Disclaimer – I own nothing.
A.N – Hello lovelies! So sorry for the wait, but real life and actually drafting this chapter was a bit of a nightmare. Add to that the fact that I got sick, and I've been a mess. On that note, sadly, I'm waaay too tired to give everyone a shout out right now. But I adore you all!
Frankly, it was either mention all of you who've reviewed to thank you because you really are awesome and I re-read them for motivation and wait to update sometime tomorrow, or upload now without the special shout-out thank yous. I'm going to assume that you'd all appreciate an update as a thank you instead. :)
As always a special thank you to my beta, ellabelle12, who's magnificent for working so hard with me on this chapter, and to olivieblake, who deals with my random cries for help.
Anywho, hope everyone enjoys!
/I wanna lie awake with your black soul, count your fears if you let me
Baby, I just want your damn bad intentions, I've got some damn bad intentions
I got some secrets I forgot to mention, haven't learned my lesson/
-Bad Intentions, Niykee Heaton
Chapter 10 – The Double Edged Sword of Success
Kisses could be like little bits of sunshine sometimes, if they're slow and easy. But Draco never could do anything slow, anything easy. It had never been in his nature, and it never would be.
That same nature was what pulled Hermione closer on some nights, and away on others. But somewhere during that fateful month of August and the ending of September, Hermione had gotten used to kisses that were like the most ferocious storm—long and hard.
Now, mid-October, Draco's kisses were the only constant in her life.
After her very tense departure from the Order Meeting a few weeks ago, Hermione had given Draco her complete attention. She knew that she had nothing to feel guilty over, but she still felt like she owed him something for trying.
So she smiled at him every once in a while, on top of her valiant attempt to watch his every move. It'd been amusing at first, to watch her watch him. But then he couldn't escape her judgement—those eyes that constantly saw his flaws, and his cruelty. But she tried to smile at him every once in a while; she tried to ease that tension that was integral to them. She even hugged him once—it only took a few seconds to discover that they weren't the hugging type.
Post coital cuddling when the world seemed hazy with bliss was one thing. Apparently, hugging out of nowhere was an entirely different matter.
Draco had been riding the waves in and out of consciousness. Whenever he'd close his eyes he'd see Hermione's worried stare, her frowning brow, her downturned lips—Merlin, those lips. He'd been in a daze, enjoying the nothingness that could surround him, when suddenly skinny arms surrounded him.
It'd been nice…until he realized that he was sitting up in pain…and it was the middle of the day…and he hadn't just had sex…and why in the hell was anyone hugging him?
"Granger?" Draco had said extremely awkwardly. His eyes were so wide that they looked about to pop out.
"Yes?" Hermione asked tensely. She tried to hug him harder, if only to get the anxiety out of her bones.
"What are you doing?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what are you doing?"
"Hugging you?"
"No, you're not." His words were sharp, but Hermione hadn't been offended. With the swiftness that she'd wrapped her arms around him, she'd let him go.
His eyes had been hard as he turned and gazed upon her. She didn't begrudge him the wall that he'd clearly erected between them.
That wasn't who they were. That wasn't who they'd ever be, and it was harsh truth to accept—that he wasn't one of the Harry Potters of the world, and affection for them would never be that overt, that explicit and simple.
"We need to talk," Harry said urgently to Hermione, a week after the hugging incident with Draco, as he sidled up next to her and hauled her into an alcove in the bustling hallway.
"Why? What's wrong?"
"Voldemort's recruiting in Hogwarts."
"What?"
"Well, at least he's going to—Malfoy hasn't mentioned this to you?"
"No, he hasn't. How do you know?"
Harry tapped his head, and Hermione understood perfectly what he meant; he'd had a vision last night. She wanted to chastise him to keep up with his occlumency shields, regardless of how shabby they might be. She should rebuke him, but she wasn't going to.
The day had been so long already, and frankly, this wasn't a battle worth fighting. Not today, at least. Instead, Hermione went to ask about the dream in detail. But before she could, Ginny swaggered over, and interjected herself in the conversation.
Hermione could only raise an eyebrow—she wouldn't be mean or rude, or short, they were friends after all.
"What's going on?" Ginny asked, hair shinning like fire. Ginny spared a glance at Hermione, but she was really asking Harry.
Everyone knew it, and though Harry wanted to care, he was a typical oblivious teenage boy who assumed that whatever was between Ginny and Hermione could stay between them.
"Nothing much," Harry shrugged. "Just telling Hermione about last night."
"She knew?"
Hermione asked the words without thinking. She didn't mean anything by it. Not really. Well, not purposefully, because the fact of the matter was that she'd been the one always in the know first when it came to Harry. She was the one he'd seek out after a vision or nightmare. But not anymore. Not since she wasn't as easily accessible as she'd been, only down the hall from him at the girl's dormitory at Gryffindor tower.
Now, everything was different, and it was strange to understand and feel that difference so acutely.
"Yeah, I knew," Ginny narrowed her eyes. "I'm surprised you didn't know, really. Considering who you're married to."
It was a dig that Hermione would have let slide any other day…except that Ginny could be such a raging bitch sometimes, that Hermione probably wouldn't have let it slide any other day either—not when it was Ginny making that comment.
But they were friends, Hermione had to remind herself. Friendship was a fragile thing that must always be nurtured…
"Well, Malfoy and I give each other space," Hermione smiled tightly. Be nice. Don't be rude or short. "It's something you'll hopefully understand one day."
Once she spoke, she knew they were going to have one of those days—the kind that got under each other's skin, and would keep them avoiding each other until Harry or Ron somehow brought them back together by association.
"Yeah, Herms," Ginny pursed her lips, attitude rolling off of her in waves. "Because you're known for giving space."
"Uhh," Harry tried to interject but he didn't really know what to say or how to articulate what he was feeling. It was a strange feeling, warm and acidy at the same time.
"This isn't about what I'm known for," Hermione glared. "And excuse us, but we were having an important conversation before you interrupted."
Ginny went to rebut, but Harry had been up most of the night and his own patience with their bickering was at an all-time low.
"Can we just not right now, guys?" He meant to snap, but it just came out bone-deep tired, and both girls could see the weariness on his face.
With pursed lips, and clenched flaring nostrils, both girls nodded, clearly still irritated with each other. After a moment of tense silence, Ginny rolled her eyes.
"I guess I'll leave you to it, since it's not like I'm the last to know," Ginny smiled with false sweetness, as she leaned on Harry and swiftly kissed him good-bye.
"Thanks, Ginny" Harry gave Ginny a slight squeeze on her hips before letting her go.
Hermione watched the entire encounter with hawk-eyes. It was strange, to see Harry touching anyone romantically. It didn't matter that Hermione knew he'd kissed Cho. It didn't matter that Hermione knew he'd kissed Ginny last year, and kissed her often now that they were engaged.
None of it mattered because she'd never seen him do those things. It was different. Strange. Awkward. Slightly painful in that way it was painful to watch a child take its first steps—it was change in its simplest form, and Hermione had to look away for a moment.
"Hermione?" Harry reached out for her, but Hermione didn't know what to do. She felt trapped, lost. She didn't want things to continue to change. She wanted everything to stay the same—everything except her and Malfoy.
She knew she wasn't being fair, but she'd been a slave to logic and reason for so long that she'd never realized when she'd switched masters. Now she was a slave to her emotions, and she didn't know quite how to deal with them.
Instead, she opted for whatever truth she had in her at the moment.
"What are we going to do, Harry?"
"With what?" Harry asked, extremely confused but trying to appear in control. It wasn't working.
"Everything," Hermione sighed deeply. Her hands shook, everything felt as though it was unraveling around her. "Recruitment at Hogwarts? Can you imagine, Harry? Not just the Carrows—more Death Eaters."
"We'll get through this," Harry tried to feed Hermione some comfort through the heat of his hand on her shoulder. "We can get through anything, right?"
Hermione let out a slightly hysterical giggle, and shook her head solemnly.
"Why didn't he tell me?" Hermione asked quietly, though she knew that wasn't a question or concern that Harry could answer. She couldn't stop herself though. "Why didn't he tell me?" she repeated, a sadness settling deep inside of her.
Harry didn't say a word, and it was the best comfort he could have given her.
"Oi! Harry!" Seamus passed by them, and shouted his presence the way he did everything else in life: fucking obnoxiously loudly.
"Oi!" Harry responded back in that code-switching that boys tended to do when it came to each other.
"McGonagall's looking for you. The old lass looks a sight today, so you might not want to keep her waiting."
Harry nodded his thanks, and smiled slightly at Hermione. She nodded back, and watched him turn and leave in silence, the hallway swallowing him up the way it swallowed everyone. Hogwarts consumed, and people died and were reborn within its halls.
In that silence, she saw them for what they truly were: a red giant, in its last stages of its life, but fighting valiantly to stay alive. She wondered how many millions of years they had in them before they exploded, or transformed.
"What in the hell is wrong with you?" Hermione stormed into the Slytherin common room, her curls bouncing in that bushy manner of hers, and her chocolate eyes furious.
"All hail Granger," Draco replied caustically without looking up from his book as he lounged on the seat closest to the fire. Blaise and Tilly were on the loveseat, across from him, watching with hungry eyes. Gossips, the both of them. "Queen of uncouth behavior and all sentences nagging."
Blaise barked out a laugh, while Tilly tried to suppress a smile. Her bare foot was resting against Blaise's leg, and Blaise's arm was thrown haphazardly across the top of the sofa behind her. They looked comfortable. Married.
Too married, and Hermione hated them secretly. But she knew the only reason they were so relaxed, and even sitting together at all was because the common room was empty. The sun had risen with a fierce glare, and practically the entire castle had gone stampeding outside to enjoy the rare bout of sunshine and heat.
"How could you not tell me that Voldemort is recruiting at Hogwarts?" Hermione wouldn't be deterred. Her finger nails dug into her palm, and she could feel the skin breaking. Good. She needed the distraction, regardless of how minimal it was. She needed a reason to not lash out.
"I didn't realize that I answered to you," Draco drawled into his book, though there was a slight twitch when she'd said the Dark Lord's name. Blaise snickered, though he too was hiding behind a façade in an attempt to ignore what was so deeply ingrained into them. Tilly was not so tactful and quietly whispered to Blaise, "I thought you'd said that she'd gotten rid of that habit?"
Someone really ought to teach Tilly to whisper better.
"What habit?" Draco finally looked up, amusement glinting in his eyes.
Fuck, she hated him. She hated him so much right now that she could scream. Didn't he see how horrible things were about to become? Didn't he know how much worse things were going to be for them?
"The hell you don't, Malfoy!"
"Saying the Dark Lord's name."
Tilly and Hermione spoke simultaneously, and both turned to stare at each other owlishly. Blaise and Draco were clearly in an incorrigible mood and howled with laughter; it was needed to shake the tension out of their shoulders at such disrespect for the Dark Lord. Tilly saw the humor at face value, and giggled slightly after a moment, lightly hitting Blaise on the shoulder. They looked more married than Hermione and Draco ever did.
It burned Hermione's chest to witness what others could have.
Draco turned to Hermione and saw the typical rage that had been missing these last couple of weeks (replaced by her pity and unfounded guilt—thank Merlin that was over), which was usually targeted at him. It made him feel good. Normal. As if they were back to the status quo.
But he also saw a singular type of jealousy, the kind that he'd felt countless times watching Saint Potter get even more fame and glory among their peers, get special treatment from most of the staff; how foolish he'd been to think that any of that mattered; how little he'd known to think that Harry Potter had anything he'd wanted…besides Hermione Granger.
Draco let the moment of humor and warmth leave him. He'd needed the laugh, but he needed Hermione to see that there was nothing that Blaise and Tilly had that she'd want.
"Walk with me," he said as he stood. It wasn't a suggestion, and Hermione couldn't simply abide by the command in silence.
"Yes, Caesar."
"I prefer Master, but it'll do," Draco smirked as he swept past her, the usual swagger back in place now that his body was fully healed.
"Malfoy," Hermione warned as they left the sanctity of the common room, but Draco grabbed her by the arm and pushed her into him.
They were chest to chest, nose to nose, and it'd been too long since they let that fire filled with hate and acid consume them.
"Do you feel that, Granger?" Draco licked his lips.
"What?"
"Don't be obtuse," He pushed her against the wall, and let his body mold itself completely against hers. They were one even when they weren't. "Everything between us."
"What's your point, Malfoy?" Hermione spat, though she couldn't bring herself to deny their truth—not when she could feel a twisted desire forming in her gut. She tried to push him away, but he wouldn't be moved. Not yet. Not until she understood what had taken him too long to understand. "You won't distract me—Voldemort's recruiting, and you didn't tell me!"
"My point," Draco cut in savagely. He was born a dragon, king-bred, and he dominated when he wanted to. "Is that you and I aren't Blaise and Tilly. We'll never be them, because we're better than them. We're fucking larger than them. More. More than they could ever bloody imagine in their wildest dreams—so don't come at me for not holding your hand like Potter."
"This has nothing to do with Harry!"
"This has everything to do with Potter and you damn well know it. You saw Blaise and Tilly, but what you really saw was Gryffindor happiness—the shit you shared with Potter and Weasley. But that's not Blaise, and that's definitely not me. You think you want what Blaise and Tilly have?"
"I never said that!" Hermione started to struggle in earnest. She hated him, she hated him. But she did want what Tilly had—that level of ease that she knew could never exist with Draco. They were too different; they were too alike. "You're just trying to distract me, and it's not going to work. You monster! They're children! These are children he's recruiting!"
Draco swiftly turned her, her right cheek pressing against the cold stone wall. He let his lips burn her as they trailed alongside her neck up to her ear.
"Choose your battles, Granger," he whispered, and she stilled. This was them at their most organic, and their most transformed. "Choose your battles because I'm so fucking tired, and I can't keep fighting you, too."
She could hear the pain in his voice. It reminded her of the day they signed the marriage papers. How tortured he'd been, how brutal his pride had seemed.
But as she felt the heat of his body behind her, shielding her, and corrupting her, she knew there was no way Tilly ever felt the things that Draco made her feel.
"Why didn't you tell me," Hermione said quietly, her fingers latching onto Draco's that were laying innocuously on her waist. She was desperate for answers. He was desperate for her to just stop asking.
"Because I knew how you'd react," he answered honestly. His forehead fell forward onto her shoulder, his breath ragged from her struggle because even at their most tiresome, he wanted her. He always wanted her. He'd never not want her. "And it'd be premature. He's not recruiting here, yet."
"But he will? Soon?"
"Soon," Draco sighed, and backed up a little, but Hermione pushed back against him with her backside. She didn't want him further. Never that. Anything but that. "Fuck, Granger—anyone can walk right past."
Hermione looked away in shame. He was right. She needed to get a hold on her desire. She needed to get a grip on his hold on her.
But Draco couldn't stand to see Hermione embarrassed. It was strange, and he'd never admit it, but the only Hermione he wanted was the one that brought him to his knees, and so with a vicious "Fuck it!" and a sharp turn of her body, Draco lifted her against the wall and kissed her brutally as she wrapped her legs around his waist.
He kissed her like a man who was crazed and haunted, and she received his kisses like a fallen angel consumed by the most delightful sin.
Her skirt had ridden to the tops of her thighs, and they had to stop. They had to. This wasn't right. Anyone could see if they walked by.
They were going to stop. They weren't going to go there, but suddenly, somehow, she felt so full and yes, yes, yes.
They were definitely going there.
Draco's movements were quick and sharp, his breaths were puffy into her neck. Her moans were barely contained. Her body was on fire—he lit her on fire, and it was too fucking good.
He was nipping and biting, sucking and licking down until one of her breasts were completely exposed and her shirt had popped open. He was punishing her for her questions in the best way possible.
"I love you," she sobbed into his lips as he drove harder and harder.
"I know, I know," he said frantically, bursting with pleasure as she dug her nails excruciatingly into his back. "Fuck, yes, yes, I'm yours."
This was the same as every other time. But it was different too.
They were toeing the line between performance, and reality, and neither would dare go back.
Footsteps could be heard, laughter echoing off the walls. Not yet, please, please, not yet, Hermione begged Merlin.
Draco couldn't care less who saw how soaked he was from her juices. He couldn't care less who witnessed how epically beautiful his wife's face was when she reached her peak. But he knew she'd care.
She'd care, and though he loved hurting her, he didn't ever want to cause her shame. So he abruptly pushed them into the nearest alcove, gripping her bottom so tightly that surely she'd bruise.
The laughter was louder now, closer. The clicks and clacks of shoes rose.
Hermione bit her lip—she was trying so hard not to scream.
"You're mine, Granger," Draco pulled her hair and buried himself deeper. "Mine, so fucking mine."
"Yes, yes," Hermione groaned, her core fluttering. She loved the way he possessed her. She hated how much she loved it. And even in a moment like this, she could never forget how much she despised everything that he made her feel. "Always, always."
They were animals, they were so desperate and honest—feral in their lovemaking. In the way they loved each other, if it could ever be called love.
But the noise was getting too close.
"Did you see Monica's face?"
"Psh, the bleedin' girl deserved that langlock curse! She never shuts up!"
"You two need to start being nicer to people. Her father's on the Wizengamot, y'know."
"Fuckin' third years!" Draco recognized the voices, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. His body was waging war against him, and he knew he was losing the harder he drove into Hermione.
"Did you hear that?" One said, and all three stopped two steps away from the alcove Hermione and Draco were in.
Hermione started to panic, but her body was exploding—she was on fire, she must be, because nothing in the universe could feel like this, could it?
Her hands were everywhere, and Draco's presence was being imbedded into the very pores of her skin. She was his, so fucking his, that the earth could crash around them and—yes, yes, yes.
Draco bit into her neck violently, sadistically, and Hermione keened intensely, masochistically.
"What the—" the third years stepped forward, intent on finding the sounds—too innocent still to understand what they were hearing.
Hermione, shaking uncontrollably, and gasping from unrestrained pleasure, touched her wand to herself and Draco and performed Muffliato. Simultaneously, Draco muttered a quick incantation into the junction between Hermione's breasts, and suddenly they were invisible.
More, more. Please, yes!
Hermione, now that she knew they couldn't be heard let herself go—she let all of the anger that had riled inside of her fade into the air with her screams.
"I don't see anything there."
"Hmm, that is weird, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I could've sworn that I heard someone—kinda like a baby Mandrake crying."
"What would a Mandrake be doing inside?"
"Oi! What would—" the three third years walked off as they brushed the incident off as one of those Hogwarts things.
Hermione and Draco couldn't have cared less if they'd stayed there all day long. Each thrust was powerful, each scream was penetrating, connecting.
"Say my name," Draco kissed her urgently. His lips bruised hers frantically, like long lost lovers. Perhaps they were—perhaps the two weeks that it'd taken him to fully recover, the two weeks that he'd been banished from being inside of her had torn at the very fabric of their world. "Say it—say it, Granger. Say my name, fuck, please—"
"Draco," Hermione cried passionately. She would have done anything to not see him beg, though she derived a sick pleasure from knowing he begged only her. "Draco, Draco—don't stop, don't stop—Draco!"
Draco didn't stop. He'd never stop loving her this hard. He'd never stop living life inside of her this hard. Because there'd never been another option for him. Not since the day he realized, sick to his stomach, that he craved Hermione Granger. Not since the first time their lips ached to fight against one another.
His name was heaven on her tongue.
"Take it, Granger," Draco demanded fervently. "Take all of me."
She did.
She did, and he could feel herself engulfing him completely. Just like she could feel him giving himself up to her. It was too much, and it would never be enough.
Hermione crashed onto him like a tidal wave during a tsunami—brutally, cruelly, hard. Her scream was so sharp, so vicious, that the Muffliato broke, and her scream echoed down the hallway.
Draco let her screams of pleasure bathe him, and wash him anew. He was redeemed inside of her, by her. He rode that wave until he was pulsing and pushing, sinking and diving, letting go completely inside of her; he was the ideal image of Adonis in ecstasy.
If only they could be this way when they weren't joined. If only they could feel this way, this complete, all of the time.
Their breaths were shallow and ragged as they clung to each other, letting the haze of desire slowly lift away like the sun breaking through fog.
"It's not okay," Hermione whispered into his neck, her lips grazing his skin. "It's not okay that Death Eaters are recruiting kids."
Draco sighed, touched his palm to her face. He lifted her face by the chin, and looked her directly in the eyes—melding into each other like a pair of swords over a blazing fire.
"No," he agreed. "It's not okay, Granger. But none of this is okay."
"They're kids," she tried to plead with him. Her fingers gripped at his forearms, silently asking him to fix this. But he'd learnt to pick his battles long ago. "They're just kids," she repeated, as though by simple repetition she could sway him.
But he was a Dragon, born under fire, and he didn't feel the kind of compassion she did. He simply wasn't capable of it. Not for people he didn't consider a part of his immediate world.
They're just kids.
"So are we, Granger," Draco reminded her softly, though he knew he was hitting her with the edge of the sword of truth and not the point. "So are we."
She pushed him away, furious, and they were suddenly disconnected. Her body ached deliciously, but Hermione paid it no heed, not when she was so livid.
It didn't matter that he spoke the truth. They were just kids themselves—barely adults. But Hermione hated how he gave her truths in order to excuse inaction.
She walked away, unable to meet his eyes, and Draco stood still, trousers undone, his manhood glistening with Hermione's passion, proof that they weren't always married enemies, watching as she walked away.
"You want me to what?" Harry spat indignantly.
The soft candlelight in McGonagall's office cast shadows on the wall that danced and spun. These shadows taunted Harry, made him feel small—he must be as small as he felt for McGonagall to ask such a horrible thing of him.
"Now, Mister Potter," McGonagall tried to reason sympathetically, but her features didn't lend themselves to such gentleness. Not when there was a war. Not when there was so much going on that Hermione Granger knew of, and wouldn't share. "I know this seems especially vile, considering who Miss Granger is to you—"
"Do you know, Professor?" Harry asked accusingly. He wanted to break things like he had in Dumbledore's office last year, but this wasn't then and McGonagall wasn't Dumbledore. Instead, Harry sat stiffly in the chair across from the Headmistress, leg bouncing restlessly. "Do you really know what you're asking of me?"
"I and the Order are asking you to help the cause—the same cause you were so eager to join." McGonagall stared at him sternly, but he wouldn't be cowed. Not now. Not with this.
"You're asking me to spy on my best friend," Harry clarified harshly. McGonagall pursed her lips, and Harry felt a twinge of satisfaction. "You're asking me to betray the only person who has always stood by me, who has always believed me when no one else did."
The stab at McGonagall's own failings was clear, but she ignored the jab for the sake of honesty and the cause.
"No, Harry," Remus stepped out from the shadows, and lifted the disillusionment charm.
It was dangerous and highly impractical for Remus to be in Hogwarts at all, but everyone knew that if there were anyone who could convince Harry left alive, it was Remus.
"Remus?" Harry stared at him in astonishment and disbelief. He took in Remus' shabby dark clothes, and his unruly hair. Here was a Marauder, one of the original, a product of betrayal, standing and asking Harry to betray his best friend. He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. His heart couldn't handle it if it were true. "What are you doing here?"
"You know, Harry."
Remus' eyes peered at him with sorrow, but his shoulders were stiff and straight with fortitude; he knew what had to be done.
"How could you ask me to do this?" Harry stood furiously, all measure of composure gone. The air crackled around him, he was so upset. "You, who were betrayed by your best friend—how could you ask me to do this?"
"This isn't about the past, Harry," Remus tried to reach him, but he was thrown by the eyes that belonged to Lily. He was stuck in the middle of the past and the present. He tried to shake it off nonetheless. "This is about the very present war that we'll lose, Harry—and we will lose if we don't have information. There's only so much Snape can give us. Only so much other sources can help with. Hermione's in a prime position—"
"To do what?!" Harry exploded.
He remembered Hermione's hug as she tackled him at the feast at the end of Second Year. Her wild hair curling around his face and neck, reminding him that she was alive and remembered his palpable fear seeing her body motionless on the floor at the Department of Ministries. Her stillness had been like the earth had fallen from beneath his own feet. He remembered her tears at Dumbledore's funeral, how heartbroken she looked, as though everything they'd known was forever lost. Maybe she'd known something he hadn't, because right now, as Harry looked upon his dead father's best friend, everything he'd known to be true was gone, vanished into the ever changing war.
His fury only grew with this feeling of inadequacy.
"To do what?!" Harry yelled at Remus. "She's not a Death Eater! How much help could she possibly be? She doesn't have direct access to Voldemort. She's not in the inner circle. What could she possibly give you that Snape can't?"
"Harry," Remus approached him as though he were a wounded animal. Perhaps he was. Maybe he'd gotten so good at pretending that everything was fine, okay, that he'd convinced himself of the lie. "Her husband's a Malfoy. Even without being inducted into the inner circle, she's still privy to things that Snape isn't—things that Voldemort talks to Malfoy about that he doesn't talk to Snape about."
"Are you telling me that Malfoy's got more pull than Snape who was a part of the first war?" Harry glowered incredulously.
"This isn't about influence," Remus shook his head, his steady gaze filled with golden flecks from the full moon that was to come in a week. "This is about rumors that Draco Malfoy might be Voldemort's heir. And as his heir there are things that Voldemort will share with him, or talk about in front of him, that Snape just isn't in a position to know or overhear."
Harry's anger never stood a chance against cold, hard logic. But that didn't mean that he was going to back down. This was Hermione. His 'Mione. His never-gonna-let-him-down, always-got-his-back, from-heaven-to-hell-and-back-again best friend. In what universe would it ever be just to betray her?
"Rumors aren't fact," he chastised Remus as gently as he could. But there was a hard edge to his tone that couldn't be mistaken. He wouldn't apologize for it, either. Not when they were the ones at fault. Never mind that he wanted to question why Voldemort would even need an heir if he'd made himself almost immortal with horcruxes—that wasn't a piece of information he was willing to share with the Order. "How many rumors have flown around about me? C'mon, Remus. You should better than anyone that most of the time rumors are just smoke."
"But where there's smoke, there must have been fire," Remus reasoned calmly in that ever-patient way of his. "I'm not saying that he's Voldemort's heir for sure, but we can't ignore the possibility just because it might not be true."
"What would Voldemort even need an heir for?" Harry ran his hand through his hair roughly.
"You're asking the wrong person."
"What does this even have to do with Hermione? Sure, okay, let's say for a bloody insane moment that Malfoy's Voldemort's heir. Where does Hermione fit in?"
"Harry," Remus said his name in that duh tone that made him automatically want to turn about face and leave. "They're married."
"Yeah. And?"
"They talk."
"Okay?"
Remus's face flushed slightly, awkward at having to go there with his dead best friend's son.
"Married people talk."
"So? I talk to people every day, doesn't mean I'll suddenly tell them my deep, dark secrets. They may be married but they're not friends—"
"He means pillow talk, Mister Potter," McGonagall interjected exasperatedly, her fingers interlaced in that stern and perfunctory way of hers. "Pillow talk where quiet tongues tend to wag."
Harry was stunned. Then disgusted. Then horrendously affronted that Headmistress McGonagall, a woman that was practically ancient in his book, had just used the word "pillow talk" in his presence with a completely straight face.
"Oh Merlin," all the blood rushed to Harry's face.
"My thoughts exactly," McGonagall raised an eyebrow, unamused. "Now, hopefully, you understand the situation we are all in. We know that there are things, important things that Miss Granger knows that she's not sharing with the Order. She believes she is protecting her husband. She may be right, but the Order still needs to know, regardless of her allegiance to Mister Malfoy."
"Will you help us, Harry?" Remus pushed. It was honestly now or never. If they couldn't get Harry to agree now, with so many questions and suspicions hanging in the air, they'd never be able to get him to agree. He remembered too easily a time in the first war when suspicions against Sirius' character had caused Remus to turn on him; the guilt still ate at him sometimes. But it had been his choice to make, and he'd made it, just for the prospect of peace, the fragrance of it that was akin to the smell of the earth on a full moon. "I know it's a hard choice, but we need to know what she knows."
"What makes you think she'll even tell me, if she hasn't told you?"
The question was brutal; the answer was just as harsh, but Remus wouldn't lie to Harry. Not if he didn't have to. He wouldn't lie, even if it the truth was crueler.
"You said it yourself, this is for the Order," Harry pushed, enraged and helpless all at the same time. "Why would she tell me anything knowing that I'm with the Order."
"Because she loves you," Remus stated quietly. But there was no doubt in his voice or eyes. "She loves you just as much as you love her, and so she'd want to tell you."
Harry's chest burned with acid and resentment. They were supposed to be the good guys. They were supposed to be above it all. They were supposed to be better than the Death Eaters, but war makes monsters of us all.
But not Harry. Not Hermione. Not them. They were best friends. Anyone but them.
"We need an answer now, Mister Potter," McGonagall's features softened slightly. She didn't wish to hurt him, but this was their only viable option if Shacklebolt wasn't willing to offer consideration to Draco Malfoy.
"This is wrong," Harry whispered, disillusioned with the adults around him. "You know this is."
"This is war," Remus said simply, hands clenched tightly in the pockets of his black trousers.
He had too many scars to extend pity to Harry, though he loved the boy dearly. But the truth of it all was that everyone gave up something to play their part, even Malfoy had given something up. Harry wasn't the first to say good-bye to his innocent heart, and he wouldn't be the last.
But he was Harry Potter, and there wasn't a world in the universe where his innocent heart would crumble and chip away.
He nodded stiffly his assent.
"You've made the right choice, Mister Potter," McGonagall sighed in relief. The tired lines of her face were prominent. "Miss Granger doesn't know it, but she'll thank you once this war is over."
No, Harry Potter's innocent heart could never buckle beneath the pressure of darkness, but it could harden.
"Malfoy."
"What?" McGonagall and Remus asked simultaneously.
"Her name," Harry said stonily as he turned and showed them his back, a protective fire raging in his eyes though he tried to hide it. "It's Hermione Malfoy, now."
The door slammed shut behind him, the disturbed glances of McGonagall and Remus shut away. Because, yes, he was Harry Potter, and she was Hermione Malfoy, and they were still best friends, and they always would be.
"You know, you really shouldn't taunt her that way," Blaise smirked mischievously.
"What can I say? I prefer her pissed" Draco said as he walked back into the common room. He didn't bother to sit, though. He was too on edge after their tryst in the hallway.
He was too moved, and damn her to hell and back if he didn't feel like he'd failed her somehow.
But she was only his wife. She was only slowly becoming everything.
"She's not the only one who's worried though," Blaise said somberly. He leaned against the wall, next to the fireplace, his hands inside of his pockets.
"What have you heard?"
"A lot and nothing much," Blaise shrugged. "People are scared—scared that they'll be picked to join."
"No one can be forced," Draco frowned severely as he leaned against the back of a black leather sofa. "I'm not the poster boy for recruitment considering how I joined to begin with, but you can't be forced."
"But the Dark Side isn't exactly against giving a friendly push," Blaise gave him a knowing look. They both knew he was right. They both knew that this wasn't a problem that either cared too much about.
"Unless you've suddenly turned into a compassionate person," Draco gave him a pointed look, "there's no reason to actually talk about this. So why do I care?"
"If Death Eaters come recruiting, it's going to get messy."
"Spit it out, Blaise," Draco pursed his lips, in annoyance.
"Right now it's tense, but there's a balance. The Carrows are already pushing things as it is. If more Death Eaters come into Hogwarts? It's going to get out of hand, fast."
"People aren't doing much now," Draco shrugged, unconcerned. But his head wasn't focused. His body was still thrumming from Hermione's touch—from the heat inside of her that trapped him so easily.
But Blaise could read his friend like his own palm. They were brothers, and nothing could ever be hidden from one to the other.
"Fucking focus, Draco!" Blaise snarled, all good humor and nonchalance lost from his features. "People aren't doing much now? More like you don't see people doing much, because you're too high up in Granger's arse to actually see anything going on in Hogwarts—don't even try to deny it. I get it, okay? I get it. Between Granger, the Wizengamot, and the Dark Lord, you're up to your ears with problems. But there's still shit going on around here. Longbottom and bloody Daphne have started taking care of the younger years—trying to patch them up after class with the Carrows. Even Tracy Davis and that weird-looking bloke from Hufflepuff have started making rounds at night to make sure no one's being crucio'd in the hallway."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that people are banning together—it's not extreme, not yet, but people are. The house rivalries that've practically defined Hogwarts, and our lives in Hogwarts are disappearing. It's not about that, not anymore. The firsties, especially the ones without older siblings who've been to school here, just think it's always been like this. But you know better. The rest of us—we all know better. In what universe would Daphne be in cahoots with Longbottom? Things are changing, brother. Things are changing, and if more Death Eaters are thrown into the fray…" his voice trailed off for a moment.
Their heartbeats were war drums; their eyes were unafraid; their shoulders were slightly stooped; they were mirror images of each other flying on a broomstick into the eye of a storm.
"People are already gearing up for a fight," he finally said with a shake of his head at Draco. "You can feel it, I know you can. It's in the bloody air."
They stared at each other, the silence settling between them.
Choose your battles, he'd told Hermione. He'd meant it, and this wasn't a battle he was willing to fight. Not today. Not with the Dark Lord.
"If more Death Eaters show up, we'll deal with it then," Draco finally said with a sigh.
"We can't just ignore what's happening," Blaise frowned, his smooth, dark skin creasing at his forehead. "We can't bury our heads, not with this."
Choose your battles.
The Dark Mark on his arm burned, and Draco hissed in response. Blaise nodded his head stiffly, silently telling him he wasn't angry that Draco needed to go, but that this conversation wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
But as Draco turned to go, Blaise couldn't help himself.
"When they come, whose side will you choose? Because you'll have to make a choice, don't doubt it. You'll have to choose—whose side will you be on?"
Draco tensed, but he kept his silence.
Choose your battles.
He left the common room, his heart beating furiously in dread, as Blaise stood still, hands in his pockets, wondering what would become of them all.
A creak on the stairs snapped Blaise's eyes to attention. There Tilly stood, recently pressed clothes, immaculate as always, so beautiful that it could be painful sometimes, with a worried look upon her face. It hurt Blaise that he'd put that look there. It hurt him that he couldn't offer her a better world, a safer world.
"Whose side will you choose?" Tilly asked quietly, uncharacteristically somber. It was the only question that truly mattered for this pair. Their survival.
Blaise huffed out a cynical and bitter laugh. "I choose Draco's side. Whatever side that may be."
Because they were brothers, the dragon and the prince, and it mattered. Tilly's eyes burned, because she'd been afraid that would be Blaise's answer. Fear saturated Tilly's naturally carefree heart; somewhere in her bones she knew that Blaise's loyalty to Draco would condemn them all.
Hermione walked furiously through the dimly lit halls, the heels of her sensible shoes clicking and clacking as she stormed through Hogwarts. She was so upset with Draco. Then again, she knew that with so much vitriol between them, she could just as easily be moaning into the chilly night air if Draco had taken it upon himself to force the issue and continue their conversation in their bedroom.
It was strange and startling how easy their pain could be masked by hate, how quick they were to mask their hate with passion, how smooth the transition from one end of the spectrum to the other was for them.
It didn't matter that Malfoy had a point. It didn't matter that Hermione suddenly felt so heavy, so brittle. All that mattered was that Malfoy had power—he could do something, something more than she could, and he refused to act.
It didn't matter that he had acted for her with the Muggleborn Registration Act—that was then. Before. Now, despite her response to the Order, she expected more from him. She knew she shouldn't. Hermione knew, like the Earth itself knew when it was falling out of gravity of the sun, that she'd be disappointed, that she was setting herself up for disillusionment. But how could she protect herself from hope?
She knew she was being irrational, but the halls were closing in on her, the dark shadows were taunting her with crucios and vile smirks. She could see Death Eaters everywhere. Hermione could feel their hot breath on her skin, giving her goosebumps, and she recoiled from the slight breeze.
The castle, her first love with its bright candles and magical ceilings, was transforming before her eyes into an entity unrecognizable. It was an outrage that had settled deep in her bones, so much so that she couldn't dispel it, couldn't simply shake it off, regardless of how much she wanted to.
She needed a distraction—one that wasn't fighting, or fucking.
She went to pass by yet another daunting hallway, when she heard Luna's voice. She couldn't deal with Luna's ethereal nature, not right then. If the girl had mentioned even one nonsensical creature, Hermione was sure she'd explode or shatter. Honestly, with so many emotions running rampant through her, she'd be just as liable to burst into tears as she was to give Luna an unseemly crushing set-down.
Choose your battles, Granger, Draco had said. Choose your battles.
Hermione went to continue on her way because this was one battle she could do without. But then she heard Harry's voice. They were talking, but Hermione didn't understand. She was too far away, and the conversation seemed incredibly private, if their touching knees were any indication.
Without thought, Hermione quietly disillusioned herself and tip-toed over. Luckily they weren't under Muffliato, though Hermione scowled at Harry's recklessness. She sat across from them, kneeling as slow as molasses so neither would notice the slight shift in the wall.
Once she settled herself, knees crossed (which took forever to do at a snail's pace), their original conversation had shifted to something much more intimate to Hermione.
"They said that Malfoy is going to be named Voldemort's heir. That Hermione knows all about it, and a helluva lot more, and is trying to protect Malfoy—that she's not on our side…I told McGonagall that I'd spy on Hermione—find out what she knows for the Order," Harry's jaw clenched, and unclenched. His eyes were bright, and Hermione couldn't breathe. This was definitely not the kind of distraction she'd wanted. But she could do nothing else but sit, listen, and pray to Merlin that nothing was as it seemed.
"Really? Hmm," Luna reacted in her typical non-reactive way. "Are you actually going to?"
"No," he said firmly. "But I had a feeling that they wouldn't back off unless I said 'yes.' Fuck, what's happening to us, Luna? What's happening to everyone? Since when is it par for the course to expect people to betray their friends for a bloody cause?"
"It's a new world, Harry," Luna smiled sadly at him. Her eyes twinkled and swirled with all the mysteries of heaven and earth. "I believe in you, and I'm glad that you made the right choice. But why did you? Why are willing to burn for her?"
"I was there," Harry looked past Luna, into the past that spun in his mind's eye. He could see it, all of it, all of the decisions, and the mistakes. He could feel the beat of the past in the drumming of his heart. "The night she had her first kiss—with Victor Krum the night of the Yule Ball."
"I thought that night had ended in disaster because of Ron?"
"Yeah," Harry nodded, a bitter-sweet smile on his lips. "So had I, and so I went back downstairs. Thought I'd catch her crying on the stairs still, or maybe—I don't know. But I didn't find her wherever I expected her. So I walked around a bit, just searching for her, because, well, she's 'Mione, and she was upset. And in what universe would I have ever just let that go?"
"Where was she?"
"Outside, with Krum. They were under the stars like some bad romance novel, the kind Ginny loves, and I could just tell, y'know. They were too close, too serious, too oblivious of the fact that it was freezing out there. I knew they were going to kiss—that he was going to kiss her, that she was going to have her first kiss."
"You stayed?" Luna asked, her eyes aberrantly focused and shining with surprise.
"Yea," Harry blushed a bit. He knew how it sounded. But he needed her to understand. He needed her to know, because she was Luna and she always knew and understood. "I could've left. I could've turned around and walked away, left her alone, but she's Hermione. She's always been around for all of my big firsts after we met. The first time I flew on a broom. The first time I cried since I was a little kid—when I found out that Sirius had supposedly betrayed my parents. The first time I won a Quidditch match. The first time I did a successful spell. The first time I had a crush. Just—just a lot of firsts, y'know? She's always been there. And I just—I wanted to be with her for some of her firsts, too. I didn't want her to be alone, even if she didn't know I was there. She deserves that. She's earned that, because she's never left me alone."
Hermione's eyes glistened with tears as she overheard Harry's story. She understood too well, because she'd stood outside the door in their Fifth Year while he had his first kiss with Cho. She'd left the room intending to leave completely, but she was Hermione and he was Harry, and she couldn't leave him alone in such a big moment, even though she'd wanted to.
She'd felt weird, like she'd been breaking some kind of code, but she'd held her ground. She loved him too much to leave him alone in such a momentous moment in his life.
Now she knew he must love her that much too, and it was the warmest feeling in the world.
"Is that why you went to her wedding?"
"How'd you know? I was polyjuiced," Harry grinned wickedly at Luna. She constantly surprised him, and he never tired of it.
"In what universe would you not be there for her biggest first?" Luna smiled back at him.
Luna understood, and Harry Potter was blessed. He felt blessed.
Hermione could only watch in silence as Harry was bathed in grace, alighted by Luna's special love for him.
In that moment, Hermione comprehended what she may never have if she hadn't been witness to this conversation; she grasped how much Luna must love Harry Potter to always be on his side. She understood how special their relationship must be, must have always been.
Not special the way hers and Harry's were—never more, just different.
It was in this same instance that Harry understood the same thing…and so Hermione was there for another first. Even if neither knew.
Hermione knew that she should wait until they were in the sanctity of their bedroom. She knew that it was the only place they could truly talk, but the second Harry and Luna left, she'd lifted the disillusionment charm and went sprinting towards the quidditch pitch.
It was nearing 9:00pm, and she knew she would find Draco on the pitch, practicing in the dark. It was ridiculous, really, since unless there was a game at night, there weren't any optio lights in the air to light up the pitch.
She sent up a spark that crashed into his broom, and sent him spiraling. His broom, his beautiful Nimbus 2000, was probably the most precious thing he owned besides his damned whiskey.
It was a bad idea the second she did it, and it was clear when he landed, his grey eyes alight with rage.
"Are you bloody mental, woman?!" Draco said dangerously softly. Too dangerous. Too soft.
But Hermione squared her shoulders, and prepared herself. "Anything you'd like to tell me, Malfoy?"
"No, I haven't fucked every girl in our year."
"What?" That was most definitely not where Hermione had been heading.
"Isn't that how those conversations always go?" Draco plopped himself on to the cold ground, waved a quick and silent warming charm, and plucked a book from his back pocket. He was trying to control his anger by masking it with nonchalance, but there was a little too much bite in his words. "You ask me if there's anything I want to tell, I say 'no,' you then proceed to accuse me of sleeping with every girl in our year, and I vehemently deny it."
"Isn't there something else, more pressing," Hermione said through gritted teeth. "That you've forgotten to tell me? Something I'd actually care to know."
"Granger, I'm sure there's lots that you don't fucking know," Draco opened the book, and leaned on his forearm.
"Don't play games, Malfoy!" Hermione seethed. She wouldn't let this go. Not this. Anything but this. "When were you going to tell me!" she grabbed at the front of his cloak, and hauled him to his feet. It was aggressive and unwarranted, but she wanted him angry; if he was angry, then he was at least being honest.
"Fuck me! Granger," Draco exploded uncharacteristically. She knew she'd pushed him too far, but she wasn't willing to back down now. Frankly, she wasn't willing to back down ever. "What in the bloody hell is your problem?"
"My problem?" Hermione shoved him with all her might. He barely budged, and it simply infuriated her further. "My problem, you unimaginable bastard, is that you're going to be crowned heir! Heir! To Voldemort!"
"Are we really going to have this discussion about His name?" Draco said icily. Fuck, he hated Voldemort, but he was still his Lord, and he was due respect, despite how much he hated the man. "I thought Snape cured you of that habit," he purposefully used Tilly's words simply to annoy Hermione further.
"Guess courage is a hard habit to kick," Hermione snapped. She was in no mood for levity.
"So is foolishness, I hear," he said pointedly.
Choose your battles. She didn't want to yield, but this was one battle that she'd already thrown long ago, the night she'd gone to Malfoy Manor.
Draco saw the acquiescence in her eyes, and it was enough. He went back to the book he had in his hand, though he didn't try to sit back down. It was honestly a surprise that he didn't have a glass of whiskey in the other.
"Take a breath, Granger. You should know that rumors are hardly ever true."
"You didn't answer my question."
Draco smiled slowly, genuinely appreciative of her astuteness. It was a typical Slytherin answer: purposefully misleading, but not inaccurate or untrue.
He looked up, and fell into the eyes of his wife, and fuck, did he want her. But now wasn't about that. It couldn't be about that, because there was so much middle ground to cover if the beginning of this conversation was any indication.
"Ask me a question for which I have an answer."
"Are you actually saying that you don't know?"
"I'm saying that no one's told me that I'm the Dark Lord's heir."
"Stop talking in circles, Malfoy!"
"I wasn't aware there were other ways to talk."
Hermione huffed, exasperated and irate. "Okay, fine. Let's say you're not the Dark Lord's heir. Why would he need an heir at all?"
"Hell if I know, Granger," Draco let out a breathy laugh, the kind that always drove desire through Hermione's belly. But she wouldn't be swayed by the delicious sins his lips promised. Not when this mattered. She wouldn't be the only woman he's ever begged if she did. "You need to let this incessant need to know everything go. We're not that high up on the food chain on either side to know this kind of shit."
"Well, if you're going to be heir, then you'll certainly be that high up," she growled, pushing him with every utterance.
"What do you want from me?" Draco asked, annoyed and fuming that his little time of peace had been disturbed. Between classes, duties with the Wizengamot, his friends, the Carrows, his wife, and meetings with the Dark Lord, Draco barely ever found a chance to be alone, let alone have any sort of peace. Riding his broom, pretending that the only thing that mattered was being weightless, was the only kindness he afforded himself. Now, even that had been ruined by her. "What could you possibly want from me?"
"I want you to be the man you were when you stood up to the Registration law!" she yelled at him, not caring who walked by and heard them. This late at night, this far out on the pitch, she was highly doubtful that anyone would come. "I want you to be—"
"Someone else!" Draco snarled, sick and tired of Hermione's self-righteous attitude. "We've had this conversation a thousand times, so why don't we talk about what we haven't touched on before—let's talk about you. You want me change? What about taking a long, hard look in the mirror, dear wife, because from where I'm standing you're not that fucking high on the pedestal!"
"That's not fair and you know it," Hermione glared at him. This wasn't about her. This was about his dishonesty. His inability to tell her the truth about their lives, because his life affected her, now. "I'm trying my best."
"So am I," Draco ran his hand through his hair, and she could feel exhaustion and fatigue permeating into the very air around them. It was trying to drown them. But they were born fighters, and they'd fight until their very last breath. They'd claw, scratch, and curse their way to freedom. If only they knew how to be free of themselves, the burden of their own souls. "What's really got your knickers in a twist, Granger? And don't fucking hit me with all of your morality bullshit that you like to spit like you're being paid to say it. Really."
She went to speak, but they were close again, and his eyes were cutting into her very flesh, tearing her down, tying her to the truth and nothing else. Seamlessly, her brain was crawling with images that she'd buried. The first time she did accidental magic. The first time she had ever hugged Ron. The way Draco had leaned into her touch when he'd been broken and bleeding. The way her body had shivered when she had kneeled in front of Voldemort.
Hermione's mind tried to erect walls, but she wasn't as fast or as good at this as Draco was. Finally, finally, she'd been able to push him out of her mind, and she felt breathless, as though she'd ran a thousand miles.
"That was out of line," she scowled. Her eyes glimmered with disgust, and pain. Pain at so many things that she couldn't even fathom to name them all. "You had no right to do that!"
"You're my wife," Draco ground out. He was still, like a statue. His eyes were tiny mirrors of icebergs. This was the man she knew was hiding behind the ardent words in the throes of passion, and swift smirks. This was her Death Eater husband, and she'd rather see him any day than the façade he wore. "And until you learn to properly shield yourself, which you should be practicing daily, I'll do that whenever the hell I want."
"You're a monster!" Hermione turned to leave, but Draco grabbed at her arm, and hauled her back. They were in this now, and neither were going to back away. Draco wouldn't let them.
"Yeah, okay," he snarled. "I'll be the monster. But you still haven't said one honest thing here tonight. You bloody well came here looking for something so we're going to hash this one out, Granger, right here, right now."
"What do you want, Malfoy?" Hermione sighed. Her eyes took in all of him; his downturned lips, his furrowed brows, the anxious tick in his jaw, and the intensity of his gaze. That gaze that filled her and made her feel perpetually hollow. "What do you want me to say?"
"Just—stop with the moral high-ground," he said quietly. His grip turned from iron into a warm comforting hand, a cocoon that was welcoming instead of destructive.
He searched her stare, trying to find the links he couldn't see. He knew that what he'd seen through occlumency had the answers hidden there, he just wasn't sure what to make of it all; that was the problem with occlumency sometimes—it could show the events, the emotions tied to the events, but the legilimens had to be able to read the information. Sometimes he could, and other times, especially with Hermione, he couldn't.
A silence, so powerful, threatened to overcome them. But Hermione was brave. Hermione was strong. She was fucking Hermione Malfoy, and she'd never shy away from her own truth again. Not since before her wedding. Not since she understood that she was better than that.
"I remember what you looked like after the Dark Lord—after the Registration Law passed," Hermione stated. She tried to be matter-of-fact, but this was too close to home. Too important to exist without emotions entangling itself into the very fiber of the words. "He did that to you. He, that monster, tried to be break you. And what? I'm supposed to sit here and watch as you prostrate yourself to him? I'm supposed to kneel at his feet, too?"
"We do what we have to, to survive," Draco lifted his hand and smoothed down some of her wilder curls. It was sweet, and she sort of resented him, because just as he was sweet, he could be even crueler. "There's no shame or glory in surviving."
"Are we though?" Hermione laid her hand on his chest. She wanted to feel him, feel the weight of his heartbeat underneath her palm as she asked him the most important question she'd asked him all day. "Are we just surviving? Because being heir? That's not just surviving. That feels a lot like becoming Icarus, and we both know what happened to him."
"Look, the heir thing really is just a rumor—one that I'm pretty sure the blasted Order started on some bad intel," Draco tried to reassure Hermione. He wasn't great at it, but he tried, and she could see that he was trying.
"And if it's not just smoke and mirrors? What then?"
"I don't even know why you're worried! You're protected, untouchable," Draco responded, honestly perplexed. "However that pans out, whatever comes from it, you're still the wife of a Death Eater. You can't be touched."
"But the second you fall from grace, I'm down there with you, and suddenly I'm not so untouchable," Hermione retorted without a second of hesitation.
Just like that, Draco knew this had been the problem all along.
Hermione looked away in shame. She should've been worried about his life. She should've been worried about the impact of all of this in the war, in the Light Side's chance of winning.
Instead, she'd been selfishly thinking about her own life, her own survival.
She'd become like everyone else. She'd become like everyone she'd despised and thought inferior.
But Draco wouldn't judge her for being human.
He kissed her slowly, like the way butterflies land on flowers. He kissed her with kindness and compassion, which was so foreign to them. He kissed her like he could love her, if only she'd let herself be loved.
"Listen, Granger," Draco let his words hang between them until they'd taken root deep in her subconscious. "I would fucking die, be twelve feet under the bloody ground, before I'd let anyone touch you. I'd watch the world become ashes and dust first. De magia et fides."
His word was his bond, and he was asking her to believe him. To believe that his position within the Death Eater ranks wouldn't have any bearing on her safety.
She knew it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. It was too Dumbledore of an outcome to be reality. Draco had been the one to teach her that Dumbledore's world wasn't the real world. That all things didn't end well because they believed it would.
Choose your battles, Granger.
She knew it wasn't true.
She nodded her head and chose to believe him anyway. She chose to believe in him, anyway, because he was Draco Malfoy and like Narcissa said: the heavens will never abandon their dragon.
Soo, what do you think? Anwyho, liked it? Hated it? Let me know and review! **Reviews are love**