she cannot decipher. They speak freely, even comfortably, to each other, but there lingers a slow burning energy that never fully abates. It is as if Tom is waiting for the opportune moment to slit Draco's throat and Draco is slowly formulating a plan to stop him. The both know the confrontation approaches, but neither acknowledges it.
But they no longer come to blows or descend into petty arguments brimming with noxious words. They are at peace.
It is too sudden for Hermione to believe. She knows Tom well enough to suspect the worst. He has manipulated Draco—though she truly cannot determine his means—into the role he desires for the other boy, into a puzzle piece cut exactly to his specifications.
She also knows better than to confront him. Let him think she doesn't notice the lingering stares that feel more suited to hunting prey than delivering dinner. Let him believe she is still too weak to notice. He will slip up eventually and then she will intervene.
For she has let the sharp talon of hope drive deeply into her gut.
Hermione no longer expects to die here.
It is unwise because now she has everything to lose. But she has slowly begun to realize what she stands to gain.
She is not healed. She is still a broken, savage thing made of darkness and all that has been lost. But she wants to heal. She wants to find a way to stich all of her fractured pieces together until she is something like whole.
"Are you even listening to me?"
Hermione tilts her head back and stares up into Tom's face. His dark brows are drawn in annoyance, but a bemused smile lurks at the edges of his full lips. She reaches up and traces them. Tom's breath remains even as her finger skates across his skin. When she lets her hand fall back to chest, he raises an amused brow. "Any particular reason I'm the subject for your study in human anatomy?"
She snorts. "Don't be daft. If you were my subject for anatomy, you'd be wearing significantly less clothing." She narrows her eyes and pretends to visualize him naked. "Although I suppose I rather might enjoy that."
Draco shifts across the cell, his pale skin stained red as he looks away from where Hermione lies with her head resting upon Tom's outstretched legs. She and Tom aren't flirting, not as she vaguely recalls the definition anyway. But they are growing more comfortable.
She can't forget. Can't stop the nightmares. But she can let him make her smile, can tease him in ways she would never have imagined being comfortable with mere weeks ago. She does not think of him naked—or any man—but she can laugh about the implication. It is something and she will take every little something until she no longer breathes the poison of nothing in her lungs.
"No need to be embarrassed, Malfoy," Tom calls across the cell. "We bloody live together in one room. Unavoidable seeing each other naked."
If anything, Draco turns a brighter shade of scarlet.
It is a perfect example of the tension she doesn't understand. What does Draco care about Tom being naked? Don't boys see each other naked all the time? Not that she has any particular evidence to back up that impression. It's one of the things she simply knows despite the myriad gaps in her memory.
She sighs and settles back against Tom's legs. His thighs are taut and strong against her shoulders. The feeling makes her stomach flutter, the assurance of protection and strength drawing a visceral reaction.
Although she has generally acclimated to Draco, she flinches away from his touch. His gray eyes dull from vibrant gunmetal to blunt charcoal every time she jerks away from him, but there is no judgment within his stare, only quiet disappointment. An apology often lingers on the tip of her tongue, but she has nothing to repent when it comes to him.
He is the one who left her here, smeared in her own blood and excrement, losing her sanity with every breath she took. He is the one who had the power and chose to let her slip further into the abyss. Perhaps it is proper that she cannot stand his skin against hers.
But she harbors no rage. She does not judge him for his monstrous cowardice. Draco is a cog in the merciless wheel of maniacal destruction masterminded by the monster who shares Tom's past. If she rages against a mere pawn, then she must despise the king. But she cannot find even a drop of ill-will in her battered soul for the boy who holds her, who makes her believe the breath across her lips is precious not penance. So she absolves Draco, lest she trip herself amongst the tangled strings of conflicting logic.
She studies the set of Tom's jaw as he comments to Draco, "lighten up, we're not at the end of the world yet."
This earns a long-suffering sigh and stormy eyes rolling skyward. "I'm pretty sure the end of the world began the moment Granger sucked you out of that diary."
"More accurately when he put himself inside the diary," Hermione points out. Both boys stare at her. "What? It's true. None of this would be possible if he hadn't been able to resurrect himself using Horcruxes and Potter's blood."
Draco's eyes go wide and he says, "You remember that?"
At the same time, Tom's voice rises to a fever pitch as he asks, "I used Potter's blood? Why the fuck would I do that?"
Now both Hermione and Draco are looking at Tom. Hermione can feel her brows draw together as she says, "well, yes. You needed your father's bones, but Harry's blood. Something about blood of the enemy."
Tom blinks. His expression barely shifts, but Hermione can sense the darkness creeping into his eyes, the latent malice behind the amused smile at his lips. "So it is true. Potter and I are truly fated to kill each other."
Draco makes a sound between a cough and a sob. Tom's eyes flash with an emotion she can't identify as he looks at the other boy. The moment passes within a heartbeat, replaced by a rueful smile curving Tom's lips. He shakes his head, ebony waves falling haphazardly across his porcelain skin. "I mean, I'd heard the prophesy from Hermione before, but I guess I didn't truly believe. Harry Potter and I are worlds apart… and yet." He shakes his head again and looks down at Hermione. "Do you still remember the full prophesy?"
She doesn't recall ever knowing a prophesy at all. She bites her bottom lip and shakes her head. "I'm sorry. It's… gone."
Tom runs a gentle hand over her hair. "It's fine."
Draco appears a cross between seasick and bereaved when she glances back across the cell. It isn't a good look on his already wan features.
Hermione clears her throat. "So… um… any ideas about how to get us out of this hellhole?"
Draco and Tom exchanged one of their charged looks. Hermione sighs and continues on, "well, I was thinking. What about Romeo and Juliet?"
Now both of them are looking at her in confusion. Draco is entirely lost, but at least he's lost the green miasma. Tom simply appears caught off guard.
"You mean like the Shakespeare play?" he asks as he trails a hand down the column of her neck.
She closes her eyes and savors the warmth that follows his gentle caress. "Yes, the play."
"A Muggle play?"
It takes Hermione several blinks to understand Draco has no idea what they're talking about. Even Tom is staring at Draco, all guile stripped from his handsome features. "You don't know who bloody Shakespeare is, Malfoy?"
Draco lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Not required reading for Britain's pureblood elite."
"Required reading for the entire rest of the country though," Hermione counters. She doesn't know when she learned about Shakespeare, but she assumes it was before she went to Hogwarts. Basic government structure, the location of Hyde Park and a movie called Clueless are among the things her brain has held onto even though their specific context is lost. She supposes her memory is a bit like swiss cheese, which is another thing she remembers without knowing why or where she learned about it.
"We learned about him in that rubbish orphanage for Salazar's sake, Malfoy. I didn't realize the purebloods had gotten so detached from their environment."
Draco glares at Tom, a shadow of their old animosity returning. "And whose bloody fault is that?"
Tom doesn't say anything in response. He knows Draco is right. Hermione sighs and cuts through the mounting tension. "Anyway. I was thinking we should fake our deaths, like Juliet did. Other than we won't have such abysmally bad timing and no one here is in love with anyone else, so we should be spared the suicide drama."
"Suicide drama?" Draco parrots, voice shooting up at least an octave.
"Relax, no one is flinging themselves over their dead lover and declaring their undying love before succumbing to a dagger." Tom shakes his head, and slides his gaze down to Hermione. "Who even does that?"
"Don't underestimate the power of love," she chides, lips twitching.
Tom widens his eyes and stares down at her. He does an admirable job of appearing the lovesick fool and she has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. "But, my one true love, I cannot live without you. If your heart ceases to beat, so will mine. I live only to love you."
Her snort erupts and his façade cracks. They dissolve into a fit of giggles, the force of his laughter shaking her shoulders.
"If you two are done being moronic first years," Draco interrupts, "could we get back to Granger's idea."
"Right," Hermione says in the most serious voice she can muster, but then she catches Tom's eye and she's doubled over again.
It takes several minutes and much grumbling from across the cell before either of them can settle down. Finally, Hermione keeps it together long enough to say, "No one will blame you for my escape if I simply die. Especially if you die first."
Two sets of eyes stare back at her. Any remaining humor dissolves like summer rain on asphalt.
"Explain," Tom demands.