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 Twenty One
The dream – if you could call it a dream – was strange. He was still standing there, on the stairs of Malfoy Manor, and his mother was still halfway up the stairs towards him, but the carpet was shifting under his feet like sand beneath the pull of the tide. The colours in the wallpaper swam alongside him. The only constant thing was Narcissa Malfoy, as straight-backed and composed as ever. Her eyes flickered with torn emotion, a mixture of sadness and affection that engulfed him. He wanted to speak to her, but couldn't say anything. She took another few steps towards him.
"Go back upstairs, Draco."
He could only shake his head. Sympathetic, she held out her hand to him, as if they were walking down Diagon Alley on a busy day and she hoped to prevent him getting lost in the crowd. He lifted his hand to greet her, and was shocked when his fingertips met flesh. Tangible, warm skin, completely opposed to the shifting world around them. He felt as if he had been deposited sharply back into reality whilst retaining the vision of dreams. He tried to hold onto her, but she let him go and stepped backwards before he could get a grip.
"Go back upstairs," she repeated softly.
He stared at her, and finally managed to force his tongue to work. Words stunted from his lips. "Is this real?"
She only smiled at him.
He kept his hand stretched out, but had the sensation of moving very quickly despite the fact he had not moved. Lights blinked out into darkness all around them; the stairs faded into nothing. The last thing he saw was his mother's pale face in the gathering blackness – then she was gone, and emptiness descended.
He couldn't be sure of anything for a while after that. He thought he could remember odd flashes, like seeing Hermione's face close to his, tight with fear and concern. Like seeing George settling himself in a chair nearby, watching him with tentatively optimistic eyes, spinning his wand between his fingers. Like bright red light from a roaring sunset splashed across the ceiling.
He came back to himself slowly, in the way that the tide begins to roll in. The first thing he was aware of was the peaceful serenity of the sleep he was emerging from – it was unfamiliar by now, after so many months of being startled awake by a nightmare or rush of pain. This was more like floating towards the surface of a pool, letting the water break over his head, feeling the warmth of the sun after a while in the shade. His fingers closed over the uneven surface of a thick duvet, which was providing him with a warm cocoon of soft sheets. His pillows had been stacked up, enabling him to recline partially upright. His eyes felt gummy and heavy, and his mouth was just dry enough to be noticeable. He lay there for a while, enjoying the comfort and quiet, before prising his eyes open. He recognised at once the slanted ceiling of the attic room of Grimmauld Place, the circular window across the room through which gentle, late-afternoon sunlight was creeping. He made an attempt to sit up, and was greeted with a hot flare of pain in his chest. It was far duller than he was used to, but it still made him freeze, and then carefully settle down again before it could get any worse. A half-hearted headache began to lurk behind his eyes, but again, it was nothing compared to his usual afflictions.
The immediate past was bewilderingly unclear. He was aware of brief flashes of voices, cool hands on his burning skin, a roaring agony tearing his body apart, but he didn't really have a single clear memory since settling down with Potter to watch a movie and wait for Hermione to come back from St. Mungo's. And he was sure that must have been quite some time ago. He tried to focus on what brief glimpses he could remember – most of them seemed to involve Hermione, her voice clotted with tears, her face wet. He remembered her pouring over him, her shrill cry piercing the haze of agony, her brown eyes intensely desperate.
"Don't you dare give up, Draco Malfoy!"
She had sounded so terrified. He began to wonder where she was, and almost simultaneously became aware of a hand loosely entwined in his, a weight on the bed to his left. Wincing, careful to not aggravate his headache, he looked and found her there beside him. She was curled up on the very edge of the bed, fully clothed, an open book resting on her knees. One hand was cradling it, the other wrapped loosely around his fingers. She was leaning on the corner of the stack of pillows, her eyes closed, her hair wildly unruly and streaming over the edge of the bed. Grey circles under her eyes and the whiteness of her face suggested she hadn't had much rest recently, but for now she seemed dead asleep.
He would have been happy to lie there and simply take her in for a while, but the sound of rustling material and creaking wood caught his attention and he twisted the other way. To his complete surprise, Potter was sitting in a chair beside the bed, almost completely hidden by The Prophet. He, too, looked tired, his hair duller and scruffier than usual, his eyes squinting from behind his glasses. He turned a page of the newspaper, shook it out a little, and then sighed and lowered it to reach for a mug of tea on the bedside table. He glanced up as he did so, and Draco found himself the subject of two weary, bright green eyes.
"Malfoy!" Potter shifted forwards in his chair, The Prophet forgotten. "You're awake!"
"Apparently."
His voice was a hoarse croak and he swallowed hard, trying to loosen it. Potter reached at once for a jug of water and a glass on the bedside table, poured some out, and held it steady. A wide, silly grin had spread over his face, and Draco had to take a moment to stare at him before accepting the water and sipping from it. Despite the progress that had been made between them, it was very odd to wake up to find Potter playing nursemaid.
"How are you feeling?"
He hadn't realised how thirsty he was until he'd tasted water. He gulped the whole glass down and let Potter take the empty cup back and refill it, the fog in his mind clearing a little.
"Good, actually," he said, his voice a little stronger. "What happened?"
Potter laughed softly, shooting a glance at Hermione. "How far back are we going?"
Draco let himself snigger a little at that. He really didn't know. He felt his chest with his free hand, trying to see it as best he could. There was only a light gauze pad covering the wound, and he picked at the corner of it curiously. It wasn't hurting nearly as much as it should be. He freed one of the edges and lifted it.
He was greeted with what looked like an angry, slightly bloody burn about the size of a fist, complete with a vivid scar running down the centre. He stared at it, completely bewildered. The dark edges and mottled veins had completely vanished. It was as if he had simply been caught with a bad stinging jinx. He shifted experimentally and again felt the dull pain – it was not completely mended. But healing, nonetheless. He glanced up quickly at Potter, who was watching him with a lopsided smile.
"Is it…?"
"One thing you should know by now," Potter said. "Don't ever tell Hermione that something can't be done."
"But the curse…"
"You don't remember?"
He shook his head. Potter didn't seem surprised. He picked up the mug of tea and rested it in his lap, leaning back in the chair as he spoke.
"Hestia's friend from St. Mungo's came. She and Hermione managed to save you. Cut it pretty close, by the sound of things."
"Wait, you mean it's…" Draco couldn't find the right words. "You mean it's cured?"
"So they say," Potter said. "Never mind, eh?"
His joke fell on deaf ears. Draco lay there, completely at a loss as to what to say. He blinked hard a few times, wondering if he was asleep – but no, he could feel the bed and the glass of water, and the way the sunlight hurt his eyes was real. He had been so sure he was going to die – he had resigned himself to it, almost brought himself to accept it. And now here he was, life unrolled before him once again, and he had no idea what to do or say. He found himself looking again at Hermione, slowly beginning to understand that they now had some kind of future, that he could look forward to waking up beside her again and again… Potter was still grinning at him, and he tried to pull himself together, clearing his throat.
"Did they come here?"
"Yeah." Potter cocked his head. "You really don't remember it?"
"Last thing I remember…"
Draco trailed off. He had been about to say that it had been watching the cowboy movie and falling asleep on the sofa, but in fact he thought he could remember something bad happening just after that – Voldemort had been lurking in the corner of the room and Draco had aimed his wand, had tried to force himself to stand and fight. And then Hermione had been there, telling him that none of it was real, and the person across the room had started to look an awful lot like Potter, and not like Voldemort at all… He looked at Potter quickly.
"We watched that muggle box," he said hesitantly. "And… ah…"
"You tried to assassinate me," Potter said merrily.
Draco's stomach plunged. His dismay must have shown on his face, because Potter laughed and shook his head.
"Don't worry, Malfoy, you didn't even scratch me. Although I'm touched that you care."
He scowled. "I don't care, Potter, I'm not your wife."
"Well, anyway, you had a fit just after Hermione talked you down," Potter continued. "But you didn't really bounce back from this one. Hermione thought you'd lost too much blood, or the curse was getting too strong. But Hestia's friend – Imani – she came straight from St. Mungo's and set up here. She had a theory that we needed to basically trick the curse into thinking you were dead."
Draco blinked at him in confusion. "What do you mean, how do you trick a curse? It doesn't have a brain."
"Well, I don't really get it. But the curse only stops at death, so to get rid of it you'd have to be dead for at least a couple of minutes."
"I died?"
Potter looked a little uncomfortable. "For a couple of minutes. Then they brought you back with muggle first aid. You've been out ever since."
Draco was trying to look at his wound again. "How long?"
"Almost a week?"
That was a shock. He couldn't quite believe that a week had just rushed past in the blink of an eye. Sure, his sense of time had been off recently, but a whole week... He ran his thumb slowly over Hermione's knuckles and wondered how long she had been waiting there, holding his hand, willing him not to die. If he thought hard, he could just about catch the threads of a memory of her being constantly beside him, of the terrible sound of her crying. Potter stood up, drawing him out of his thoughts, putting the paper under his arm.
"There's some of Molly's soup downstairs – I think you were supposed to eat when you woke up. I'll bring some up, yeah?"
"Thanks…"
Draco almost winced, tried to think of a way to backtrack from the genuine gratitude he had just accidentally expressed, but he was too slow. Potter shot him a smile and ducked out of the room, pulling the door to behind him.
Finally alone, Draco pushed the glass of water back onto the bedside cabinet and faced Hermione once more. He was reluctant to wake her, but he needed to hear her voice, needed her to see him. He trailed his fingers gently through her hair, and then, when she began to stir, leaned forwards and landed a soft kiss on her forehead. When he drew back, her brown eyes had opened wide and were fixed on him with an urgency unfamiliar in someone who had just woken up. For a moment she simply looked, her mouth open in a silent gasp, as her hand closed tighter over his. He grinned.
"Hey, nerd."
"Draco."
She flew at him in a sudden rush, the book tumbling forgotten to the floor. Her arms wrapped tightly around him and he found himself buried in her hair as she clung on, as if she expected him to melt away. His chest hurt with the jolt, but he didn't care. He somehow managed to disentangle his arms and wrap them around her waist – she was practically on top of him, completely surrounding him. She drew back enough to kiss him fiercely, and he let himself revel in the heat of her lips and the intensity of the contact. When she finally did break away her forehead remained close to his, and her arms stayed looped around his neck. He felt a definite stir in the pit of his stomach – she was sitting on his lap, her knees either side of him, and the position was extremely reminiscent of things they had not done in some time. He pushed her hair back for a better view of her, enjoying the closeness, the blissful intimacy.
"Miss me?"
She only held on tighter. "Are you ok? How do you feel?"
He reached up to push her hair back. "Don't tell me you got me out of this."
She smiled proudly. "I said I would, didn't I?"
"Yeah, you did."
"How do you feel?" she pressed.
He took stock. "Fine. Hurts less. Kind of foggy," he replied honestly. "Feel good, actually."
Her smile lit her up like Christmas lights. He leaned his head back against the pillows, the familiar tiredness not completely driven out of him yet. She seemed to understand though, and simply climbed off him to sit beside him instead. He made a complaining noise in the back of his throat, but she simply took up his hand and squeezed it.
"Don't ever do that to me again," she said, her voice more serious. "Not ever. I mean it."
"I'll try," he said, smirking.
She shook her head. "Not good enough. Not ever again. Understand?"
He blinked, took in her severe brown eyes, the quirk in her lip. He lifted his hand to her hair again, felt her lean into his touch at once. He might not remember what had happened in the past week or so, but she clearly did. And it seemed raw. He nodded.
"Promise," he said softly.
She squeezed his hand and launched into a babble of words – she told him how long he had been unconscious, how the wound had closed and seemed to be healing, how they had been able to take out the IV line, how Imani had been back to check on him since, who Imani was in the first place… He let his eyes slide half closed and let her words wash over him, her hand held firmly in his, feeling for all the world like Lazarus rising from the dead.
~O~
He drifted in and out for the next few days. Almost every time he opened his eyes, Hermione was there. She would be sitting on the window ledge, or on the end of his bed, often reading, sometimes not. He loathed how quickly he got tired. Each day got better, but at least for now he had to make his peace with dropping off midway through conversation. He would start a conversation with Hermione, or with George or Potter when they dropped by to visit, and then find himself waking up hours later without any memory of them leaving. Hermione was patient with his lapses in consciousness, but he could tell that she was as frustrated with being pent up in the attic room as he was.
Salvation came quite unexpectedly when George came up to the attic with news that Bill and Fleur wanted to take a holiday. Draco mistook the news as idle small talk until he recognised the sudden hope in Hermione's face. George glanced at him.
"Normally Ron or I would stay at Shell Cottage while they're away, you know, to look after the Venemous Tentacular and watch the place," he said. "But I've got the shop and Ron's training with Hestia…"
Hermione looked at Draco, her face shining. He blinked at George, trying to figure our what the catch could be.
"They'll be away about a week," George said. "What do you think?"
Two days later, the Weasley's flying car coughed and spluttered its way down onto the smooth sands of the beach stretching beside Shell Cottage. The journey would have been too far for Hermione to risk side-along, and too far for Draco to Apparate alone - and a Portkey would have been a rough method of transport. Luckily, George volunteered the car. Thanks to the flight they were able to make the journey in only a couple of hours, which were passed with crackling radio music and clouds whispering past the windows. After a slightly bumpy landing, Hermione climbed out of the back seat and hurried around to the passenger side, where Draco was attempting to push the door open. It was heavy and rusted stiff, and she caught at it and hauled it open. As she helped him out of it, George emerged from the driver's side and squinted against the roaring sea wind, his ginger hair waving wildly. He rounded the car and popped the boot, reaching for the large duffel bag they had shared.
"Go ahead," he called, waving them on as she turned to help. "It's nothing."
Hermione shouldered her rucksack, smiling her thanks, and took Draco's arm. He was steadier on his feet with every passing day, but in the violent wind he seemed to be grateful for her help and crossed one arm protectively over his chest as they made their way up the cobbled stone stairs that led up from the beach. The grassy banks shifted colour with the wheeling changes of the breeze. The little cottage sat huddled on a tiny spit of grass, there on the very brink of the land, the roaring sea wrestling with the shore just a few feet below. The door swung open as they approached, and Hermione and Draco made their way inside.
The house was quiet, but in a calm sense. The front door opened into a cosy living room, where two armchairs and a sofa were crowded around an iron fireplace. Soft knitted throws and large, threadbare cushions reminded Hermione of the easy charm of the Burrow. Beyond the sofa was a small kitchen, complete with a dark chocolate-brown dining table and a squat stove. A set of narrow stairs led up to the first floor from the kitchen corner. Hermione took in the tiny Venemous Tentacular in the corner, the round kettle sitting waiting on the stove, and the photographs stuck haphazardly here and there on the walls, and felt like she was getting a rare glimpse into Bill and Fleur's life. Of course she had been to the cottage before, but the circumstances had been rather different then to say the least.
"Thanks, George."
She turned when Draco spoke and found George setting down their duffel bag on the floor beside the door. George waved his words away.
"Don't worry, you invalid - here, Hermione, I'll show you around."
Draco, who was standing blearily beside the door, nodded and gratefully sank into one of the armchairs. She could imagine how tired he was - he had only woken up a couple of days ago. She shot him a glance as George led the way into the kitchen, and he shot her a wink in return.
"The Tentacular usually gets fed once a day - I think they have some fertiliser flakes in the cupboard for it. And there are some logs and kindling if you want to make a fire…"
"Bill and Fleur make a fire the muggle way?" Hermione said, surprised.
"Apparently Bill takes after dad in some ways," George said with a smile. "I think they left some food…"
He opened the kitchen cupboards to reveal a stock of bread, jams, pasta and rice, and then indicated the fridge.
"Just help yourself to anything."
"Wow, thanks, this is…"
"They're happy to have someone look after the place," George said. "Fleur's worried the Tentacular is feeling neglected."
She looked at it, and found it shaking its leaves excitedly. Draco was watching it with weary amusement, and she made a mental note that he liked them. It would be his birthday soon, and it was about time he had a real present.
George showed her upstairs and showed her the towels, the guest room, the heating. She nodded along, the weariness from the journey beginning to catch up with her. Bill and Fleur had made an effort to set them up well - there were freshly washed towels folded and stacked in the bathroom, toiletries lined up beside the bath, and a warm, thick blanket spread over the bed in the guest room. No matter where she was in the house, she could just hear the sound of the sea roaring and gulls keening. She followed George back downstairs, where Draco was rubbing his temples tepidly.
"I'll get on, anyway," George concluded, apparently noticing. "Any problems, just owl."
"Thanks, George, really," Hermione said again. "For the lift and everything."
George nodded, shooting a good-natured smirk at Draco. "Enjoy it while it lasts – when you get back we're getting the brooms out. Time to see if your chat matches your moves, Malfoy."
Draco only shook his head in response, and George ducked out of the front door. Hermione went to the window and watched his shadowed figure trot back to the car, watched the headlights speed off into the clouds. She turned to find Draco watching her from his chair, his hair splayed against the knitted rug.
"How about a fire then, Granger?"
His voice was silken in the stillness, and she felt something within her quiver slightly. Holding his gaze as she passed, she headed over to the fireplace and crouched down. She took up the kindling, balled up a couple of pages of newspaper, and arranged two of the stacked logs above the pile in a rough pyramid. She heard Draco shift behind her.
"What are you doing?"
"Making a proper fire," she replied. "Not everything needs to be done by magic, you know."
She set the bottom of the newspaper on fire with the tip of her wand and breathed gently on the budding flames until they began to take hold. After a couple of minutes she straightened and turned to face Draco triumphantly, smiling smugly.
"Well?"
He smirked. "Magic would've been ten times faster."
She crossed the small space between them and leaned down, placing her hands on the arms of the chair. He shifted to face her better, cocking his head, his eyes narrowing in a gentle challenge.
"Don't you think it's better when it's been made by hand?" She murmured, savouring the closeness of his lips.
"Depends on the hands," he said softly.
He tilted his head up, the merest centimetre, and she couldn't resist any longer. She delved into him and relished the heat of his lips against hers, and her heart soared at the thought of having a whole week with him, uninterrupted. His tongue tested her lips and she opened her mouth to let him inside, felt the pit of her stomach tighten in excitement.
"How are you feeling?" She gasped, breaking away to breathe.
His hands pulled at her, reaching around to hold her butt and trace the lines of her thighs.
"Well enough," he said, his own voice ragged and low.
She felt one hand flit up her thigh and begin to gently massage her through her jeans, and the tightness in her stomach grew exponentially. Their mouths crashed together once more and she found herself dragging at his sweatshirt, pulling it up over his head. His body rose to meet her and she tore off her own jumper, desperate to feel his flesh against hers.
"Draco…"
His hands were pulling carefully at her bra and his lips touched hers again, forcing her to break off in a moan. His touch sent flickering bursts of electricity through her and sucked the air from her lungs. She wanted more than anything to feel him, to melt into him like butter, to feel his heartbeat pounding against her own skin. She broke contact briefly to wriggle free of her jeans and toss them aside before climbing up onto the chair and carefully straggling him. He was already pulling down his jeans, but she didn't wait for him to remove them completely before reaching for him. His length hardened at once beneath her touch and she kissed him deeply again, felt with a surge of excitement his middle finger trace her opening as if wiping dew from a rosebud. When his first two fingers dipped into her she gasped before she could stop herself, felt her whole body pulse with need.
"Fuck, Hermione…"
His words beat against her ear. She shivered and led a trail of kisses down the side of his neck, sucked gently, grazed his collarbone with her teeth. He arched against her, still curving his fingers slowly in and out. The slow repetitiveness was building her arousal to an unbearable level and she moaned again, gripped his shoulders tightly.
"Now, Draco, please…"
She heard him chuckle throatily, heard his arousal in his voice.
"Say that again."
She put her lips to his ear, planting a light kiss to his cheek.
"Please…"
His hands guided her downwards, and she felt her whole body tighten with anticipation as he entered her. She had been waiting for so long to feel this close to him again, to let herself believe it would even be possible, and the thrill of his heat and steadiness surrounding her was like coming home. She melded herself to him as he guided her up and down, gradually increasing their pace. She had to force herself to hold back, afraid of hurting him should she get too involved in the moment, but then all at once she could feel herself approaching the edge and there was no respite to regain control. She twisted her head at the last second and found his lips, groaned into them as she came, felt the answering crest in his body. As the wave descended she let herself release, let her body dissolve into his.
As they began to come down, she let herself sink onto the large armchair beside him, half slung across his lap. He kissed her again as she settled, his arms wrapped around her, his forehead nuzzling against hers. His eyes were closed and he was breathless, but he looked content. The roaring fire crackled beside them and she drew light circles on his chest with her fingertips, breathed deeply, let his scent and his body surround her.
~O~
The days passed blissfully quietly. The cottage was so close to the beach that they were able to venture out and let the sea wind tear around their heads, and then be inside with a hot chocolate in front of the fire less than ten minutes later. After the tension and drama of the last month, they were both more than happy to spend their time relaxing. She grew to love waking up and making coffee to bring back to bed where, among the puffy duvet and mountains of thick pillows, she could sip from a large mug and read while he dozed with his head resting on her lap. She trailed her fingers through his hair and let the peaceful stillness wash over them, the sea a constant roar in the distance.
Even in the first few days he seemed to improve drastically - he walked taller and looked healthier, his face no longer sunken and grey. The only thing that was slow to return seemed to be his magic. He was able to perform spells with a wand if he concentrated hard, but no matter how much he tried he could not pull off wandless or silent incantations, and she could see his impatience growing. While she read or played with the Venemous Tentacular, he sat and stared at objects across the room with fierce concentration - a pencil, a book, a photo frame, his wand lying abandoned a few feet away. No matter how much he concentrated, the objects remained unaffected. His party trick of lighting a cigarette from a tongue of fire from his finger was, for now, retired.
"Just give it time," she called across the room now and then. "It's like a muscle, remember - it'll come back."
He would shrug.
The cottage provided them with a safe haven in which they could be themselves – where they didn't have to worry about how they acted in front of the others. The newfound freedom brought opportunities to indulge in the rituals of normal relationships for the first time. Which was how she found herself sneaking out of bed on the third morning with a flash of inspiration – she had never been able to make him breakfast in bed before.
She woke that morning slowly, opening her eyes to find both Draco and herself in the exact same position they had fallen asleep in – her arm was around his waist, his forehead against hers, his arm thrown around her shoulders. She watched the pale morning light creep across him and enjoyed the peace for a few minutes. The first morning they had spent there, she had enjoyed the realisation that she had woken up naturally. The room was quiet and still. He made a small noise and shifted slightly. She wriggled closer, listening to him mumble under his breath in his sleep, his voice humming just above her nose.
"Ngh… 'Mione…"
It wasn't a nightmare. There was no panic. He was just dreaming. She pushed her hand through his soft, unkept hair. He hadn't slicked it back the night before and it was downy and unruly. She pressed her forehead against his and let her eyes close, revelling in the moment, feeling his body quieten and relax beneath her touch. But then the idea hit, and it was too perfect to pass up. She lay there a while longer before disentangling herself from his limbs and sliding off the bed as quietly as she could. She scooped up her dressing gown from the armchair in the corner and clawed a hand through her messy hair. She tiptoed out of the room and down the narrow wooden stairs without waking him and set to work, convinced that cooking could only be as simple as following instructions for a potion. Figuring omelettes were easy enough, she reached for the eggs.
Half an hour later, and two butchered attempts later, she tried for the third time to flip the thickening mixture of egg and butter bubbling in the frying pan. It promptly slumped in on itself and broke apart. Even as she groaned in despair, arms came suddenly around her waist and she felt his lips against the back of her neck. Her attempts at breakfast disappeared from her mind as she leaned back into him, a smile spreading across her face.
"What are you doing to that poor... whatever that is?"
His chin rested on her shoulder. She poked at the mess of egg and spinach in the pan.
"It's an omelette, obviously," she said. "Although, maybe now its scrambled eggs..."
"Hermione Granger," he said softly, his breath ghosting against her neck. "Are you saying you can't cook an omelette?"
She twisted around to face him, and even though she tried to look annoyed at his accusation she couldn't help smiling when she took him in. He had pulled on a loose grey t-shirt, through which she could easily feel the lines of his body when she placed her hands against him, and his hair was ruffled and messy. There was an easy-going, peaceful warmth in his eyes and smile she had not seen in a long time. She reached up to put her arms around his neck, balancing on her tip-toes.
"Shut up," she said. "I was trying to do something nice - make you breakfast in bed."
"Trying being the operative word," he teased. "Since I'm not in bed and that isn't any kind of breakfast I recognise."
She was about to rebuff him, but he kissed her before she could begin and she promptly forgot what she was going to say. She let her body meld itself to his, slipped her hands under his t-shirt to run over his warm skin. By the time he lifted his head, she had forgotten she was even making breakfast.
"Still, I appreciate the effort," he said loftily. "Want me to fix it?"
Rolling her eyes, she relented and moved out of the way to allow him access to the pan. As she settled back against the counter, and watched him reaching for the assortment of ingredients spread over the worktop, she was suddenly struck with a heavy sense of significance. There was barely a day that went by that she didn't think about those days in the attic of Grimmauld Place, where she had been in a constant state of terror, watching him struggle to cling on to life and fail to recognise her in bouts of fever or madness. Again, she thought of how easily it could have gone differently - if Hestia hadn't found him by chance in Knockturn Alley, if she had been seconds later, if he had left Grimmauld Place before the attack that had forced him to stay... Her chest grew tight and she folded her arms, trying to pull herself together.
"You're lucky I'm such a gifted chef, or we would've been... Hermione?"
He had glanced up and caught her. His smirk faded at once and he hurried to turned off the heat of the stove and reach for her.
"Shit, Hermione, I'm sorry - it's not that bad-"
She was able to laugh haltingly as he took her face in his hands, pushing her hair back. She shook her head.
"No, no, it's not the omelette. Don't worry, I'm just being silly."
"What? What's wrong?"
She hesitated, but his silvery blue eyes were narrowed with concern and she knew if she didn't explain he would assume some wrongdoing or fault on his part was to blame. So she sniffed, brushing quickly at the sudden prickling in her eyes.
"Really, it's nothing - it's just... it's just I thought we'd never have this."
She gestured at the kitchen, at the crumpled omelette. He raised his eyebrows slightly and she sighed, trying to elaborate.
"I thought we'd never be able to do this, be together like this. But we're here, making breakfast and... and joking... I mean you died, Draco. I really lost you, for six and a half minutes. I will never be able to forget that - or how lucky I was to get you back."
Understanding was dawning on his face and he had grown serious and quiet as she spoke, listening to her intently. He took her hand, his thumb moving gently over the back of her hand. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.
"I just feel lucky," she said at last, with a watery smile. "I'm just grateful that it's turned out like this rather than..."
She trailed off but he nodded. Rescued from finishing the thought, she moved closer and rested her head against his chest, holding on to him. His hand drew slow circles on her back, and she felt the tightness in her chest ease. The fact that she could lean against him without worrying about his wound was enough alone to subdue her anxiety.
"Well, what if you'd never read my letter in detention?" he said lightly. "If you weren't such a know it all, this would never started in the first place."
She managed a laugh and he drew back, waiting for her to return his gaze before speaking.
"I'm not going anywhere, Hermione. I'm right here."
She nodded. "Me too."
His eyes softened when she smiled, and he turned away from her to take hold of the pan again.
"Fucking hell, there's no saving this now. Reckon we'll have to buy the Weasels some new eggs at the rate you've gone through them."
And she let herself laugh and put her arms around his waist in an echo of his greeting moments earlier, resting her forehead against his shoulder and soaking up the moment.
Time ran away from them all too soon. A week was not long enough to spend there - the evenings spent in front of the fire and days walking along the white sands could have gone on forever. But, of course, Bill and Fleur had to return from their trip eventually. There was a world to return to after all – Draco's record with Hestia and the Ministry still had to be dealt with, and Hermione owed Harry her help with the ongoing attacks from the rogue Death Eaters and rebuilding Hogwarts.
As the week drew to an end, they ventured out further than before and took the coastal footpath out onto the cliffs. Bundled in thick scarves and coats, they huddled into each other against the wind. But the air was invigorating, and the winding paths led up and down the cliff side over great craggy shelves and steep heather hills. They stood together on the brink, watching the azure sea shifting gently below, and she took the chance to enjoy the weight of his arms around her shoulders and his fingers linked through hers. He kissed her softly on the cheek, and she resolved to retire to somewhere out here one day in the future. Somewhere quiet and calm by the sea, where they could walk and sit by the fire and exist together. They continued along the long walk to the pub, reserved for dog walkers and hermits, and sat at a haphazard table on mismatched chairs. She noted the ease with which their hands lay entwined on the tabletop, the way he was content to chatter about anything and everything, the way the soft light warmed his features and electrified his white-blonde hair.
They ate at the pub - which served full roasts with huge crusty potatoes and thick gravy - and wandered back to the cottage along the cliff side with a bottle of red wine tucked into his coat pocket. That night she sat sideways on his lap in the huge armchair, as they had the first night, and tried not to think about the fact that they would have to leave soon.
~O~
The first nightmare he had since arriving at the cottage caught him off guard. He awoke with a ragged gasp, the terror still pulsing behind his eyelids. It was dark, and for a moment he couldn't tell the difference between the dream and reality. He flailed, choked on a cry of pain as his chest seared.
But it wasn't real pain. He recognised the rough sheets of Shell Cottage, the curve of Hermione's neck just inches away from him. He froze, shivering as the film of sweat on his skin cooled rapidly in the chill air. Something shifted on the bed behind him and a small hand came to rest against his cheek, moved over to his neck. He remained motionless, still wrestling with what was real and what wasn't. But then his eyes adjusted to the remaining darkness, and he could see her. She was still asleep, but she had reached out for him unconsciously all the same. He listened to his own racing heart and reached for her with trembling fingers, felt her warm skin and coarse hair. Real. His anchor, as always.
He watched the half-light on her face, watched her hair trickle through his fingers. She lay there beside him, one hand resting loosely on his neck, her lips slightly parted. He took the limp fingers and kissed them carefully, laid them back down as gently as possible. He always loved the peacefulness of her sleep. It was a skill he had yet to master - to just drop calmly off into blissful emptiness and not fear what you might find. He always slept better with her there, but tonight was difficult. Tonight his wound hurt and his head throbbed, making him flinch with the memory of what it had felt like at its worst. His body was restless and fidgeting, refusing to relax. He'd slept so much over the last few days that it was no wonder his sleeping patterns had been thrown out of whack. He lay there for a while, watching the way her eyelashes twitched and her eyelids moved sporadically, before pulling himself upright and wriggling with some difficulty off the bed.
He retreated to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. He could see that he was healthier, that his skin was finally losing the bloodless, translucent quality that had made him seem like a corpse for the last few months. The ugly wound on his chest was still vivid and red, the scar raised and tender, but he no longer had to wear the bandages. He hated the sight of it, but it did seem to be improving. He pushed his hair back from his face and splashed cold water over his skin, tried to remember what he had been dreaming about. He was sure the snake had been there. He screwed his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe, trying to chase the panic out of his blood. He couldn't figure out why the dream had affected him so much. But the more he thought about it, the more resurfaced – it had been about the snake at first, but then it had shifted to that night in the forest. Nott had been gasping for breath, but the Auror had been standing there unarmed, staring at him in fearful surprise. His arm had moved upwards and green light flashed from his wand – it lit up the trees in a vile shadow-play. She fell, her eyes fixed on him. And then, as he stared at her lifeless body, the snake reappeared and slithered towards her, its eyes gleaming, something tall and pale emerging from the trees behind it…
Draco drenched his face in icy water again in an effort to drive the dream out of his head. He hadn't thought about that for a while – not since he'd had to tell Hestia what had happened. He could only assume that the memory had come to the surface because they would be returning to Grimmauld Place that afternoon, meaning he would inevitably have to sit down with Hestia again. He had no idea what she and the Ministry had decided to do with him. He would most likely have to attend a trial of some sort. The thought of sitting there in front of the Ministry, Hestia's calculating gaze skimming over his report, a dozen judgemental eyes staring him down made his stomach knot.
He raked his fingers through his hair and returned to the bedroom, where Hermione was still curled on her side facing him. She was burrowed into the duvet, her hair emerging from the top of the cocoon she had wrapped herself in and spreading across the pillow. The distant sound of crashing waves against the shore took some of the edge off. He sat down again on the edge of the bed, but he couldn't relax. His eyes wouldn't close, intent on tracing the light of the dawn as the night turned from black to blue to grey. He sat there for a while longer until the hands of the steel clock on the wall crept towards 7am. Eventually he gave up on sleep and got up again. He stepped into the shower and breathed in the steam, felt the hot droplets beating against his skin. The wound stung indignantly. He squinted through the water clumping his eyelashes together at the bottle of shower gel on the shelf and concentrated. Nothing. He wet his lips and stared harder.
"Accio," he muttered.
The bottle sat there, undisturbed. Frustration stung along with the wound and he snatched up the shower gel by hand. His wandless magic was still completely unresponsive.
By the time he came out, towelling his hair dry, Hermione was stirring. Her brown eyes emerged out of the mass of bushy hair and he managed a smirk.
"Hi, fuzzball."
"You're already up?" she squinted around, looking for the clock. "What time is it?"
"Early," he said. "Go back to sleep."
He sorted through the clothes piled on the chair in the corner of the room, retrieved a t-shirt. He kept his back turned as she sat up, making sure he had pulled the top on and tugged it straight before seeking out a clean set of boxers. He knew she had seen the scar almost daily, but now he couldn't help but feel self-conscious about it. He hated it for slowing him down so much, for rendering him incapable of doing anything beyond Muggle capabilities. It was a lasting signature from Bellatrix, from everything he was still guilty of from that time. He and Hermione had spent the last week in Shell Cottage as if they were living out a fantasy. They had made a point of not discussing anything about Death Eaters, or the Ministry, or even their plans after they returned to Grimmauld Place. Their silence on the topic was constantly present in the room around them.
"You ok?"
Hermione was sitting up, her knees drawn to her chest, blinking sleepily at him. He dragged on a pair of jeans, retrieved his wand from the chest of drawers beside the chair. He didn't know why he insisted on carrying it around with him when he could barely use it. He nodded curtly.
"Fine. Go back to sleep."
"What are you doing?"
"I don't know," he said honestly. He could hear the gulls and seabirds beginning to call to one another across the sea wind, and their high voices drew his attention towards the window. "Maybe I'll go for a walk."
"I'll come too," Hermione said, stifling a yawn. She scooted to the edge of the bed, slowly, reluctant to emerge from the duvet.
"You don't have to."
"I want to," she insisted. "You want to have breakfast first?"
He was about to decline, but she looked up at him again and her eyes were warm and muffled with sleep, her hair unruly around her face. He felt the stiffness in his lungs ease and smiled. His feet carried him over to the bed and he leaned down to plant a soft kiss against her cheek. He felt her hands on his chest, moving up to rest on his shoulders.
"Does it hurt today?" she said softly.
He shook his head. "What do you want for breakfast?"
Her smile grew wider. "Pancakes?"
He let out a bark of laughter. "Pancakes. Gotcha."
He straightened up and headed for the door, glancing back over his shoulder to watch her wriggle off the bed and stretch her arms high above her head. Something in the pit of his stomach twitched, but before he could change his mind about making breakfast she was already slipping into the bathroom and he heard the shower turn on. He smirked and headed downstairs, making a mental tally of what they had in the cupboards.
He had barely even started to stack the ingredients together on the worktop when a sharp tapping drew his attention to a large grey owl on the windowsill. It had a scroll of parchment tied to its leg, and its hooded amber eyes were fixed on him intently. He put the flour down and crossed the kitchen to open the window. The owl made no attempt to hop inside, instead simply holding out its leg. He barely had time to untie the scroll before it had shaken him off and disembarked, not waiting for him to write a response. Its large wings carried it off into the distance at a rate of knots, and before long it was no more than a distant speck. He frowned at the parchment, and instantly recognised Hestia's pointy handwriting.
He contemplated putting it aside and enjoying the morning as planned, his mood having only just lifted, but he hated not knowing. A sigh heaving through his shoulders, he broke the seal on the parchment and unrolled it. A second note fell out, dirty and watermarked, clearly older than the letter itself. As he scrambled to catch it, he caught sight of the elegant, slanted letters on the front and froze. He blinked several times, lifted the folded envelope closer. It bore only a single word – Draco.
His fingers clenched convulsively over the paper. He was seized by a sudden inability to think. His gaze moved from one letter to the other. There was only one thing a letter like that could mean, but his brain was unable to explain to him what that one thing was. He looked again at his own name scrawled on the envelope, slightly distorted and blotted by water. Again his mind stalled. Swallowing hard, he looked instead at the letter, shakily making out Hestia's handwriting. He got through the first few lines before his hands were tearing open the other envelope, his heart thundering in his chest and his eyes stinging.
~O~
Hermione's hair was still wet when she trotted down the stairs, pulling her jumper on over her head as she went. She couldn't smell breakfast, and began to wonder if Draco had headed out onto the beach already. He'd been in a strange mood that morning – she expected him to break off for some time alone.
"Draco?" she looked around for her boots as she made it to the bottom of the stairs. "We don't have to have breakfast first, if you'd rather…"
She looked up and trailed off. He was standing by the kitchen table, his shoulders very straight, a collection of ingredients for breakfast abandoned on the worktop behind him. He was reading an unrolled piece of parchment, and his face was extraordinarily pale. His mouth was fixed in a hard line, his eyes shimmering with a kind of severity that instantly had her on edge. And gripped in his other hand was a watermarked scrap of paper, in which she could read in wobbly handwriting 'Draco'. She felt her mouth go bone dry. His eyes skated across the page, and then after a couple of moments lifted.
"This is a letter from Hestia," he said. His voice was monotonous, numb, but she could see everything he was holding back trembling behind the words. "Do you know what this is?"
She kept her mouth shut. He lifted his head and looked at her.
"Do you?"
She couldn't have spoken if she wanted to. Her hands gripped the banister, so tightly that her nails hurt.
"She says it's my father's suicide note. She says ''we' thought it best not to say until you were recovered'." He paused, swallowed hard. "What does she mean 'we'?"
"Draco-"
"How long have you known?"
She knew better than to lie. She closed her eyes, panic beating hard in her chest.
"Since your last hallucination. The last bad one with Harry. When Hestia came to tell me about Imani, she was also coming to tell you about your father."
Her voice was shaking, thin and halting in the unrelenting silence she was met with. He was just staring at the letter, at the watermarked paper. His face was a stone wall. She rushed to elaborate, words tumbling over one another in her haste to explain.
"I was scared that if you knew, if she told you, you'd give up. You were really sick, Draco, and with the hallucinations and everything… It would've been too much…"
"Alright." His voice was dangerously low. "Makes perfect sense. So why didn't you tell me when I woke up?"
"I… I thought…"
"Thought what? That you knew better? That it would save my feelings?"
His voice was dripping with icy sarcasm, and it made her feel like she was shrinking. She couldn't take the way he was looking at her, the complete disdain in his eyes, the way his lips curved into a smirk that conveyed more anger than a glare ever could.
"Draco, I'm sorry. I was trying to protect you-"
"Protect me?" he laughed and turned away. He tore his coat from the hook by the door and dragged it on roughly, stuffing the letter into his pocket. His wand, lying on the kitchen counter, was also snatched up. She watched, aware that her whole body was trembling, her lips pressed tightly together.
"Where are you going?"
"How the fuck should I know?" he snarled.
The next second he was out the door, and it was slamming loudly behind him. The silence that followed was deafening.
She stood very still for a while, doing her best to fight down the tidal wave of guilt that was rearing up in her chest. It was no use. Her eyes were stinging with hot tears and the trembling would not leave her hands. She pushed her hair back, trying to take deep breaths, trying desperately to think of something to say. There was nothing she could say. She had not even considered bringing up the subject of Lucius Malfoy over the last week. She had been so engaged in his recovery, so happy to spend time with him without the others, that the conversation she'd held with Hestia over a week ago had slipped out of her head like a half-formed dream. And yet, now that she was faced with the reality of her failure to tell him, it seemed impossible that she could have neglected it for so long.
After an age of agonising over what to say, she forced herself across the room and peered out of the kitchen window. It took a few moments, but eventually she caught sight of him over on the grassy banks near the sea. He was sitting down, his head held in his pale hands, his white blonde hair waving violently in the wind. In his black coat and jeans, he looked like a hunched bird.
Getting up the courage to go out there after him was more difficult than she could have imagined.
The wind tore at her face as soon as she emerged from the cottage. Her feet skidded and slipped in the sand as she made her way towards him, the damp sea spray peppering her cheeks with stinging flecks of water, her ears aching from the roar. Every step towards him made her feel smaller, and everything she thought of trying to say to explain felt pathetic. He didn't look up as she drew near, and when she stopped beside him she had to work hard to get the words out.
"Draco… I'm sorry… I'm just… I'm so sorry."
His grey-blue eyes were fixed on the sea, his mouth an unrelenting line. She crouched down in front of him, too scared to reach out for him. She took a deep breath.
"I was completely wrong to keep it from you. I should never have known before you. At the time, I thought it was the right thing to do. But I was so wrong and… and I'm sorry."
He turned his head slightly away from her. It was enough to break whatever composure she had put on at the front door and her lips trembled.
"Draco… Please don't…"
Her voice cracked and she buttoned her mouth shut, ducking her head. Even as her throat clogged with grief, she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up sharply, not daring to believe it. He still wasn't looking at her, but his hand was on her all the same, and his face had softened immeasurably.
"I know why you didn't tell me," he muttered. "It's ok."
"It's not," she protested. "I'm sorry, I was-"
"Trying to help," he said, cutting across her. "I know."
She could sense that he had something he wanted to say, and resolved to let him speak in his own time. His lips parted and closed several times, and when he finally did speak his voice was so quiet that she almost didn't hear him above the turbulent wind tearing around them.
"I killed an Auror."
She didn't understand the words. She turned them over in her mind, tried to decipher them. Because they couldn't mean what they seemed to mean. Before she could respond, he was already speaking.
"We were sent to capture a team of Aurors who were fighting back against Voldemort when he was in power. I always tried to stay out of the way during missions, but this time I fucked up. I ended up in the middle of it. Nott got himself into trouble. It was just us and her – the Auror. She came at me. He was dying. I reacted."
She stared at him in silence. He looked at her briefly, and then returned his gaze to the sea. She tried to read him, but she could only see the wall. It was trembling, and she could see the betrayal and grief still flickering in his face, but she could also feel a distance between them. A kind of distance she hadn't felt for weeks now.
"I hated it," he said suddenly, as if in answer to a question. "I still hate it. But I can't take it back. It happened."
"Does Hestia know?"
He nodded briefly. "They were friends."
Hermione stared at the grains of sand beneath them. She wanted to comfort him, but the words died in her throat. All she could think about was the way Hestia had looked at her when she had first confessed her relationship with Draco.
"Even if your ex-boyfriend does have a heart of gold deep down – do you really think it changes anything? If you knew what he did while he was a Death Eater, would that make you less likely to sing his praises quite so enthusiastically?"
"I know him. Whatever he did, he was forced into it. We've all done things we're not proud of to protect the people we love."
"Have we?"
Hestia's query, spoken so lightly and calmly, echoed in Hermione's ears. Her own words suddenly felt inanely simplistic. She had to try to cling to the truth of them, to know how much worse he must feel about it, but hearing it out loud brought the war into their relationship in a way it hadn't been before. She couldn't have believed he could have got away with doing nothing at all during all that time under Voldemort's rule – but she realised now that she had been hiding behind the belief that he had never really done anything to warrant a trial from the Ministry.
Killing an Auror was no small thing.
She realised that she had sat in silence for too long.
"It wasn't your fault."
"No one made me do it. I was just scared. She died because I was scared."
His voice was shaking with self-loathing, and she found herself rising to his defence despite her reservations. She had to shake off the shock of the news. She knew him – she knew who he was. She shook her head.
"It was self defence. It was a war. It shouldn't colour the Ministry's opinion of you."
"Does it colour yours?" He rose sharply to his feet before she could reply. She hated that she was relieved. He smirked humourlessly down at her. "So, then – we both had secrets."
"Draco…"
"We should pack. We're due back in a couple of hours."
He set off for the house, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his stride quickly leaving her behind. She straightened up slowly, and it was a few moments before she followed him, the gulf hanging between them all the way.
~O~
They packed their things in near silence. The golden bubble the cottage had been for them both for the last week had been rudely pierced, and it was clear that there would be no fast recovery from the break.
His father's letter repeated on an endless loop in his mind. It had been so short – scrawled in haste, the ink running from where it had been peppered with water droplets. "Draco - It's time for me to disappear from your life. I hope one day you will be able to forgive me. Lucius." Was that all he had been worth to his estranged father? A brief afterthought, a courteous notice, empty of any kind reason or explanation. It didn't make sense.
He wished he hadn't told her. He wished he'd never got the letter. He wished none of it had ever happened at all.
Wishing was abundantly futile.
When they had packed their things away and fed the Tentacular one last time, Hermione held out her hand for him to take. He pulled his bag onto his shoulder, noting with frustration the residual shard of pain in his chest as he did so, and met her brown eyes briefly. She was looking at him with the smallest hint of hesitation – just enough for him to know that the closeness they had enjoyed had been roughly derailed by the morning's revelations. She had lied. He had killed. They were back to square one – that hard, familiar impasse.
She pulled him with her through airless, twisting space until they Apparated onto the street outside Grimmauld Place. He let go of her hand at once, and she ducked her head and made her way towards the front door. He followed, and was more grateful than he cared to admit to find George opening the door to greet them. He felt a grin spread over his face as the other boy's eyes brightened, and even found himself greeted with a rough clap on the shoulder.
"Not got the hint yet, Malfoy? Honestly, are you ever moving out?"
"Just as soon as I can – I don't dress this well to find ginger hair all over me every time I sit down. You Weasels shed like cats."
"We've always been blessed with thick hair – correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm guessing you've got the receding hairline genes?"
George dodged the elbow Draco swiped at him and grinned at Hermione, proud of his dig.
"Good timing – we were actually about to play a round of Quidditch – assuming you actually have the skills to back up all that bragging you do, Malfoy?"
"Quidditch?" Hermione frowned. "What about all the Muggles?"
"Hestia sorted us permission for a concealment spell above the park," George explained, pointing past them at the park across the road from them. "As long as we're not seen carrying the brooms, and we remain within the restrictions, we're all good."
Draco's heart leapt with real excitement, the ugly mood that had started the day off evaporating almost instantly as he took in the long black bags leaning against the wall behind George. He now recognised them as brooms, and his fingers twitched with anticipation. He couldn't remember the last time he had played, but he knew how much he missed it. And if Potter was playing, he knew he would be in for some decent competition too. He nodded at once, and George glanced over his shoulder at the hallway.
"Dump your bags, I'll hurry the others along. We don't want to lose the light!"
The others turned out to consist of Potter, Ginny, Pavarti, Thomas, Finnigan, Ron Weasley, Luna and, after much pleading from Ginny and George, Hermione. That made five people per team – it would do, despite the varied ability. Draco noticed the way Weasel and Finnigan deflated visibly at the sight of him and the additional flash of anger in Weasel's eyes, but for once he decided to avoid conflict. Even their sour moods couldn't dampen his spirits at the prospects of Quidditch. Hermione looked at the broom George handed to her unhappily, and Draco found himself letting out a laugh he didn't even have to force.
"Don't worry, nerd, I'll catch you if you fall."
She shot him a smile, and he felt some of the tension between them melt a little.
They made their way across to the park with the odd-shaped bags. The evening had left the area relatively deserted anyway, but they went behind the bushes to find the designated area Hestia had mapped out for them all the same. From there, they were able to get out the brooms and take off, advancing to the cloaked space above ground where they could play. Draco couldn't even wait to help Hermione mount her broom – within seconds of arriving he was off, the cool air sending electricity through his veins as he soared upwards, his blood pumping with adrenaline. The clouds that had gathered in his mind from that morning cleared, even if he was still uncomfortably aware of the two letters in his pocket as he slowed down to hover above the park. Potter flew up first to join him, looking equally thrilled to be flying again.
"You're looking better," he called as he approached. "Recovery going well?"
Exchanging pleasantries with him still felt strange. Draco raised his shoulder in a shrug. "Well enough that I'll be able to beat you hands down. Slow enough that you should feel bad about losing."
Potter rolled his eyes. "Well, anyway, it's good to see you up and around."
"Not sure if you'll still feel that way by half time," Draco goaded, smirking.
They were joined by the others, who quickly formed two teams – Potter, Ginny, Weasel, Hermione and Finnigan on one, and George, Pavarti, Luna, Thomas and himself on the other. Due to the numbers they would have to go down to only one beater and chaser per team, with the third member varying between the two roles throughout the match. The remaining two members could take up keeper and seeker. Draco firmly volunteered as seeker, and no one seemed to have the stamina to disagree with him. George took beater-chaser, Pavarti chaser, Luna beater and Thomas keeper. They were up against Potter as seeker – unsurprisingly – Ginny as chaser, Ron as keeper – Draco sniggered and had to stop himself from humming Weasley is our King as he took up his position – Hermione as beater – Draco allowed himself a louder laugh for that, earning himself a dirty look from her – and Finnigan as beater-chaser.
Judging on little more than assumption, Draco picked out Luna and Pavarti as his team's weak points. He was quickly proved wrong. Although Luna did tend to get distracted by her own thoughts, she was a fierce beater when paying attention. Pavarti was a decent chaser, too, although Ginny's skill was tough to match. It was Thomas who slowed them down, missing a couple of easy shots near the start of the match. Hermione, unsurprisingly, was not quite as willing to take up the challenge – her face creased with distaste every time Weasel yelled at her to beat a bludger at someone. Draco couldn't help but find it both comical and endearing – he knew she hated it not only due to her fear of brooms, but also since she was terrified of actually injuring someone. She'd seen one too many gruesome Quidditch accidents to be comfortable sending a bludger at someone's face. But between her unwillingness and Thomas' occasional fumble, the two teams were not so differently matched.
The space, however, was small enough that the snitch was not so great a challenge to find. Draco caught it within the first half hour, winning the first game; Potter caught it within the next twenty, stealing the second. They played on all the same, at least until the light began to fade and the air turned colder. Breathless from exhilaration, and fairly evenly matched for scores, they eventually agreed to call it a night. Hermione's face was the picture of relief. They touched down behind the bushes and packed up their brooms, and Draco found himself able to relax again. The disastrous morning from the cottage would need to be revisited before long, but the flight had cleared his head. Despite the steady ache in his chest from the exertion, despite the unsteadiness in his legs which warned him he may have overdone it slightly, he felt lighter.
They left the park with the brooms packed neatly away, George and Thomas carrying the crate of balls between them. The streets remained clear, thankfully preventing them from having to explain the odd sight to any passing Muggles. Draco took the moment to enjoy the rush of blood in his limbs, the fast breath rushing in and out of his lungs. He still relished it. He felt like he was finally becoming real again.
He paused on the street to glance over his shoulder, looking for the others. George and Thomas were deep in discussion about beater tactics, while Ginny and Hermione were laughing at something, Hermione clearly thrilled to be back on solid ground. Weasel was lagging behind the others, glowering, perhaps still put out by his return. Potter had stopped nearer Grimmauld Place. He had been carrying the Snitch in a separate box, the catch of which was now coming loose. He came to a halt, trying to wrestle the old, lop-sided ball back into its box. His struggle was rather comical, but any trace of a smile vanished from Draco's face.
Because behind Potter, three hooded dark figures had materialised there in the street. And within a fraction of a second, the sense of weightless freedom had evaporated, firmly replaced with a different kind of adrenaline as the figures lifted their wands in unison, moving forwards in practised formation.
"Potter!"
Draco's reaction was instantaneous, his old reflexes that had kept him alive throughout the war racing back to the surface. His wand was already drawn, even as he ran, but he didn't even know if his magic would work. And the cloaked figures were even now releasing a stream of curses at Potter's unsuspecting back. He switched to plan B - he threw himself forward and barrelled into Potter's unsuspecting back, taking them both to the ground just as the attack shot over their heads. Potter struggled, alarmed, but Draco was already surging back up to his feet to point his wand at the Death Eaters. His heart was thundering wildly, panic sending cold chills down his spine one after the other. They were still advancing. He held his wand up, hoping desperately that they didn't know how much trouble he was still having with magic. His prior reputation for duelling was all he had to carry his bluff. They slowed, and he could feel the eyes behind the masks fixing on him. He heard Potter scrambling upright behind him.
"Get to the house, call Hestia-"
He broke off as Potter's wand appeared in line with his own. He was about to demand that Potter stop playing a hero and get back to the goddamn house and call the bloody Aurors, but one of the Death Eaters opened fire before he could speak. Harry blocked the attack and sent a volley of spells back – Draco focused everything he had and, like squeezing blood from a stone, managed to produce a bombarda strong enough to affect one of them. The effort left him feeling sick and shaky – an extremely unwelcome development. He could hear people yelling, caught sight briefly of the others scattering - Seamus was sprinting for the house, hopefully to call for help, the others spread across the road. Two of the Death Eaters broke off to zero in on them, and the panic in Draco's gut became a knife. He had no doubt that the Death Eaters would overpower them. Their only hope was that Hestia got there pronto. He searched desperately for Hermione – George was standing in front of her, trying to push her backwards towards Grimmauld Place, fending off curses from one of the Death Eaters as he went. She was fighting to stay, her eyes fixed on Draco, her mouth opening in a cry of warning.
A burning pain tore across his arm and he staggered, managing to avoid losing his footing. His distraction had cost him – the last Death Eater was still there, still coming at them. Potter was defending them well, but there was a sense of rage and spite to the Death Eater's attacks that made Draco doubt he would give up easily. He tried to help, but once again his spells were to weak to do any damage. He swore aloud in frustration. They were backing away, even as Potter duelled, attacks from the Death Eater coming thick and fast.
"Levicor-"
"Glaciatio."
"Diffindo."
"Expelliarmus!"
The wand in Harry's hand flew free, and Draco's stomach lurched. The Death Eater raised his wand. So Draco did the only thing he could think of - he leapt in front of Potter and put everything he could into a protective shield. His head began to spin uncontrollably just before the Death Eater's spell hit - rather than diffusing the curse, the shield simply formed a block between them. Draco saw fire roaring out against it, billowing around its edges, felt the rush of heat against his face - and then he was thrown abruptly backwards, off the ground, and the heat was everywhere. He was just about aware of impacting with something before a second something hit him hard in the head. The world was tossed into a blaze of light and distorted sounds - he could feel something moving nearby, slightly entangled with him. He cracked his eyes open, not quite able to understand how he had survived, and saw Potter staggering upright, spinning around, searching for his wand... Draco inched up onto his elbows, wincing as the pain in his head and chest increased tenfold. Apparently he had pushed himself to his limits. He still had his wand, though - he held it up with a grunt, and Potter took it urgently and pointed it at the window.
Window. A smashed window, to be precise, which they had apparently just been thrown through. Draco squinted about at the toppled tables and chairs around them, and surmised they were in a Muggle coffee shop. A part-demolished Muggle coffee shop. A sudden barrage of curses came spitting through the gap, and Potter only just managed to block them in time. Draco could do nothing but stay down, shielding his head with one arm from the flying debris around them. When it abruptly stopped, he assumed the worst.
He looked up, and felt a jerk of panic as a figure appeared on the other side of the broken window before he recognised Hestia Jones' sleek ponytail and serious frown. She cocked an eyebrow, looking at he and Potter in turn – Potter who, he realised, was standing beside him unharmed but for a bloody gash on his forehead, his green eyes wide.
"Hestia," he breathed shakily.
Hestia glanced over her shoulder, her wand still raised. "You two alright?"
"Yeah," Potter said.
"What the fuck took you so long?" Draco demanded simultaneously, his voice noticeably weak to his own ears.
Hestia offered him a brief glance in response, speaking instead to Potter. "They sensed us coming – they were Disapparating as we arrived. We're on their tail."
Draco clambered upright, greeted unpleasantly with a strong wave of nausea. His chest burned like it hadn't for days and his head was pounding. He squinted through the pain, tried to move towards the window – his knees shook violently and he felt a hand on his arm.
"Malfoy, you should sit down." Potter's voice. "Your head's bleeding."
"Yeah, so's yours," Draco retorted. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes – he couldn't fucking see, he needed to see. "Where's Hermione?"
Potter seemed to understand. "She's fine, I think – Hestia?"
"She's fine," Hestia confirmed. "On her way over, actually."
The words sounded very distant. The sick feeling hit him again and the world warped around him. He managed to find his footing but the world refused to stop spinning, and with the vertigo came an unsettling, prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He concentrated on trying to speak instead.
"Good."
And then he gave up and decided, for once, to do as Potter said, and sat down hard amongst the rubble.
Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.
SUPRNTRAL LVR.