Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Just the plot bunny.
Intro: Six months post-war, Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both kept for years. Dramione, Sick!Draco, flashbacks to Hogwarts
Chapter Seven
Then
They Apparated onto a small hill, and Draco came into contact with the ground with a cigarette half out of the silver case in the inside pocket of his jacket. He shot a burst of fire into the air from the tip of his thumb to light it, felt the heat against his face as he inhaled. The area was grassy, quiet, pleasant – the small, odd-looking house on top of the hill looked like something out of a children's storybook. There were weird stained glass windows in the front door and odd contraptions lying half-finished in the garden. In fact, it looked exactly like the kind of place Luna Lovegood would live. The sun had only just dipped beneath the horizon, leaving a red glow behind it, the sky rapidly darkening. Draco had noticed that they tended to begin most of their work at this time. These days he rose in the afternoon and ate dinner in the early hours of the morning.
The group that was with him this time was smaller than usual. Avery Jr. was there – a man he'd had very little contact with, and who also smoked. He was quiet enough, his forehead perpetually furrowed as if he was constantly in the process of working out a difficult math problem. Draco knew he had fought in the First Wizarding War, but evaded capture with the old 'Imperius curse' story. He'd worked at the ministry, being a few years younger than Draco's father, and Draco had seen him occasionally at parties and formal dinners. Also with them were Travers and Selwyn, who were currently making their way up towards the house. Selwyn was older, perhaps of a similar age to Avery Jr., and had also fought in the First Wizarding War. Travers was younger, closer to Draco's own age, but with a streak of loud brashness that Draco disliked. The whole expedition filled him with a heavy sense of dread. But he hadn't been asked to attend any of these 'visits' in some time, and he knew that declining was not an option.
So he took a long drag of his cigarette and watched as Selwyn strode up to the front door and rapped sharply on it.
Maybe they won't be home. Maybe they already went into hiding.
The door opened, and Draco's stomach sank. He watched as Selwyn cocked his head, speaking to someone inside. The door opened a little wider to reveal a middle-aged man with long blonde hair and strange clothes – he was also wearing a large hat with some sort of net attached to either side. It could only have been Xenophilias Lovegood. He was shaking his head emphatically, rapidly paling as Selwyn continued speaking. Then he made the mistake of trying to shut the door.
Within a matter of seconds, Travers had blasted the door from its hinges and the two of them were storming in. Avery Jr. cleared his throat and made his way up the path to the door, jerking his head at Draco. Slowly, clutching his cigarette, Draco followed.
Inside, Travers was already sending a volley of hexes and jinxes at the ramshackle kitchen they entered. Draco ducked, narrowly avoiding a saucepan, which was thrown through the kitchen window behind him. Xenophilias Lovegood was panicking, rushing to and fro in an attempt to rescue his possessions, his face filled with blind panic, his hands trembling violently. He had not even drawn his wand. Avery Jr. cleared his throat again, removing his own wand from his robes.
"Travers – Travers," he said, his tone flat with annoyance. "Do hurry up."
Travers halted his attack and sauntered over to the spiral staircase which led up into the rest of the house, smirking at Lovegood as he went. Draco put his cigarette between his teeth once more, leaning back against the kitchen sink. He watched the older man look at them all in turn, as if searching for a friendly face. It was strange not wearing the masks. But now there was no reason for them. Voldemort had entered the Ministry at every level. There was no hiding anymore. He heard a crash from upstairs, a shrill voice, and Lovegood seemed to finally pull himself together. He straightened up, like a baby dragon puffing up its chest.
"What do you want?" he demanded, his voice trembling.
"Quibbler's a funny name for a magazine," Avery Jr. said gruffly, looking around disdainfully at the kitchen.
Lovegood's face turned ashen.
"And this Potter," Selwyn spoke up. "He's a dodgy character to be associated with."
"I d-don't know anything about P-Potter," Lovegood said. "I didn't… I d-don't…"
He was actually stammering. He couldn't have been less convincing if he tried. Draco glanced up at the ceiling as the shrill voice cried out again upstairs. He could hear the sound of furniture being overturned, the sizzling burst of spells impacting with walls. Luna seemed to be putting up a fight. Something in his gut twisted and, as he heard footsteps on the stairs, he made a point of staring at the end of his cigarette. He heard Travers forcing her down the stairs, knew that he would have one hand fisted in her hair and the other pointing his wand at her threateningly. He heard her father make an odd, strangled sound.
"There's no point denying it," Avery Jr. was saying. "We already know that you are affiliated with Potter and his supporters. And, since the Dark Lord is merciful, we are not here to punish you."
A scuffle, a whimper – Draco looked before he could stop himself. Luna Lovegood was standing almost directly opposite him, her eyes wide with fear, her long blonde hair dishevelled, a mark on her cheek steadily reddening. Travers had twisted one of her arms up behind her back and had the tip of his wand against her head – her eyes flickered towards the glowing tip every moment it so much as twitched. She glanced suddenly up and looked right at him. He saw the recognition in her face, followed quickly by stony resilience. He would have given anything in that moment to shrink into nothing.
"What do you want?"
"No need to feel special," Selwyn said, gesturing vaguely. "You're just a name on a list. Those who have chosen to be Potter's allies are, by default, our enemies."
"I have no information on Potter, I don't –"
"Just a precaution, old man," Avery Jr. interrupted. "Potter has a limited number of places he can go. So if – and when – he shows up here asking for your help, you'll remember that there's a very good reason to let us know."
On cue, Travers shoved Luna forwards and began to march her towards the front door. She started to struggle at once, swinging at him with her elbows, twisting desperately. Her knee caught him in the shin and he released her, fury flashing across his face. He lifted his wand and red sparks leapt from the tip. Draco had seen it happen all too many times, and he knew what was coming next. Even as Luna span around to face her attacker, her hands fists, as if she thought she could actually physically fight back, Travers was stabbing his wand towards her.
"Cr-"
Draco stepped forwards, slashing his wand. He was relieved that his non-verbal magic had become advanced enough to beat spoken incantation – the ropes that appeared and wrapped themselves around Luna's wrists simultaneously jerked her towards him, and Travers' curse hit the front door instead. Draco caught hold of Luna by the back of her jumper, pretending to be focused on restraining her, pretending he hadn't even noticed Travers trying to curse her. He held on to her tightly, levelling his wand at her, pulling a cold mask over his face as she stared up at him with wide, furious eyes. She opened her mouth.
"Silencio," he muttered.
Her lips snapped shut. Across the room, Xenophilias Lovegood was shrieking desperately like a panicked bird.
"Please, please don't take her – don't hurt her – "
"Don't worry, Lovegood, your little girl will be treated with the upmost care and respect," Selwyn said, speaking loudly to be heard above his pleas. "All we ask in return is your compliance."
Luna was shaking her head violently, trying to make eye contact with her father. Her insistence on fighting back was making Travers' lip curl, and once again his wand began to lift. Draco pushed her hard towards the door before Travers could find another excuse to curse her. She stumbled but he forced her on, aware of Travers' eyes on the back of his neck, doing his best to remain expressionless. She dug her heels in, but with her hands bound he was able to manoeuvre her out of the door and down the front steps, leaving the others behind in the kitchen. She tried to kick him but he evaded her easily. A brief glance over his shoulder told him that Travers was waiting at the top of the steps, watching the others finish their discussion with Xenophilias Lovegood. They didn't have much time.
Her elbow caught him in the side and he wrestled her further away from the door with a grunt, gritting his teeth in frustration.
"Stop struggling," he hissed under his breath. "Don't give them a reason to hurt you. They're not here to kill you or your father – just keep your head down."
She stamped on his foot.
He yelped without meaning to and let her go. Before he could hope to make an attempt at catching hold of her again she was running, down the hill and towards the surrounding fields, her blonde hair flying in the wind. Travers' voice roared like a whip crack from behind him.
"Crucio!"
She dropped like a stone to the ground and curled into a ball. Draco gripped his wand tightly, rooted to the spot. He couldn't defend her now without arousing suspicion. A hand came down on his shoulder and he flinched as Travers came to stand beside him, grinning widely.
"You're gonna want to toughen up, Malfoy," he smirked. "Can't have the sheep running off on you, eh?"
He clapped Draco on the back before making his way down the hill towards Luna's crumpled form. Draco watched him go. She was trembling, trying to get up – he doubted she had ever been hit with Crucio before. Travers reached Luna, grabbed her by the arm, and Disapparated. From outside the house he could still hear Xenophilias yelling distantly, still begging for them to bring her back. He should have saved his breath. She wasn't coming back. They never did.
Now
"Luna?"
"Mm?"
"What do you think of Malfoy?"
Halfway through her book, Hermione groaned inwardly at Ginny's question. She ducked her head, letting her hair surround her like a frizzy curtain, hoping the topic would pass them by. She was sitting in the living room with Pavarti, Ginny and Luna, having spent the morning with them volunteering on the grounds of Hogwarts. The weekend had crawled by uneventfully - if Draco ever did leave his room, it must be either late at night or whenever the rest of them left the house. She had not seen him since that night on the stairs, although she heard the others muttering about him now and then - Dean had run into him in the corridor, Hannah had seen him in the living room looking at books, Harry had caught sight of him coming out of the kitchen. Hermione had not, although she would have found it much easier to take her mind off his odd, silent presence in the house if the others didn't insist on talking about him so much.
Luna's voice was calm and lilting as she replied.
"Why should I think anything of him?"
"Well, you were a prisoner at Malfoy Manor during the war," Ginny elaborated, unfolding from her lounging position on the sofa. "You must have spent some time with him."
Hermione felt her stomach jerk a little. She hadn't thought of that – of course, Luna would have seen Malfoy when she herself couldn't have. She might have more of an idea of how much he played the role of Death Eater when she wasn't around. Hestia's words had shaken her somewhat – until their conversation, she had simply been nervous because of the possibility of their past becoming public knowledge, or of the uncertainty of how he would react to her. Now, she couldn't help but wonder if he had changed since she had last seen him, if he was part of a back-up plan should Voldemort's war efforts fail. She raised her head, watching as Luna, who was sitting on the floor of the living room making odd, woven bracelets out of dried grass, cocked her head thoughtfully.
"Not really," she said. "He was one of the Death Eaters who kidnapped me. But he didn't really do anything."
"Nothing?" Ginny pressed.
"He took me outside when they came to get me," Luna said, frowning. "And he told me to stop being difficult, keep my head down."
"What did you say?" asked Pavarti, who was sitting beside Ginny on the sofa.
Luna smiled innocently. "I stamped on his foot."
Ginny burst out laughing, and even Hermione couldn't help but smile. She could just imagine how ruffled and furious he would have been, desperately trying to regain his composure in front of the other Death Eaters… but the smile faded as she pictured the scene in greater detail, and remembered that it had begun with one of her friends being taken prisoner.
"I never really saw him at the Manor," Luna was saying. "Mr. Ollivander and I were kept in the cellar the whole time. There was another man – Wormtail, I think – he brought food down now and again."
"You must have been terrified."
Only Luna could be recounting being held prisoner by Death Eaters and respond with little more than a shrug and a faraway smile.
"Well, they needed me to control my father. So I wasn't in any immediate danger. Of course, it wasn't very pleasant."
She turned suddenly to look at Hermione, who had time to feel the panic of a deer in the headlights before the question was posed to her.
"Didn't you say he helped you escape? When the Snatchers caught you?"
Ginny and Pavarti looked at her with interest. She swallowed hard, laying down her quill on the small table. She didn't know quite how much Ron and Harry would have told them about that day at the Manor – one of her worst memories of the war. And one of the most confusing. It had been possibly the biggest risk he had ever taken for them - and a moment which she had clung on to ever since as proof of who he really was. But that had been nearly a year ago. Time hadn't managed to heal the scars on her forearm, and probably never would. She rubbed them unconsciously as she replied.
"Yes," she said. "I think so. He lied for us."
"Why would he do that?" Pavarti asked.
Hermione bit her lip. At the time, she had known exactly why he had done it. She shook her head wordlessly, trying to shrug off the question. Ginny was twirling a strand of hair around her fingertips, frowning, as if puzzling out the event in her head. Her pygmy puff leapt enthusiastically up and down on her knee.
"He could have been trying to get you to trust him in case Voldemort needed a double agent. But then, he would have chosen terrible timing – I mean, they as good as had you, and you escaped. We just don't know who he is–"
"Shh," Pavarti said suddenly, and Ginny broke off.
They listened. After a few moments, Hermione's pricked ears caught the sound of slow footsteps coming down the stairs, passing by the living room, and continuing on downstairs. Ginny glanced around at them all.
"Are we the only ones in?"
Pavarti nodded. Ginny huffed a short laugh.
"Well, what d'you know – he does leave that attic sometimes after all."
Hermione gripped her pen tightly until she could no longer hear the footsteps. A door slammed somewhere in the belly of the house. She could only assume that he was going down to the kitchen to scavenge some food. Across the room, Luna sighed.
"What?"
"I was just about to make some tea," the other girl said. "But it's always terribly awkward when he's around."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, for goodness' sake, Luna..."
But really, she had no right to admonish Luna for not wanting to go downstairs. Not when she had been avoiding him more avidly than anyone else. The words died on her lips even as a jolt of frustration lurched through her. She felt like a child, sneaking around the house, refusing to face up to her problems. She was supposed to have fought a war - how was it that she was too nervous to simply go up to him and find out what was going on? She stood up, throwing down her quill, resolving to no longer creep around like a criminal. More than that, she felt she had to speak to him. Only then could she really put her concerns to rest and decide which side he was on.
"I'll go. What do you want?"
She emerged from the room with an order of two glasses of pumpkin juice and a camomile tea. Apparently, despite their talk, the others had no desire to be in a room alone with him either.
When she reached the kitchen and inched the door open, she found that he had his back to her, wrestling with a can of something. He was obviously trying to get it open, but seemed to be having difficulty getting the right leverage - the arm that held the can opener was stiff and uncooperative. Her eyes paused for a moment on the silvery white scars she could just see emerging from the collar of his sweatshirt. The sight of them somehow humanised him - she could still remember the look of defeat and embarrassment in his face when she had first seen them. She let the door swing shut behind her and he flinched upright at once, turned around, one hand moving automatically to his wand. The memories disappeared at once - his face was dark with simmering anger, his eyes cold stones in his skull. His hand remained on his wand as his they skirted her face.
"I'm not here to duel you," she said, glancing pointedly at his hand.
He let go of his wand. "Oh. What a relief. What, then?"
His words were scathingly cold, and she folded her arms tightly across her chest as if in defence. She knew that tone. He digging in his heels, ready to completely disregard anything she was about to say. Not a good start.
"I just had this crazy idea that we could talk instead of avoiding each other."
"Fine. What do you want to say?"
As usual, he was as unrelenting and uncompromising as a brick wall. She wasn't sure what else she had been expecting. But if he wanted it to be like that, fine - she could be direct too. She let her voice turn hard.
"Where have you been? It's been months since we've spoken. Where did you go after the Battle?"
"I took a holiday."
He returned to his fight with the can. She watched him struggle for a while before he let out a grunt of frustration and tore his wand free, pointing it at the stubborn metal container. She stepped forwards and swept the can and the tin opener out of his way, fastening the tool over the metal lip. She sliced the lid off cleanly, raising an eyebrow at him.
"You'll spill it everywhere if you blast it open."
"I didn't ask for your help."
He snatched it away as she lifted the lid free and shook the contents aggressively into a bowl. Scowling, she dropped the abandoned lid into the bin. She tried to busy herself with putting the kettle on to boil and pouring out the pumpkin juice, but she had never been good at mincing her words. Before long they were overflowing.
"What's the matter with you?" She burst out, turning to face him. "Why are you being so..."
"Difficult?" he filled flatly in as she searched for the right words. "Inconvenient?"
"What do you mean?"
He smirked, drawing his wand free and twirling it between his hands. "Don't bother, Granger. You've made it quite clear that I'm interfering with your perfect little post-war fairytale."
"That's not-" she broke off, started again. "I haven't heard from you in months, and now you just show up and… and you're acting like we never…"
He wasn't even looking at her. He was staring at the bowl, his wand raised, his eyes narrowed almost in confusion. He frowned and pointed again – the tip of his wand flickered uselessly. He never usually had trouble with wandless magic, and the lack of effect his efforts at a simple heating charm was having was unnerving. There was the possibility he was trying a spell she was unfamiliar with, but the perplexed look on his face suggested otherwise.
"Having trouble?"
He shot her a glare. "Get to the point Granger."
She lifted her chin, fixing him with a sharp stare. "What was going on the other night?"
"Want to be a little more specific?"
"You don't sleepwalk." She watched his shoulders grow tight, and knew she had hit gold. "Ever since you got here you've been quiet. You've been hiding out upstairs like you're in hibernation."
"You know what, you're right." He tapped his finger mockingly against his chin. "When's Scrabble night? I'll bring the chocolate frogs."
He was trying to make fun of her, but she could hear an anxious edge to his voice which told her she had touched a nerve. That and he was starting to root through the kitchen drawers, looking for something, slamming cupboard doors in a steadily building rage. No matter how much he had changed since they had known each other in Hogwarts, she still knew his mannerisms. She folded her arms.
"You're hiding something."
"You know what, Granger?" he turned around and faced her, his face frigid with rage. "No one fucking asked you. For once in your life, why don't you just mind your own fucking business and piss off?"
"What is it?" she demanded, refusing to back down. "Is it the Death Eaters? If you're involved somehow–"
"For fuck's sake, the whole lot of you around here are broken records. I'm not involved with the Death Eaters!"
He whirled away from her and stabbed his wand violently at the bowl – it vibrated with the rush of heat that flew out of his wand, almost tumbling off the counter. She flinched without meaning to, and his gaze pinned her down again. His face was an icy mask, his jaw clenched. Every line of his body was defensive.
"What, Granger? Are you scared of me?"
She tried to laugh, but it came out too small. He took a sudden step towards her and she moved backwards before she could even think about it, her hand flinching towards her wand. She forced herself to snap out of it, but it was too late – he was already shaking his head, smiling humourlessly.
"So you are. Great."
"I'm not scared of you," she snapped. "I just… I feel like I don't know you anymore. We used to be there for each other, no matter what. Is all of that nothing now?"
"You tell me," he snarled, reaching for the bowl. "You moved on pretty quick."
"Don't try to tell me how I feel. And don't change the subject." She moved into his way as he tried to push past her, and he drew back as if she might burn him. "You are hiding something."
"You're right," he muttered. "Actually, I was going to kill you all in your sleep. But now you've found out, so I guess it's off."
He tried again to move past her but she moved, placing herself in his path and forcing him to stop. He was pointedly evading her gaze, but from this close the tension in his face was painfully obvious. He had lost weight since she had last seen him, and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. He tried to side-step her, but when she again blocked him his eyes finally shifted to fix on her.
"What's going on?" she hissed. "What's happened to you?"
~O~
The kitchen door flew open, and he almost jumped out of his skin at the sudden intrusion. He closed his mouth at once. He couldn't believe that he had actually been about to tell her. Then again, she always had been able to draw things out of him. And there had been so little space between them, and it had felt so heady to be so close to her again... Perhaps it was just the effects of the curse. It would certainly explain the difficulty he'd had casting the heating spell. The way his wand had abruptly refused to obey him had set him on edge - he'd never before struggled with simple charms like that. He'd had a quiet couple of days in the attic room, but the pressure in his head had been building towards another attack for a while, and he was running dangerously low on the nightshade. He had only come down in the first place to find food, hoping that he would feel better after eating. He hadn't been looking for another argument.
It was just his luck that Hestia Jones was now standing in the doorway, her hair in its usual serious ponytail, her eyes flickering between the two of them. Her gaze settled on him in a familiar, accusatory fashion.
"Afternoon, Hermione," she said briskly, coming into the room. "Everything alright?"
Hermione was still watching him, her nostrils flaring, her forehead lined with anger. But her shoulders heaved in a deep breath and she smiled unconvincingly at Hestia, reaching for a tray to pile her drinks on to.
"Fine, Hestia. How are you?"
"Very good indeed," Hestia replied, looking pointedly at Draco.
He hated that look. It meant she was about to play a card she had recently acquired, and he didn't want to get into that now. He wanted to go back to bed. Leaving his room always seemed to turn into such a huge mistake that he wondered why he still bothered trying. Hermione's cheeks were flushed red as she turned away from the counter, laden down with her drinks – Hestia held the door for her as she headed for the stairs.
"I think the Ministry is conducting a hearing soon, Hermione," she said as she passed. "Perhaps you would like to shadow me during it? Didn't you say you were interested in becoming a lawyer?"
"What? Oh, yes," Hermione said distractedly. "Sure. Thanks, Hestia."
"No problem."
She continued out and up the stairs, and Draco made a half-hearted effort to leave too. As expected, he barely managed to take a single step before Hestia had closed the door firmly.
"No, sit down, Malfoy," Hestia said, pointing at the kitchen table. "I think it's about time we had a chat, isn't it?"
She pulled her notebook from her robes, retrieved a quill, and scribbled something down. When she noticed he hadn't moved, she looked pointedly at the kitchen bench once more. Slowly, begrudgingly, Draco sat down at the table. Hestia sat herself opposite him and, after scribbling something else down in her notebook, looked up at him with a falsely pleasant smile.
"So," she said. "Let's start at the start, shall we? How's your memory doing? Remembered who your friends in the alleyway were yet?"
"Travers."
For a moment, she actually looked surprised. She cocked her head questioningly.
"Are we playing word association, or did you have more?"
"I think Travers might have been one of the Death Eaters I met in the alleyway," he expanded, loathing the fact that she was making him spell it out. "I think I recognised his voice."
"And Nott?"
He frowned at her, but it seemed a genuine question. He shrugged.
"I don't know. No."
"Are you sure?"
He swallowed hard. "No."
"Why are you protecting Nott?"
"I'm not…" he stopped himself, forced himself to relax and start again. "I'm not protecting anyone. Nott was in a similar position to me. I thought he wanted out too."
"Do you have proof?" She answered before he could do so himself. "No, of course not. You don't really have proof for anything you say, do you?"
He glared at her, forcing himself to swallow his pride and remain silent. He hated these sessions, where he was continually placed on the stand, asked to defend himself, and then rebuffed for his responses. There was nothing he could say that she would accept, and yet she refused to stop asking. She was smirking slightly now, her quill poised over her notebook.
"Where are the Death Eaters based?"
He let out a humourless laugh. "How the hell would I know?"
"Make a suggestion."
"Like what?"
"Malfoy." Her voice had suddenly become more serious, more aggressive. "You worked with them for over two years. You are not going to sit here and tell me that you don't know of any sites they have used, any houses that may be considered their property."
"I wasn't told anything," he insisted. "I never had any status–"
"You see, this is the problem, Malfoy," she interrupted, frowning at her notes. "We just have to take all of this at your word. And, to be frank, you don't have a great track record with the truth. On either side."
He shut his mouth. She glanced up at him, her eyebrows pulling together quizzically, her eyes narrowing. He glared back. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of agreeing with her. She shifted in her seat, her lips parted thoughtfully, her next question teetering on the brink of her tongue for a few long moments before she let it drop.
"Do you have any definitive, actual proof that you did anything for anyone other than yourself during the Second Wizarding War? Did you ever actually work against Voldemort – rather that just being an innocent and very comfortable bystander?"
His temper was crackling just below the surface, and it took all he had to simply remain silent. He stared at the table top, traced the thin lines and grooves in it with his thumbnail. The answer, of course, was no. There was no proof. He hadn't thought to stop to collect 'proof' at the time - he'd been too busy burying any evidence as best he could. And the only other witness to whatever he had or hadn't done was remaining resolutely silent. And he'd be damned if he broke first.
"No," he said, the word ground out from between frozen lips.
She 'hmm'd thoughtfully, and he resisted the urge to scream at her. A jab of pain in his chest made him flinch convulsively and he gritted his teeth, swallowing down a groan. He dug his fingers into the table top. His head was hurting.
Ah, fuck…
He'd had a quiet couple of days. He was probably due for another attack. Wincing sharply as his headache grew suddenly worse, he pushed himself up to his feet.
"Anything else?"
Hestia looked up at him, her eyebrow raised. She glanced at the clock on the wall.
"No, I suppose not. For now." She got up, tucking her notepad away. "The silent treatment isn't going to get you anywhere with the Ministry, Malfoy. You might want to decide on a story."
He liked to think that, if his head hadn't been splitting, he might have told her to go tell the Ministry to go fuck itself. As it was, his vision was beginning to shutter and the pain in his chest was becoming a persistent, angry ache. He didn't have much time. So, instead, he just turned his back on her and left, anger still simmering in the pit of his stomach. He left the untouched bowl of soup on the counter. He'd lost his appetite.
Then
War Years
Draco could only remember one Christmas he had ever fully enjoyed. And the only reason he had done so was because he and Hermione had been happy, and there had been a stone growing warm in his pocket every couple of minutes with a message. He had spent most of the time in his room, sending brief thoughts back and forth with her, and she had told him that she had not taken off the necklace he had given her the whole day, and he had smiled. Perhaps it was pathetic that that the Christmas spent in his bedroom, rather than the Christmases with stone-faced distant relatives and terse, forced conversation over the vast dining room table, was the best he could remember.
Even when Voldemort had taken hold of everything, including that very table downstairs, Christmas still somehow came about.
Nobody really seemed to notice, apart from perhaps his mother who made up some mulled wine. But it seemed ridiculous to even partake in season traditions, not with the place swarming with Death Eaters. They were still hunting for what remained of the Order, still trying to track down where Potter was hiding, and so it was a somewhat muted day. He retreated to his room as soon as he could and lay there on his bed, trying to imagine that he could be anywhere else. At one point a dull hubbub erupted downstairs, but he ignored it. Maybe the other Death Eaters had discovered the mulled wine.
It was only when footsteps came hurrying up to his room and a timid knock sounded on his door that he roused himself. He got up and opened the door to find his mother's strained, anxious face peering in. He stepped back to let her in, but she shook her head.
"I just came to tell you to stay in your room," she said in a low voice.
"Why?"
"I think there was a close call – I think He almost caught Potter."
Draco, who had automatically reached for his wand at her worried tone, instantly froze. He stared at her, his mind racing.
"What? What do you mean almost?"
"He had a trap set up somewhere," his mother replied, shooting an uncertain glance over her shoulder. "He tried to catch him, but they didn't manage it… He's angry."
As she spoke there was a loud crash and a yelp from somewhere downstairs. They both fell silent for a few seconds, listening for more. Draco gripped his wand tightly, his nerves on edge. His mother reached for his arm, pulling his attention back to herself.
"Please, stay in your room," she repeated urgently. "He's angry and… and we're not going downstairs tonight. Alright?"
He nodded. She squeezed his arm once more with a tiny smile and then turned on her heel and strode off down the hall. He waited until he heard her door close before retreating into his own room, still holding his wand. Not sure what else to do, he headed for the window, ears strained for any more noises from downstairs. He could just about hear distant screaming – someone was taking the brunt of their leader's anger.
Time passed slowly. He paced his room, trying to gauge whether it was safe to go downstairs yet or not. He wanted to know exactly what had happened. Potter may not have been caught, but there was every possibility that someone else could have been… He would have to find out carefully, without asking directly what had happened. If he was heard discussing the failed mission the Dark Lord's anger would surely be turned on himself. He chewed on his lip, twirled his wand between his fingers, and then was suddenly hit with an idea. He crossed his room in three quick strides and tapped the side of his mattress with his wand. He passed his hand through the material and, after a moment's hesitation, closed it around the small pebble waiting inside.
And even as he lifted it, it suddenly grew hot.
He almost dropped it in surprise, and then fumbled to read the message which flashed quickly across it. It was accompanied by a strong rush of deep, sickening fear which instantly sent adrenaline pouring through him.
SOS.
That was it. Short, desperate. He held the stone tightly in his fist, almost muddling the message in an effort to reply.
I'm here. What's wrong?
He waited, and was met with silence. He began to pace, moving swiftly back and forth across his room. The sheer lack of knowledge of what was going on was infuriating, and he was about to throw caution away and go downstairs and just bloody ask someone when the stone grew warm again.
Come to Ollivanders?
He frowned in confusion. Ollivanders? The place was now abandoned, but it was still in the centre of Diagon Alley, which was currently swarming with people he would certainly not want to be caught by. He hesitated, but he didn't dare refuse. Not when everything was so uncertain. It was his first chance to get contact with her in months, and he couldn't bear to pass it up now.
Coming.
He sent the message before he could second-guess himself and strode over to the bedroom door. He locked it with a tap of his wand and then summoned his cloak from the wardrobe across the room. As he dragged it on he considered his options. He could walk out of the front door, in plain sight, claiming to be in need of something… No. He would almost certainly be interrogated and sent back in. Better to just go and then come up with an excuse on his return if they noticed him missing. With any luck they would remain downstairs arguing over their recent failure.
He looked around the room once more, listened for any sound of disruption downstairs. Then, steeling himself, he turned on his heel and Disapparated.
Ollivanders materialised around him with a rush of ash and the smell of burning. It had been destroyed not all that long ago, and the front door was now boarded up. He was grateful for the cover, but the sight of the wand boxes blasted from the walls and the floorboards torn up was hard to take in. Every student remembered coming to Ollivanders before their first year of Hogwarts, remembered that rush of excitement as they picked up their first wand. It was extremely dark now, and the thin, patient old man who had once hovered behind the front desk was now gone. Draco didn't want to think too much about exactly where he was now. He tried to sneak food down to him whenever he could, but he was only met with fear and mistrust. He never stayed too long.
He stood there in the gloom, trying to figure out exactly what he should do. He could see no sign of life here. For a moment the thought crossed his mind that this could be some kind of trap – how did he know Hermione had sent the message? For all he knew she could have been killed already, and the Death Eaters were simply trying to find out who was helping the Golden Trio. He took a slow, cautious step forwards, peering into the shadows in the corners of the room, unwilling to give his position away just yet by calling out. He could just see the broken shelves at the end of the back room, see the burned edges of them. He made his way towards them, glancing uncertainly over his shoulder. He could hear nothing, but he could think of nowhere else that might give someone cover. Either way, he would have to be sure to shoot first if it turned out to be a hostile.
As soon as he stepped through, he caught a glimpse of movement to his right, just inside of the doorway. He span around at once, but a wand was already inches from his face. He froze, his vision momentarily filled with its glowing point – and then heard a ragged intake of breath. He stomach flipped over.
The wand was lowered, and there she was, crammed into the corner, trembling wildly. The initial heady joy of seeing her was followed quickly by concern. Her face was white as a sheet and he could see dirt smudged on her cheek. Her eyes were wide and glassy, her hair loose and straggling around her, and as he lowered his gaze he saw that the thick sleeves of her winter coat were soaked with something dark.
He reached for her at once, catching at her arm, and she jolted towards him. Her arms came around his neck and his ears caught a ragged sob close to his ear. He clung to her, feeling slightly unsteady himself, hardly able to believe that she was there in front of him. It had been so long since he had last been able to touch her, feel her body pressed against him. He dropped his face into her hair and breathed in the smell of smoke and leaves, and then somewhere beneath it all her own gentle scent.
"Are you hurt? Are you ok?" he mumbled breathlessly, running his hands over her.
She pulled back slightly, her eyes wet with tears, shaking her head fiercely. He touched her forearms, her bare hands, saw blood streaking her skin.
"What's happened?" he asked more urgently, gripping her tighter. "Are you ok?"
"I'm fine," she said, and her voice shook, but he was just so relieved to hear her. "It's not me, it's… Will you come with me?"
He nodded without hesitation, and she held both his hands firmly. He was lifted off his feet and thrown through time and space before they both came to a stumbling halt in a thick forest, surrounded by heavy layers of snow, the tall dark trees standing vigilant around them. Snow was falling thick and fast and he brushed it out of his eyes. She was still standing just in front of him, her lips and cheeks very red in the sudden cold, and he felt the desperate urge to kiss her. He brushed the pad of his thumb over her face instead, wiping at her tears.
She sniffed fiercely, still whimpering slightly. "It's Harry," she blurted out at last.
The wish to kiss her was instantly crushed by the sharp reminder of their circumstances. He felt his gaze grow cold, but tried to shake the childish behaviour off. He had said he would help her, and that was not conditional on whether or not Potter was involved. And of course Potter would be involved.
"What?"
She shook her head, her face still screwed up tightly with fear and grief. "I… We went to Godric's Hollow, he wanted to, to see his parent's grave and… and we went to Bathilda's house but she was dead, she wasn't really there, and it was that snake, that horrible snake…"
His gut jerked. He didn't much like talking about that snake. He felt for her hands again but the blood seemed to be dried rather than flowing. She hadn't been bitten. Which meant there was only one other candidate. She was trying to pull herself together, her lips still trembling violently.
"We managed to get away but… but it bit him and I tried to help, but he… it won't stop bleeding and he won't wake up and…" She was gulping, breathing hard. She looked at him imploringly, desperately. "Draco, I don't know where else to go – I have nowhere else to go, and I know I can't ask you to do this but please… I need help…"
He squeezed her hands, pulled her back towards him. Her head nestled into his shoulder so naturally and he closed his eyes against the snow that was soaking into his hair. She wanted him to help Potter. She wanted him to commit perhaps the biggest act of treason against Voldemort imaginable. And yet, before he had even considered it, he knew what his response would be.
"What about Potter and Weasley? They won't trust me."
"Ron's gone," she said into his cloak. "And Harry… Harry's unconscious."
He hesitated. It was almost too easy for him – he could be in and out before Potter recovered, and no one would have any idea he had been there at all apart from her. And the words Ron's gone were all too compelling to let slip by. He would be able to be there, with her, without prying eyes all around them… He let her go, holding her firmly by the arms.
"I need to collect some things from home," he said, keeping his voice steady, trying not to think about the treachery he was about to commit. "Should I come back here?"
She reached for him, her hands coming to rest on his face, and he felt like melting beneath her touch despite the snow.
"Draco, thank you… Thank you."
"Should I come back here?" he repeated, shaking off her words.
She nodded, and he reluctantly let her go. He stepped away from her, pulling his cloak tightly around him.
"I'll be back," he said, holing her gaze. "Ten minutes, ok? I'll be right back."
Her eyes remained trained on him until he Disapparated, and stayed in his head long after his bedroom reappeared around him. He lurched into action straight away, delving into the cupboard beside his bed. He had some of the potion Snape had concocted after his own run in with Nagini – enough to work for the first dose. And he knew how to make it now, Snape had been very insistent that he learn the recipe after the monster's attacks became more frequent. He shoved the bottle into a bag lying on his desk and retrieved his old school potions kit from one of his desk drawers. She would probably have one, but just in case… He flicked through it and swore quietly. He needed that strange bark Snape had used, but the supply he had been given had all been used up. There was a slim chance the there would be more in storage in the cupboard downstairs, but that would mean going past the dining room.
He took off his cloak and left the bag hidden under the bed with it. He grabbed a towel from the back of his bathroom door and wiped off the snow from his shoes, then stood before the mirror and blasted hot air from the tip of his wand at his hair. He managed to get it looking vaguely dry, and he couldn't waste any more time trying to disguise the fact he had just been out. Pulling his jacket straight, he turned and slipped out into the corridor.
As he made his way down the sweeping black stairs of the Manor, he could hear a soft roar of activity in the dining room. The doors were ajar but all he could make out was a sea of black cloaks and a flurry of angry voices. The high-pitched sneer almost made the air shiver and he quickened his pace, ducking his head as he hurried by.
"My Lord, my Lord!" It was his Aunt Bellatrix. "Surely there will be some clue left behind – we will have them before long – "
"He was within my grasp!"
There was a loud thud, and then a piercing, incessant hissing that made Draco's gut twist. He could almost see that snake writhing on the floor, furious at its loss, fangs dripping… He almost ran around the corner and strode to the pantry at the end of the corridor, just beside the kitchen. He crept inside and closed the door behind him, turned quickly to scan the shelves. The cupboard was large – almost a room in itself – and lined with shelves of food and bottles and produce. At the far end was the section with potions ingredients, which was usually kept fully stocked. It had run low recently, due to all the extra people in the house. And yet, with a thrill of hope, he caught sight of a bundle of dark green bark tucked away on the top shelf. Snape must have been careful to make sure there was some left over after the fiasco last time. Draco was by no means the snake's only victim.
Just as he had closed his hand around it, the door to the pantry clicked, like a gunshot in the silence. He span around as fast as he could, his hand flying to his pocket. Within the space of a second he had hidden it away and his hands were behind his back. The door was open and a face had appeared – short black hair, a stern, clean suit and a dark red necktie. Rookwood.
"Malfoy," he greeted stonily. His small, keen eyes flicked about the room before coming to settle on him again. "Haven't you realised the Dark Lord has returned?"
Draco nodded, stepping away from the shelves of ingredients. "I have a headache," he said, without missing a beat. "I haven't been down yet. I assume it's bad news?"
"Extremely so," Rookwood replied. "Potter was almost caught. 'Almost' being the operative word."
There was a short, awkward pause, in which Draco stood motionless and watched Rookwood watch him. After a beat he turned away, pulled a small bottle from the shelf behind him - a headache remedy, to flesh out his bluff.
"What will be done?" he asked, trying to sound interested.
Rookwood looked around again, as if expecting to find assailants hiding behind the loaves of bread. "It's to be decided," he said shortly. "Where is your father? He is also conveniently absent."
"How would I know?"
Rookwood's eyes narrowed. "Maybe instead of being insolent, you should go and find him."
"Fine."
Draco wove his way around the shelves and towards the door, but Rookwood didn't move. He stopped, returning the older man's gaze as calmly as possible. Rookwood looked him up and down one more time.
"I'll need to get past you if you want me to go and find him," he pointed out flatly.
Slowly, Rookwood moved aside. Draco felt his eyes on the back of his neck all the way back along the corridor, and did his best to walk slowly as if he were completely at ease. It was only when he reached the stairs did he break into a run once more. He hurried down the upstairs corridor to the room his parents were sharing – their master bedroom had, of course, been overtaken by the house's new master – and knocked loudly. The door opened a crack, revealing his father's face. He hated the fear that was shimmering so obviously there, and felt his words drop from his mouth like hard, cold rocks.
"They want you to go downstairs."
"Why?"
"I don't know, do I?" he snapped brusquely. "They're deciding what to do."
He turned away before his father could respond and almost flew back to his own room. He ducked inside and jabbed his wand behind him to lock the door. He rushed across the room, swiped his bag and cloak from under the bed, threw the material around his shoulders. He froze at the sound of footsteps approaching, one hand on his cloak, ready to throw the evidence of his betrayal under the bed again, but the steps were timid and quiet. They stopped outside his door, and he could almost see his father standing there, hesitant and silent. A soft knock came.
"Draco?"
His father's voice was wavering. He turned away from the door, that same frigid anger rising in him once again. It was all Lucius' fault that this had happened, that they had found themselves here. And worse, he had been brought so fucking low. It was embarrassing to be around him, to watch him shudder in front of Voldemort with his eyes on the ground. Draco could not even bring himself to look at him. Especially after the snake incident. He listened, waiting to see what would happen, but eventually the footsteps moved away towards the stairs. Nothing. As always.
Scowling, he pulled his bag over his shoulder and span on the spot, picturing the snowy forest in his head. The pale, querulous face of his father lingered in the back of his mind.
The forest appeared around him and the cold bit into his skin instantly. For a moment he couldn't catch sight of Hermione's bushy brown hair – then she was there, appearing from behind one of the nearby trees. He delved through the snow towards her and she grabbed the hand he held out, leading him through the flurry of white specks in the air.
"I thought you weren't coming back."
"Of course I was coming back."
Her grip on his hand tightened, and he knew in that moment that he would betray Voldemort a thousand times before he let her go. They rushed together through the stark black and white forest, down a steep hill, into a small clearing. They passed through a strange, glimmering force field, like the surface of a pond, and a tent suddenly appeared. His eyes were immediately drawn to several large spots of blood which had eaten into the snow near the entrance.
Hermione released his hand and darted over to the tent, pulling back the canvas folds. He stopped just outside, taking one final look back over his shoulder. The world was a blurry mass of snow and tall, dark, foreboding trees. The whole place seemed to be holding its breath, and he couldn't shake the fear that he had been followed. He was almost expecting Rookwood or Wormtail or even Voldemort himself to come out of the trees and strike him down, demand to know what was happening, who's side he was actually on… He turned away from the silent snow and ducked into the tent after Hermione.
The smell of blood was potent in the air, and its unexpectedness made him falter on his way in. The space inside the tent was large but extremely cluttered. Every available surface had been covered with papers, books, mugs, candles and other instruments. The open space of the first part of the tent was taken up with a table, a set of bunk beds almost entirely covered in clothes and a small paraffin stove crouched on a cabinet. A cauldron stood in one corner, currently empty, surrounded by jars and boxes of ingredients. A couple of wooden steps led up to the back of the tent, in which there was another set of bunk beds, and another couple of sections off to the right. And it was there, on the lower bed at the back, that Potter was.
Hermione had already hurried across the room, tearing off her coat as she went – although it wasn't significantly warmer inside – and was dropping to her knees beside the lower bunk. Draco followed more slowly, pulling his damp cloak from his shoulders, taking in the objects around them. The place had been lived in for some time. He wondered how long they had been doing this together, on the run, huddled in the canvas walls. Camping couldn't be all that much fun in the middle of winter. He climbed the steps hesitantly, almost feeling as if he were interrupting something. This place, cramped and small though it was, felt infinitely cosier and more homely than the Manor. He stopped at the end of the bed, holding his bag under his arm, not wanting to make any noise.
Potter looked rather a state, to say the least.
His t-shirt, once light grey, was now soaked through and sweat was glistening on every inch of his skin. His hair was matted with it, his face ashen and clenched, his eyes rolling back in his head. The lightning scar on his forehead stood out sharply, a sharp red line just visible under his hair. He was jerking and flinching on the narrow bed, one arm flailing wildly as Hermione tried to catch it. Several rolls of makeshift bandages had been wrapped around his forearm, and had already bled through. Blood stained his t-shirt and the sheets of the bed and Hermione's hands as she grabbed it.
"Harry!" she was hissing. "Harry, please stop–"
"Move aside, foolish girl!"
Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and took a swift step backwards before he could help himself. That voice – it was so close to His, high-pitched and sneering and snake-like – and Potter's face was twisting in an unnatural way. Hermione glanced up, her lips tight.
"He keeps… doing that," she muttered.
Draco held her gaze for a moment, just long enough to read there the same fear the voice had evoked in himself. He tried to focus on Potter, who was muttering under his breath. His voice still sounded eerily unnatural, but Draco could only try to ignore that. He wondered if he had been the same, and then realised that, of course, he had been. He couldn't really remember anything between feeling Nagini's teeth sink into his skin and waking up in his room a week later, but he knew from the hoarseness of his voice that he had been screaming. Nott had told him later that he had spent that time in an almost constant fit of screaming and thrashing around. In hindsight he was amazed that he hadn't given himself away more.
"Do you have blood replenishing potion?"
"Yes," she said, her face twisting. "Or we did – a bit – but he had it, and he just keeps bleeding…"
"We should make some more, then," Draco said, delving into his bag. He retrieved the bottle from his bedside cabinet and held it out. "First get him to drink that. I'll make up some more."
She took it, eyeing it uncertainly. "What is it?"
"It's an anti-venom. Snape made it."
"Snape?"
He turned, halfway back to the cauldron. "Yeah, Snape. Why?"
Her lips formed a firm line. "What's in it?"
"You really think I'd give you a fake?"
She looked unhappy. He couldn't help but feel a stab of injustice – he was risking his life, but still she couldn't trust him. He felt his face growing cold and hard. She scrambled to her feet, clearly torn.
"Look, I'm sorry, I'm not… We just have to be so careful, Draco, you don't understand…"
"I had this exact same potion," he said flatly. "No one even knew saint Potter would be having any of this."
"You had it?"
He stood there for a moment, realising that he would have to explain, and not knowing how. Eventually he simply flicked open his top button and pulled his shirt aside. He watched her eyes fix on his neck and the long, vivid scars which ran over his shoulder, watched them widen. She moved over to him, lifting her hand and letting it hover just above his skin, as if scared to touch him.
"God," she muttered. "Did you… when was this?"
He almost didn't want to tell her. "At the end of our sixth year. After I… failed to kill Dumbledore."
She stared back at him with huge, horrified eyes. He couldn't figure out if he liked her caring or not – part of him wished she'd never known. He was about to twist away when she suddenly reached out and took the potion, planted a sudden, quick kiss on his cheek.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
He just nodded, relived that she had broken the awkward silence. She turned away and knelt down beside the bed again, unstopping the bottle. He headed for the cauldron, buttoning his shirt again, suddenly self-conscious of the marks in his skin. There was a time when he would have done anything to get his shirt off in front of her. Now he felt like she would always look at him like that – with that odd mixture of horror and pity. He began to prepare the ingredients for his potion, adding in the bark and other bits from his own supply. They would need more blood-replenishing potion, too.
He could hear her trying to coax Potter into drinking the potion, her voice still tearful.
The potion didn't take long to put together, but it would need to stand for a while. He transferred it to a large second cauldron nearby, one which had been hastily abandoned at some point recently due to a dent in the side, and started on the blood-replenishing potion. He was halfway through it before he felt a touch on his shoulder, looked up to see Hermione hovering just behind him.
"How long before it works?"
He added a couple of vials to the simmering cauldron. "I don't know, maybe an hour or so."
A scrap of parchment was lying on the table nearby – he snatched it over, found a stub of pencil and began to scribble down the process. She leaned over his shoulder, and for a moment her closeness was so wonderful that they could have been going over homework together in Hogwarts.
"It's not hard to make," he said, more to fill the silence than anything else. "I needed a cup every four hours or so for the first couple of days, but after that it gets better."
He finished adding the last few pieces to the potion and stood up, finally able to turn to face her. She was standing very close to him, her face lined with tiredness. She reached for him, her arms encircling his waist, her head dropping against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her.
"Thank you for coming," she murmured. "Thank you for… I'm sorry for asking you to do it."
"Don't, it's fine."
He put his chin on her head, and just like that it was bliss again. He breathed her in, and his whole body seemed to relax around him. He felt like he was going to bed after a week of sleepless nights.
"How is he?"
"The bleeding's slowing down already." Her hand slipped under his shirt suddenly, and he felt her fingers skate over his neck and shoulder, tracing the ridges of his scars. "Who looked after you when you were hurt?"
He couldn't help but smirk. "Snape, I think. I would have swapped him for you any day."
She lifted her head, leaned her forehead against his, and he leaned back. Her hands continued to move on his shoulder, closed carefully over him.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I was angry."
He just shook his head. Her face was close beside his, he could feel her breath beating like butterfly wings against his skin. And then, suddenly, he didn't care where they were anymore, or what was happening in the world, or who was on what side.
He just needed her. And when she instantly kissed him back, he knew she had needed him too.
They came together like a wave crashing down, and he felt himself instantly becoming rock hard. He'd had no sex drive at all for the past few months but now, after just a few minutes with her, it had flooded back. Her nails were digging into his skin, her lips trailing kisses over his jaw and down his neck; he scooped her up quickly, felt her legs wrap around his waist.
"Where," he breathed.
Her own breathing was tight, her words muffled against his skin.
"Behind the curtain," she whispered.
He staggered up the stairs, tumbled through into the other section of the tent, somewhat divided from the main area. He glanced briefly around, took in a smaller section which had a small camp bed, a suitcase with clothes tumbling out of it, a small wooden table with a lantern on it which he narrowly avoided trampling as he deposited her on the bed. She kept her legs around him, bringing him down on top of her, and she was kissing him fiercely like a starving girl devouring a final meal. His hands caught in her hair, and he melted into her.
"Shit, I missed you so much," he mumbled into her lips.
"I missed you too…"
She broke off with a rough moan. He pulled desperately at her clothes, felt her hands undoing the buttons of his trousers.
Her hands closed around him and electricity rushed through his whole body. He dragged her jumper off, her t-shirt tangled up with it, and her golden skin finally came into view. He dropped kisses across her neck, down over her breasts, still fiddling with the strap of her bra. It finally fell open and by the time he had torn it away she was dragging his shirt over his head, his trousers already dropping around his knees. He stepped out of them and onto the bed, crouching over her, kicking off his shoes as he went.
Her hands ran over him, leaving trails of fire and raising gooseflesh on his skin, and every nerve in his body seemed to react like a rippling wave. He had almost forgotten how much he had missed her, and yet now it all came flooding back. He had missed her like missing breathing. She pulled him down, slipping out from below him and twisting so that she was kneeling astride him, rising up to fiddle with the zipper of her jeans. He watched her pull them off, her hair swinging around her, the muted light of the candles and lanterns setting her whole body alight with a soft glow. Her head lifted and her brown eyes pinned him down, even as he reached up to press his hands against her skin. He wanted to say something, to try to explain to her how much it meant, but he didn't know how. And he didn't need to, not really. She knew.
He sat up, pulling at her hips, desperate to feel her, and she put one hand between her legs to guide him into her. The other came around his neck, her fingers running over his lips and cheek, and as he dove into her she kissed him. Hard. Like someone taking a gasp of air after being held underwater. Like someone surviving.
~O~
When she came back to herself her body was slightly damp with sweat and leaden with sleep, and she could feel the same heavy stillness in him. He was there beside her, both arms around her, and she was burrowed into his side. There was not a single inch between them. His fingers rested pleasantly on her skin. And there, like the ticking of a clock, was his steady, rhythmic heartbeat. She lay there listening to it, wondering how long they had been lying there. She wasn't sure if she had fallen asleep or not after she had dropped down beside him. The dizzy joy of having him back, like a ghost risen from the dead, had overwhelmed her. There was a point when she had thought she would never see him again. But despite the warm glow in her stomach, there was a slight unease lingering at the back of her mind. Because there was something she had meant to do, something that was important…
And then, like a ton of bricks, it hit her.
Harry.
She jerked upright, every trace of blissful sleepiness gone at once. Draco flinched violently beside her, instantly on edge, but she couldn't even look at him. Guilt drove into her gut like a knife at their stupidity, at the way they had just gone off together and… She couldn't even think about it. Horror rose up in her like a wave. What if something had happened?
"Oh god, what are we doing?"
She flung the sheet back and darted out from between Draco's grasping hands, snatching up her jeans and jumper as she went. He raised himself up on his elbows, looking perturbed at her angry tone.
"I don't know, making the most of a shit fucking time?" he said. "Something wrong with that?"
She let out a snarl of irritation, stabbed her finger at the corner of the tent while her other hand struggled with the button of her jeans.
"Harry's still there, still hurt, I should be with him–"
"Ah, no, please," he wined, pushing his hands through his hair and dropping back onto the bed with a moan. "Can't you just leave Golden Boy out for a second? Just… come back here, will you?"
"Harry's just lying there, Draco, and all you can think about is... is fucking?"
She spat the word like a curse, and all at once the beautiful moment they had shared just a few seconds before was reduced to nothing. Part of her wanted to take it back as soon as she said it, but she couldn't let herself. She didn't have time to tiptoe around his feelings. Instead she watched his face grow hard and cold, saw his lip curling.
"Just a quick fuck, that's right, Granger," he said, his voice flat. "That's all I'm after."
She let out a groan of frustration, clawing her hair back out of her face. God, why, why did he always have to twist everything she said? He must know she hadn't meant it like that – he must realise how precarious their situation was! She hadn't slept enough to properly deal with the conversation. Her nerves were at breaking point, her brain wrung out.
"We are completely, utterly vulnerable!" she said, trying to keep the iciness out of her tone as she dragged her tops over her head and snatched up her wand. "Anyone could have followed you here, anything could have happened, and we just... Argh!"
She broke off with a furious noise and span away from him, storming off into the other part of the tent. She stumbled over a bag in her haste to get to Harry. He wasn't moving, and for a moment terror closed over her head – but he was breathing, and as she knelt beside him she could see that he was distinctly calmer than before. Snape's anti-venom was working fast. She scooped up the remainder of the potion and shifted forwards, tried to get him to drink some of it. He had a little, but then he was muttering and hissing again and she couldn't bear it. She let him be, checking instead on his arm. It was still bleeding, the bandages sodden through. She pulled off the old ones and snatched up some new rolls, re-wrapping the gaping gash as fast as she could.
She heard quick, sharp footsteps and glanced over her shoulder to see Draco emerging from the other section of the tent, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. His face was clenched with a cold, dead fury that made her heart sink. She hurriedly tied off Harry's bandages and laid down his arm before turning and darting down the steps after him. He was dragging on his blazer, pulling the material so roughly that she thought it might rip through.
"What? You're just leaving?" she demanded, her voice trembling.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he snapped, turning to fix her with a glare. "I missed the part where you wanted me to stay."
"I always want you to stay!" she cried, and tears of anger sprang at once to her eyes. She was too tense, too scared, too fucking tired to stop now. The injustice of it all bubbled over. "Every time I see you I ask you to stay, and every time you go running back to that psychopath!"
"Oh, yeah, I just love that guy so much," he spat scathingly. "Are you fucking serious, Hermione?"
"If you would just leave him-"
"I can't! Why can't you get that through your thick fucking skull, Granger?"
He screamed at her, and she stared at him incredulously. He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes burning, and then turned his back on her and snatched up his cloak.
"You don't get to just leave," he said, more quietly now. "No one does."
"It's not-"
"And by the way, you didn't say no! It takes two people to fuck, as you so eloquently put it."
"It was completely irresponsible! Harry needs me-"
"Yeah he always fucking needs you! You know what, I see what Weasley meant - if I was stuck with the two of you golden kids all day I don't think I could take it either."
She felt her face going white. Her hands were balled into fists and shaking at her sides. She couldn't remember the last time this kind of anger had descended on her. Perhaps when he had made fun of Longbottom's parents and she hadn't spoken to him for nearly a week. God, what a simple disaster that had been.
"Don't talk about what you don't understand, Draco," she said quietly. "You really don't know anything about friendship."
She knew exactly what to say to hurt him, and for once she didn't care. He stood there, speechless, staring at her. She couldn't quite believe she had said it herself. She felt his eyes on her like lasers as she turned away and made her way back towards the bunk beds, looking down at Harry's twitching form. She didn't know how to make it better now. She had said too much already. She knew why he would never come with her, why he would never leave Voldemort. And yet she was just so horribly aware that every person around her was slowly falling away. Every day their end goal looked bleaker.
"Why the fuck did you even call me here, Granger?" he demanded from behind her, refusing to be ignored. "See Golden Boy back on his feet and then piss off? You do realised I'm risking my life by even having that stone."
"Then throw it away," she said coldly. She didn't have the energy to fight anymore. It was all so pointless. "If it's easier for you, get rid of it."
"You know what, that's a brilliant idea."
She turned around to find him thrusting his hand into his pocket and pulling out the small, flat pebble. Her heart jerked in her chest as he hefted it in his fist, his face vicious with anger.
"That way I'll get on with my goddamn life, and the next time you get yourself stuck, I won't have to give a shit."
She held his gaze, her lips pressed tightly together. She couldn't believe that they had laid together in the other room barely two minutes earlier. Already she would give anything to be back there in that blissful ignorance. His eyebrows jumped with fury, and she realised that he was waiting for her to say something, to beg him to forgive her. She couldn't do it. She folded her arms slowly and fixed her gaze on the floor. His eyes flashed and he moved sharply – he threw the stone at her and it hit her leg, bounced off, skittered across the floor. She flinched but did not lift her head. He pulled his cloak straight, furious that still she would not look at him.
"Bye then, Granger," he said after a moment. "You have yourself a lovely war."
"Just go."
Her words fell from her lips like chips of ice, and she didn't look up to see what he did. She didn't need to – this time he didn't wait for an apology. He turned on his heel and left, shoving his way through the flap of the tent and leaving it open to the snowy wind outside.
As soon as he left she slumped down on the floor beside Harry's bed, put her head on her folded arms, and dissolved into tears. The locket was singing on the table beside her and she felt like screaming back at it. She could try to blame it for what had just happened, but she couldn't. She didn't have enough hands to count the number of times they had screamed at each other. The only difference was that, usually, they were at Hogwarts and able to come and find each other when things cooled off. And now it was impossible to do that, because as soon as he left they were in different worlds again. And the only contact she'd had with him was now lying abandoned on the floor under the table.
It was the second time one of the few people she had left in her life had walked out on her in the past week.
She made several attempts at sorting herself out to no effect. Every time she lifted her head and wiped the tears away she caught sight of the stone lying on the floor across the room from her and the grief welled up again. Eventually she threw herself across the tent on her hands and knees and snatched it up, and her feet carried her outside where she hurled it into the snow. And before she could even turn away she was on her knees once more, scrabbling about in the snow until her hands were red and raw. Her hands closed around the stone and she held it tightly in her clenched fist.
Draco…
In her own pocket she felt her stone growing hot, her own message beamed back to her. The forest rose up in front of her in cold, tall pillars of judgement, icy shards of snow biting her hot cheeks. The clearing below was as silent and empty as if nothing had ever happened – his footprints had already been covered up.
She couldn't stop crying.
She went back into the tent eventually, when the light began to dim and her jeans were soaked through at the knees. She carried the stone over to her bed and raked blindly through her belongings until she found her purse. The stone – and its twin, which she tore from her pocket – nestled neatly into the segment for coins. She let it fall onto the bed and turned away, breathing raggedly, sobs ripping from her throat.
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SUPRNTRAL LVR.