Harry's newfound zeal for fighting, truly fighting instead of simply whittling the time away, spread through the Insurgency and lit little fires everywhere.
Hermione suspected that for the most part, the Insurgency had sheltered Harry from the worst of the fallout up until then. Moody and Shacklebolt balanced on the razor's edge as they handled Harry: push too hard and they would lose their Chosen One. They had kept him docile on a diet of naive optimism, masquerading the truth of their losses as best they could and allowing Harry to walk his own path of Light.
The problem with idolizing a teenager and putting him up on a pedestal, was that he hadn't known loss enough to fear and despise it the way Hermione did. He had never been up to the elbow in someone's intestines, desperately knitting together the rapidly deteriorating tissue and praying that sepsis didn't set in. He had never scooped chyme out by the handfuls, weeping and gagging while doing so. He had never tried to pack the tattering entrails back into the abdominal cavity, to make the body presentable for the funeral, slipping and sliding on the hospital ward floors.
The loss of his parents, Sirius and Albus Dumbledore were gentle and dignified deaths. The deaths they faced every day during this war of attrition were not.
Hermione had to throw out the sneakers she wore that day. No amount of washing or Scourgify could get the smell of bile and vomit out. She had tried until her hands were raw and red.
It had taken Hermione forcing Harry to stare at Terry Boot's body for the truth to finally set them all free.
The day after the funeral, the Insurgency mounted a counteroffensive and took the Death Eaters by surprise, maiming several and killing two. The bodies were identified, their masks collected and incinerated.
Hermione didn't believe in an afterlife but if one existed, she thought Terry Boot would've been happy.
"We've got some good intelligence from Moody regarding a few bases of interest: here, here, here, and here," said Ron authoritatively. His wand tapped little chess pawns and they immediately hurtled across the map, one falling over in its eagerness, to land on the designated bases. He was deeply in his element: all trace of fumbling boyish awkwardness was gone. He was a chess grandmaster, and the handful of Insurgency members crowded around the war room were thrilled to watch him play.
"I've brought Hermione in," he jerked his head at her, "so she can help us figure out the strategy for this." Hermione flushed slightly and gave a hesitant wave; nobody waved back, but she received a few nods of begrudging respect. The grizzled fighters had looked less mean ever since Harry had begun to openly encourage maiming and killing Death Eaters.
"We also know they're developing a sophisticated lab at Sussex. This will be a concern in the future but for now, I think we can safely hold off on it. It'll be a good long-term goal; if we hit it now, it's too early on and there won't be anything of use for us to wreck. But if we attack in say, a few weeks or months, we could do serious damage to their R&D."
Murmurs of agreement spread through the room. Even the chess pieces were nodding fervently up at Ron, although Hermione suspected they simply liked the attention from the group and were clambering for more.
"So this," Ron poked a bishop over to Sussex, "leads me to believe we should be targeting some bases first. Hermione tells me our potions supplies are low; the newest curses coming out of Sussex have wasted a lot of our supplies trying to find antidotes. These bases look close enough to populated wizarding areas that they're likely used to store confiscated and stolen magical goods."
"Isn't Snape supposed to be helping us with counter-curses?" someone in the crowd interjected. Discontent murmuring swept through the crowd; very few of them seemed to trust Snape entirely, and many were convinced he was simply double-crossing the Insurgency.
"Snape is not part of Sussex's R&D. He's wedged himself closer in with Voldemort himself to help maintain the regime, keep an eye on resistance movements, and coordinate foreign governments," Hermione replied in a matter-of-fact tone that dared criticism. "His finger on the pulse means he can ferry information to us, and give us hints on which countries we can approach as a wider Allied effort. Is that a problem?"
She straightened and stared them all slowly in the eye, in a McGonagall sort of way. Someone grumbled under their breath near the back, but there was no outright challenge to her authority.
It was funny how all it took was the Chosen One to treat her with respect, and the rest would fall in line, she thought wryly. How typical.
"Anyway, I'm going to reconvene with Moody," Ron crashed through the silence, slightly overeager at the new opportunities for success. "Expect a mission from us in the next few days so rest up, recover, and stay limber until then. Practice your duelling, try out the new spells that we got our hands on, and CONSTANT vigilance!"
His terrible Moody impression, complete with a wildly spinning eye and gruff barking voice, broke up the tense meeting. It was smiles all around as the Insurgency members clapped each other on the back and slowly drifted out. When the last stragglers had left the war room, Ron turned to Hermione with a thoughtful expression.
"You know, Harry's really turned around these few days," he said bracingly. She gave him a small smile; it was the first time in a long time that she had felt hopeful too.
"Yeah I think … we might actually make it," she replied quietly. Ron gazed at her intently before a slow smile spread across his face.
The chess pieces cheered in tiny yelps on the map spread below them.
True to his word, Ron and Moody orchestrated a burst of raids over the coming weeks that resulted in an ample restock of Hermione's supplies pantry. Wormwood, heliotrope, night shade, tendrils of ivy, aconite and various other goodies were dumped unceremoniously into her arms with a whoop. Spluttering in surprise and nearly falling over with shock, she was clapped heavily on the back and shoulder by Insurgency members surging into 12 Grimmauld Place. She dumped the supplies down quickly, lest she fall over and spill them everywhere.
A gentle feeling overtook her. Golden, buzzing, sweet. She was tentatively hopeful.
Many of the returning Insurgents were bruised and bloody and injured, but much of the blood belonged to Death Eaters. They had taken the new spells to heart and memorized them, to great effect. Hermione could hear a few of them wander off to discuss the Exitialis scalpere curse; it had been a crowd favourite.
As the crowd thinned out and moved along, Harry walked in, face smeared with soot and clothes drenched in blood. Despite the grimy and shocking appearance, an expression of cold triumph on his face: held in his hand was a Death Eater mask, shattered into two pieces.
"Yaxley's," he grunted, handing the mask to Hermione. She took it automatically but her hands trembled slightly; she was not used to handling Death Eater paraphernalia. They never gave it up willingly.
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise at Harry's strange gift, but he levelled a calm gaze at her. "He created the Muggle-born Registration Commission and has been steadily cataloguing, imprisoning, and sentencing Muggleborns to Azkaban without trial. Most of them end up Kissed, and their bodies thrown out into the sea. Says they've commit the ultimate crime of stealing magic from a wizard; that they have definitive proof that any Muggleborn with magic stole it by murdering or maiming a wizard."
His voice was quiet but outrage simmered just below the calm. Hermione's stomach lurched at the thought of innocent people being Kissed; a fate worse than death, and then dropped without preamble to drown in ice cold waters.
Dozens, if not hundreds, of lives gone. Joy sucked, memories whisked away to be dined on by Dementors. A brain left catatonic, with only the base functions remaining; just the lizard brain left. They would be defenseless when dropped into the freezing ocean; Hermione prayed they didn't have the awareness to suffer in their final moments, lungs filling with water and choking on fluid.
Empty bodies slowly sinking into the depths and swept away with the currents. Tangled around seaweed, cut up by sharp rocks.
It was a strange thing to pray for the complete finality of a Dementor's Kiss taking away any and all semblance of sentience.
A shudder ran through her and she nodded shakily. Harry met her eye, shot her a grim smile that was more grimace than anything else, and then left to de-brief with Moody along with the others.
She hurriedly put the Death Eater mask down on her table, then changed her mind. Even split fully in half, it seemed to mock her. If she tried just a little, she could almost image it cackling at her. She wrapped it in leftover parcel paper and shoved it as far back into her supply closet as possible, then hurried to distract herself with more busywork.
Hermione began organizing and tidying the supplies, tucking them away and pulling out certain bundles to begin brewing that evening. She was set to meet Draco at midnight, but would be able to finish a round of brewing before then.
She hesitated, staring down at her somewhat meagre supplies. It was a small trove of goods, easily enough to sustain a Hogwarts potion class for the entirety of the school year. But it wasn't enough for the Insurgency; their riskier missions had good payoffs, but far more injuries. She would blow through the new ingredients in a short few weeks if she wasn't careful.
But, then again, their newfound success was because of Draco himself. She chewed her lip anxiously; it had been 2 weeks since she had seen him, and she knew he would be stubborn and stupid enough to just chug whatever potions she left him, instead of seeing a Healer.
Probably half dead, insufferably smug. Bloodied and bruised everywhere but hair mysteriously clean and shiny and pale blonde.
Something about needing help, being touched, or even caring about his own well-being clearly didn't mesh with his personality.
Hermione snorted, then doled out a sizeable portion of their hard earned potions supplies and set it aside for Draco's own brews.
I can't keep milking him for intelligence if he's dead, she thought begrudingly.
Ever the believer in punctuality, Hermione Apparated to their usual cliffside cottage at exactly midnight. She had finished the first batch of brews with some time to spare and was able to put aside a small stock of potions for Draco: his usual Blood Replenishing, some nutrition potions, marrow regeneration serums, and a few extra ones of her own invention haphazardly thrown in. She didn't know the long-term effects of combining multiple immune boosting, health boosting, Blood Replenishing brews.
Neither of them were really looking too far ahead into the future on this. Hermione was painfully reminded of Muggle medicine having similar drawbacks; nobody could explain the mechanism exactly behind SSRIs but they were widely prescribed anyway.
Keep the patient alive for now and we'll deal with the rest later, when we cross that bridge.
If we cross that bridge.
It was a small blessing that the house elves at the Malfoy estate took charge of and oversaw Narcissa's care and daily supplement regime; Hermione had the distinct impression that Draco wasn't in his home very often, given how impersonal and un-lived in his room and all other aspects of the mansion seemed to be. Narcissa could've been a wax figure in a museum, or an ancient relic plundered by the British and displayed in their galleries.
Appearing with a small pop to face the cliffs, Hermione took a deep breath in and tried to calm her nerves.
Her last confrontation with Draco had left her embittered and desperate enough to confront Harry and risk another blow-up argument with him. Instead, it had been an olive branch between them and she could feel the cracks in their vessel of friendship mend slowly. Maybe she did need to start taking more risks.
The ocean crashed unforgivingly against the cliff, bathing the rocks below in salt spray. The moon's comforting presence bathed it all in a stark white glow. It felt ethereal. She inhaled deeply, letting herself take in the present moment, the muted roaring and cold air, before turning towards the cottage.
Draco had been standing there a few inches behind her the entire time, silent and watching. She nearly screamed again but only just managed to contain it, whipping her hand up to clutch at her chest in an attempt to calm her pounding heart.
"What … do you think you're doing?" Hermione gasped. The pounding in her chest eased up slightly, becoming a fluttering instead.
Draco stared at her quizzically, as if she were slow. "Watching whatever weird thing it is that you do when you think you're alone," he said. He looked unimpressed but slightly curious. He was in his typical body armour, but his mask had been tucked away somewhere. Exhaustion lined his pale face and made itself known through the purplish bruises under his pale grey eyes.
At least he hadn't fainted on her again, she thought. Hermione could tell anemia when she saw it.
She patted her hair to make sure she didn't have some errant tendril of ivy or dried autumnal leaves in it, before smoothing it down with as dignified an air as she could muster. She had the distinct impression she looked like Crookshanks with his fur standing on end, spitting and hissing and startled by something as mundane as a new houseplant. Draco's eyes drifted down her form lazily, before rising back up to scrutinize her hair. Their eyes met and she shot him an annoyed look, before brushing past him to stride quickly towards the cliffside.
He looked like he was tempted to fire a verbal jab at her, but she didn't give him the chance.
"Granger, where are you going?" Draco called out irritatedly from behind her. She stopped and turned, and stared at him as if he was the one that had asked a particularly stupid question this time. See how you like that, ferret.
"Towards the cottage, because you need Healing first or you'll keel over from Apparating, and I won't allow you to terrify Mippet like that," she snarked out. Draco gave a derisive scoff and looked as if he wanted to argue, but turned slightly grey from the lung movement.
They stared at each other, each daring the other to back down. But Hermione had saw the flash of pain across his face and already knew that she had won.
She shot him her most Malfoyish smirk, as if inviting him to argue. He grit his teeth but slowly walked over to join her, and they both made their way to the cottage.
If Hermione had a tail like her half-Kneazle cat, it would be held proudly in the air.
Much like the previous time, the whitewashed cottage allowed them both entry. The wards washed over her with a cool sensation, raising the hair on the arms of her skin. It felt like climbing naked into delicious cool bamboo sheets, satin smooth against her skin. Much more pleasant than the itchy prickling of 12 Grimmauld Place (which Harry had never been able to re-ward properly or figure out).
Draco trudged in behind her, shoulders weary. It was a testament to how tired he was that he didn't have anything further to sneer at her over.
Hermione swept her arm out and shooed him towards the cream coloured couch while she busied herself pulling out various Healing supplies for him. Draco let out a stiff hiss of pain as he settled himself down, and began unstrapping his body armour. A faint sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead from the relatively easy movements; he really was in pain.
Shuffling back over to him and rolling up his shirt, keenly aware of his warm body, she looked down at his abdomen with a gasp.
It was horrific.
Purple bruises spread over his chest and sides liberally, fading to yellow on the outskirts. Some greenish looking splotches implied he had sustained plenty of bruising over time, through different waves of abuse. A lump protruded from the smooth serratus anterior muscle of his side; a broken rib, she thought faintly.
"How did this happen?" she asked quietly, feeling sick. It had only been an extra week of Draco reining in his magic; it shouldn't have been this grotesque.
"My Master has not been particularly pleased about our … performance, as of late. He has lost a few of his loyal supporters recently, due to increased Insurgency activity. I, along with the other upper echelon, were punished for not … training his troops hard enough."
Draco panted with the effort of speaking, and slumped backward. He nearly jumped up again with a hiss; relaxing had caused his broken rib to stab sharp shards of bone into his lung. He sagged slightly and slowly let himself relax against the sofa.
His head dropped to the side. He seemed to be struggling to stay conscious, head woozy and gaze disoriented. The excursion from the cliff, into the cottage, had cost him.
Hermione stared at him incredulously, brain sprinting rapidly.
"But how is that your fault?" she asked, outraged. Her eyes scanned his torso again — this was his punishment for other peoples' failures?
"Collective punishment is nothing new to the Dark Lord, Granger. It's one of his favourite means of … encouraging us. He calls it "motivation"," Draco replied coldly. He tilted his head upright, expression darkened; whether from pain or memory, she wasn't sure.
"The beatings will continue until morale improves?" she quipped angrily, casting diagnostic charms and fumbling for vials of pain relief potion.
A barking, startled laugh made itself out of Draco, wheezing and rattling from his lungs. Blood sprayed out onto his dry lips and flecked Hermione's cheek. She stared in horror.
He winced again and she leapt into action, tipping his head back and gently easing the pain relief into his mouth. He had difficulty swallowing it so she reached up without thinking and massaged his throat to help it down, before withdrawing her hand to work on his body.
The first order of business was the broken rib. Hermione stabilized it as best she could, nudging it up magically by contracting and manipulating the serratus anterior muscles around it. Once the broken rib was tentatively back in its proper position, she gave it a gentle push with her magic to accelerate the growth of bone on the outside, reconnecting the scaffold structure. Then, she pressed a sip of Skele-Gro into Draco's mouth, who sputtered and gagged.
"Sorry," she whispered.
Hermione ignored Draco's intense and slightly outraged stare, to focus on peering at his lungs. The diagnostic charm had lit it up in an alarming shade of red; it had been punctured by the rib and was filling quickly with fluid.
She knit the perforation back together with magic, encouraging the lung tissue to divide and conquer and mend the hole. Then, she Vanished the fluid within the lung.
Rifling through her rucksack again, she re-emerged with a pot of Bruise Paste in one hand and smeared it gingerly across his chest with the other hand, gauging his reaction. Draco looked exhausted but no longer hissed in pain; the pain relief she had knocked back into him had already taken effect, so Hermione began pressing and massaging the paste in.
She worked silently and diligently, but could feel Draco's stare the entire time. Now that the immediate danger had passed, she once again found herself uncomfortably aware of him.
Despite the pain relief working, and the Bruise Paste slowly lightening the contusions across his body, she could feel him tremble slightly beside her. The twitches in his limbs were especially noticeable in such close proximity; her smaller body was nearly pressed against his larger one, so she could heal him efficiently and have direct access.
Hermione paused, then pulled her hand from his torso and placed the back of it against his forehead. Draco startled, eyebrows shooting halfway up his forehead.
"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed, apparently taken aback by the intrusion upon his person. He was shirtless but still touch averse, she noticed.
"You're shivering, but you don't feel cold at all," she replied slowly, staring at him in confusion.
His body was heat under hers; warm, inviting, taut.
Draco met her gaze and looked away, jaw tightening slightly. He seemed to be considering, before he finally responded.
"The Dark Lord employed Cruciatus on me for my failure to keep his troops in line. As the High Reeve, command over them falls upon me; I didn't train them well enough," he said tonelessly. He stared off away from her, as if he didn't want to see her earnest reaction to the horrific revelation.
Hermione was stricken; their Insurgency had enacted blood thirsty retribution upon the Death Eaters for Terry Boot and every other victim in recent memory. She hadn't realized Draco would be punished for their wins.
The tentative hope that she had been carrying all day crashed down abruptly. Guilt reared its ugly mournful head, and her heart grieved for him.
Someone had to grieve for the dead man walking beside her. No one else would, so Hermione would carry the burden. No matter how responsible she was for it. Despite her accountability in it.
With shaking hands, she flicked her wand to send tiny electrical pulses across his muscles, in the arms and legs and hands and shoulders. Draco jumped slightly, startled at the tiny zap running through his muscles, before realizing his muscles weren't spasming quite as much as before.
"An electrical impulse to the motor neurons controls the muscle contraction and relaxation," she said quietly. She Vanished the Bruise Paste on her hand, then began to tap away across his body with her wand, sending tiny electrical impulses skipping along merrily.
She watched the sparks of magic and electricity dance across his skin, while he watched her.
His arms were flecked in blonde hair, she realized. Something that felt so youthful and carefree and wild.
After some time had passed and his muscles had relaxed enough that they no longer spasmed painfully from the after effects of the Cruciatus, she looked up at him.
Draco had been watching her intently the entire time, gaze focused on her face. It felt like the universe had grown smaller and smaller and smaller, until it was just the two of them in the room. His eyes smouldered, pale grey eyes glittering. Despite the blonde arm hair that whisked across his skin, his lashes were dark.
They had been there for hours, just the two of them. Her staring at his body, him staring at her.
There's a ring of seafoam there, Hermione realized dazedly. She had always considered them to be pale and grey, a pearl with sheen but lacking depth. But she had never been close enough, and had never stared into them, watching so close she could see her own distorted reflection.
There was a ring of light seafoam. A chaotic scribble of yellow-hazel streaks encircling the seafoam, a darker subdued grey outer ring. His pupils were enlarged and his breathing, she could feel under her hand that rested on his chest still, was shallow. In tandem with hers.
Everything else was background noise.
They were somewhere safe. They sat together, on the border of the day; when night had grown so late that the moon waned, almost but not quite beginning her journey across the sky, being chased by the sun.
Hermione chased the light all her life, and was pursued by darkness in turn. It didn't feel so heavy here; she felt lighter.
She felt like she could vanquish any shadow that strayed into her path. Here, in this moment.
Draco dazedly, hesitantly reached out a hand and cupped her face in his palm. His thumb dragged along her jaw and wiped off the now dried blood he had accidentally sprayed onto her.
He sighed quietly, and bridged the gap between their lips and pressed his own to hers.
Life did not feel so cold and empty here.