Relationship:

Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger

Summary:

Draco Malfoy lowers his wand and drops Harry's limp body face-first into the sand.

I'm so overcome with the thrill of hearing Harry's immediate groan that I don't even panic that a Death Eater has followed us here, wherever 'here' is.

"Penance," says Draco, rolling Harry over with his boot. "The Chosen One in exchange for safe passage to wherever the fuck the Order's headquarters are stationed."

It's the last thing I remember before my body gives out.

Tags:

Mature Sexual Content, Violence, Blood and Gore, Implied/Referenced Torture, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance, Horcrux Hunting, Eventual Happy Ending, POV Hermione Granger, Hidden Feelings, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Chronic Illness, Near Death Experiences, Caretaker Draco Malfoy, Suicidal Thoughts, Forced Habitation, no beta because I'm not dumping this mess onto anyone else, Implied/Referenced Minor Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Virgin Draco Malfoy, Virgin Hermione Granger, Loss Of Virginity, Mutual Pining, Enemies To Friends To Lovers, Secret Relationship, Angst, misuse of muggle drugs (but it's for a good cause)

Mood:

I'm standing at the end of the sky,

And I look from behind,

By a break in the clouds where the sun streams out,

Starts turning all the greenery to gold.

It'll never get old.

I get little shivers when it isn't even cold...

Little shivers when it isn't even cold...

I'm standing at the end of the sky,

Where the sun streams out.

It'll never get old...

- 'Everlasting Evening (feat. Sea Oleena)' by Guilty Ghosts

Magic spills into the briny air with a single loud crack, echoing off the rocky coastline as I tumble to the Earth.

Sand flings skyward as I smack onto the ground beneath a jutting cliff ledge, ears ringing and jaw clacking together. The landing knocks the wind from my lungs, my diaphragm spasming uselessly in my chest. Too disoriented to panic, I lay my sluggish palms flat on my ribs and stare at the misty horizon until the muscle relaxes, a rattling wheeze sucking past my lips at long last. The relief that floods my body is transient as I gain my bearings.

Where we've landed isn't safe.

Pebbles and driftwood dig into my bare spine through the torn scraps of my jumper. From what little I can see, I know that I'm lying belly-up on one of England's shingled beaches like an overturned hermit crab, but I'm too battered and exhausted to crawl out from the open and seek shelter.

When I stretch my fingers in a wordless call of accio, the only thing that greets my palm is a bitter gust of wind. Dread coils in my gut as I grit my teeth and turn my tender neck to survey my surroundings further, but the movement blackens my vision on the edges. The after-effects of Bellatrix Lestrange's cruciatus curse seep through my blood like a fermenting poison, sickening my mind and slowing my senses.

Every aching limb tremors, jerking involuntarily with sharp spasms, but before I can spare an ounce of worry that I'm spell-damaged beyond repair, the tide crests into curling waves that crash onto the beach. The weight of the water sucks my breath away, stunning me in an open-mouthed, gurgling scream. The world turns dark blue and murky as the sun disappears. Freezing seawater fills my throat until I choke, the ocean drawing me deeper into its depths and pummeling my shoulders and skull against the bedrock.

If my body wasn't damaged before, it certainly is now.

Boneless in the tide as it throws me with its will.

For a staggering moment that clenches my gut, I think I'm finally going to die, that I've survived the war this long only to perish on some obscure beach in some nameless place, weaponless, joyless, and completely alone.

There's no strength in my limbs to swim clear of the current. No magic to call upon to guide me to shore. The waves wash me farther out to sea, and whatever mental reserve I have is a fool's wish that won't manifest in physical form. A cruel, defeated smile wrenches across my lips as I accept my fate.

It's all I can manage as the saltwater settles in my chest and belly, sinking me towards my silent grave.

This is it.

This is actually it.

The end of life and light and goodness and hope.

There isn't time to wish for goodbyes to all the people I love as my eyes slit against the murky depths. Darkness fogs my brain and holds my waning heart tethered in its grip, but before I can yield to its never-ending oblivion, a pale, distorted figure with hair as vibrant as flames blocks out the sun.

In a moment of clarity, I think he's an angel sent to shepherd me home.

And then I remember his name is Ron.

I'm dragged to the surface by strong hands, none too gently considering my injuries, though I can hardly spare a thought to care.

As soon as my chin is jerked above the waves, I vomit profusely.

When my feet hit land, I retch again, but it's only bile this time, wiped away with my one working arm as I sob and gasp for air.

Ron half drags, half carries me higher up the dunes until the rising threat of turbulent water is far behind our backs. When the terrain changes into sparse tufts of reedy beach grass and our feet sink in dry sand, he collapses to his knees with an agonising cry, clutching me to his chest as if I'm precious and all he has left.

"Hermione. Oh, God, Hermione. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to apparate us in the water. Please be alright. Please don't leave me. I didn't mean-"

A grey film shrouds my consciousness as Ron pleads for forgiveness for crimes he didn't commit.

After what might have been seconds or minutes, Ron falls silent and strokes my hair, sweeping the matted strands from my face as my breath rattles in my chest. I'm awake now. Fully awake. And since I'm out of the water and no longer drowning, I'm painfully aware of every mangled spot on my body that stings and hurts. My left wrist is twisted at an impossible angle, congealed blood hiding a glimpse of visible bone. I cradle the aching limb to my breast and grimace as the sticky swell reopens against my palm. It oozes between my fingers with the slightest pressure, metallic-smelling and disgusting.

When I glance down my chest, abrasions and bruises dapple across my torso in swaths of red and purple while jagged, deep cuts spill blood down my ribs. As disturbing as these surface wounds are, I know they are child's play compared to my internal injuries. I am not a versed healer by any stretch of the word, but even I know it's improbable to walk away from the Cruciatius curse without bearing lifelong scars.

However, I will live to walk another day.

Despite all odds, that statement is true.

There are still so many things that I don't understand about our current situation. The last thing I remember from before the beach was being held captive in Wiltshire. In an ostentatious stronghold that I'm reasonably certain was Draco Malfoy's ancestral manor. We'd hexed Harry's face before the snatchers stole us from the forest, as shoddy of a plan as it seemed at the time, though it bought Harry's life since they failed to recognise him. Ron shouted and cursed at the Malfoys as they restrained us with magic, Bellatrix drinking her fill of liquor and slicing cuts across our bodies like we were animals for slaughter. The ugly heap of a man on the floor was beneath her attention. Nor was she interested in Ron when her black eyes started rolling with booze.

She wanted revenge against the mudblood who had presumably stolen from her vault in Gringotts. With a target painted on my back, I became Bellatrix's singular focus.

Had my tormenter been sober, I would not have survived longer than a few minutes. But the witch's power was stunted with whisky, her breath sour and foul in my nostrils, and her technique, praise the Lord, was sloppy and imprecise.

It was the carelessness that spared my brain from swelling and herniating.

Ron screamed for her to release us, for someone to help, but he was hardly in a position to bargain or fight, cowed as he was against Draco Malfoy's front with a wand shoved against his trachea.

But we'd survived it.

Somehow, we'd escaped.

Me, Ron, Harry….

I choke on my next breath.

"We have to go back," I say, but my words are a whisper lost to the wind. My ears are clogged and popping, and my vision still stings from the salt, but I grind my teeth and soldier through the unpleasantness of surviving for him. With my last ounce of strength, I jerk my chin up so I can hold Ron's gaze as he frowns down at me. The bravado fails. A cough wracks my chest so hard that I shake with its force, expelling dirty seawater from my lungs in gagging fits while Ron thuds his fist on my back once and leaves it there, too frightened of injuring me further to use any genuine force. There's a condition called secondary drowning that I'm somewhat afraid is happening, but there isn't time to fret over my own mortality when Harry's life hangs in the balance.

When I'm able to speak again, my voice is hoarse from strain, but it's stronger this time.

"Ron." I flinch as tears stream down his blood-stained cheeks. "It's Harry, Ron. This is Harry. We have to go back right now."

Bright spots flash in my vision as the beach spins. I think Ron is saying something, or perhaps he's shouting again, shaking my shoulders and snapping his fingers in my face. It's difficult to tell through the haze. I gasp his name as daylight fades to night, and my consciousness is torn asunder.

When I open my eyes next, the sun is hanging lower in the overcast sky, tingeing the breaks in the western clouds with a splash of warm orange.

It takes me a moment to realise that my head is in Ron's lap. It's another full minute before I realise that he's crying.

"Ron," I whisper, fingers twitching as I fail to reach for him. "Don't cry, Ron. It isn't over."

He sucks in a sharp breath, holds it, and I know his answer to my earlier demands before his voice carries down with the breeze.

"This was the plan all along, 'Mione. Remember? We made a pact." He sounds as weary and broken as my bones feel. "There is no going back when the survival of our mission is on the line. It's just you and me now."

Tears well in my eyes as I shake my head.

"No. No. There's still time to save him. This is Harry we're talking about. As long as there's life in our bodies, we can make it to the manor. You can apparate us there again-"

Ron is as ashen grey and misty as the stratus clouds in the east.

"I can't," he says, unable to meet my eyes. "It took everything in me to save you. To bring us here in one piece. But I didn't even do that correctly. You're not even whole, Hermione. You're broken. Our dittany is gone. Bellatrix snapped your wand, and the snatchers tossed our protean coins in the forest. If I try to apparate again without resting first, we'll splinch. And then what? Everything the Order's worked for, everything Harry's done, will be in vain."

I choke on my tears as each truth stabs a fissure at my heart.

"We have to try," I say. "Ron, look at me. There's hope. There has to be."

Ron's fringe covers his eyes as his head hangs limp. Tears roll off his jaw and drip onto mine, and I know he's reached the end of his rope, too stricken with grief to fight.

We are utterly alone on this deserted beach, with only the seagulls, crustaceans, and the ghosts of our pasts for company.

And Harry… Oh God, Harry….

Fresh sobs wrench my breath away, and I'm gasping as Ron clutches me tighter like I'm the only thing anchoring him to this world. The ocean may not have killed me yet, but grief makes a fair play of cracking my heart in two, twisting my soul into ribboned shreds that flit away in the breeze. I long for my body to follow them and float into the abyss like so many other Order members before me. With a strangled cry, I call upon God to end this misery. The pain of living without my dearest, oldest friend and continuing without hope is too large a burden to bear.

'No single person is worth more than an entire country' is what we've always said. Our plan was always to keep moving forward no matter the cost, but now that I'm faced with the steep price of that reality, I'm suddenly selfish.

Suddenly wallowing.

But I'm past the point of caring about what happens next when everything and everyone I touch abandons me or turns to ash.

If I can just grasp Ron's wand, perhaps I can end this anguish myself….

A reverberating crack rumbles off the cliffs, and I jolt in Ron's lap as he whips his wand towards the sound.

I squint against the fading sunlight and suck in a ragged breath.

A shadow is walking towards us, a blurry figure dressed in black. At its heels is a body levitating only inches above the ground. As the figure looms closer, I realise it isn't a shadow at all but the ghost of a man I used to spar with in class.

Draco Malfoy lowers his wand and drops Harry's limp body face-first into the sand.

I'm so overcome with the thrill of hearing Harry's immediate groan that I don't even panic that a Death Eater has followed us here, wherever 'here' is.

"Penance," says Draco, rolling Harry over with his boot. "The Chosen One in exchange for safe passage to wherever the fuck the Order's headquarters are stationed."

It's the last thing I remember before my body gives out.

When I awaken sometime later, eyes blinking with crust, I'm lying on something plush that feels peculiarly like a mattress instead of sand and rock. Darkness and three familiar voices greet me. Two are hopeful, panicked, and hoarse, while the third is as calm and deep as a moonless night.

"She's waking up," says a hushed voice that belongs to Harry. "Her eyes are opening." I reach towards the sound and gasp as my fingers connect with a warm hand. Harry's hand. Slurred apologies leave my lips as lamented prayers. I frown and try to enunciate so Harry understands how sorry I am for almost giving up, for almost leaving him and everything we've worked for behind. As I try to pronounce each word carefully, a sludge-like sensation fills my head and coats my tongue in tar, sticking it to the roof of my mouth, and I know without being told that my speech is garbled and senseless.

It's so dark that I can't see any shapes.

Or light.

Weren't we on the beach only moments ago?

Has the sun already set?

Shouldn't there be stars overhead?

"'Mione?" I hear Ron snap his fingers in front of my face. "Hermione, can you see?"

My brows knit together as I shake my head, rubbing my eyes with my one good hand.

"She needs a healer," says the calmest voice, a rumble floating somewhere near my ear. I turn my cheek towards the sound and reach through the darkness until my fingers grasp a fabric that's softer than velvet. I twist it in my grip and pull whoever it is closer, or try to, but my fingers tremble. The body comes nearer anyway, robes rustling, as though its owner understands my intent.

"I can't see," I whisper, voice cracking. "Everything is black."

"I know," says Draco, or who I think is Draco. The beach scene rushes back to me, and I gasp, dropping my hand until the only thing touching my palm is air. Draco's voice lacks patience, but it isn't cruel. It's farther away the next time he speaks. "You've been tortured to within an inch of your life, Granger. You might never see again."

All three men argue over each other since Draco has said aloud what is apparently abhorrent to acknowledge. As terrible as it is to learn that my condition is deteriorating, it's just as miserable to sit on the sidelines while others debate my future as if I'm not even here.

After making a few more contemptuous threats towards Draco, Harry and Ron turn their attention towards deciding who is in the best condition to leave our newfound shelter in search of help. A plan forms while I float in and out of consciousness. Sometime later, a door slams with enough force to jolt me awake, but it barely registers as pain overwhelms my senses. The adrenaline and weak healing spells that had protected me have long worn off, leaving me vulnerable to the curse's insidious force.

The next time I open my eyes, the light is blinding. It takes several minutes for my retinas to adapt and the sensitivity to wane. When I finally squint against the sunlight slanting through the grimy windows, gaze adjusting to the weathered interior of the safehouse, I gasp anew and push against my pillows.

An elderly woman dressed in drab green robes is leaning over my face, her lips pursed in consternation.

"It's the best I can do," she says in a thick Scottish burr, breath reeking of mint and tobacco. The woman glances at something, or someone, behind me and frowns. "There shouldn't be any lingering pneumonia now that the water is clear from the lassie's lungs. Her breath sounds strong and even, and the inflammation lining her endothelium will recede over time." Her frown deepens. "However, obstetrics is my specialty, not curse-mending. The cruciatus she suffered needs intensive treatment with neurological and orthopaedic healers. Apparition may be the fastest form of travel, but it's absolutely out of the question until the lass is on the mend. Otherwise, she'll splinch, and I'm not just talking about her limbs. It's her brain you've got to coddle now. If it sustains anymore injuries, you'll have a bigger problem on your hands. An unfixable one. Now, I can mask the curse's symptoms and stuff her full of pain potions so she can manage the Floo, but if there's any hope for a meaningful recovery, it's at the Janus Thickey Ward in London."

"No," says Ron, sinking next to me on the mattress. The weight of him pulls our hips together as he brushes my hair off my forehead, protective as a bear. "No hospitals. The Floo system is monitored going in and out of Britain. It's too risky. We're not…." He swallows audibly, looking towards the corner where Harry sags against the wall. My heart races in my chest at the sight of him alive, and he flashes a sheepish smile when our gazes lock.

Ron's fingers intertwine with mine, drawing my attention back to this corner of the room.

"None of us will survive if we take her there," he says. "There's no such thing as neutral territory anymore."

The healer frowns and breathes a deep sigh, rubbing her forehead as if this information tries her patience. After a moment, she rummages in her satchel and places an iron cauldron on the rickety bedside table, muttering what I assume are profanities in Gaelic. Ron and Harry hover as she decants bottles and fills the cauldron with water, but she sends them away with a stern glance.

"Stop hovering, or else I'll stun you. You lot are worse than expecting fathers." The cauldron bubbles with her spell as she snaps sprigs and leaves into the liquid. "This brew will last you for the week, but you can't stay here. If what you say is true, it's only a matter of time before the Death Eaters track you to the village." She lowers the heat to a simmer and fixes all of us with a severe frown. "Look. I understand your plight, sincerely, but this isn't Crail's battle. Even if we want to help the Order, there aren't enough of us with a fighting spirit to spare. This is a village of fishermen, retirees, and young families. Bloody hell… Don't look at me like that. Do you not realise what you're asking? Most of the populace isn't even magical."

Someone scoffs from the doorway.

"Brilliant," says Draco, arms crossed as he sneers at the healer. "Will someone please tell me why the fuck the Order picked a safehouse in such a useless, cowardly village? Look me in the eye, you old coot. Do you seriously think the Dark Lord's forces will stop in Britain?" His low chuckle makes my skin crawl. "Sod off with this foolish neutrality speech. Everything you know and everyone you love will die under the Dark Lord's rule, whether you support his cause or not."

There's a tension-filled moment where I think the healer might stomp forward and slap the sneer off Draco's face, but she straightens instead, shoulders rigid, and packs away her empty bottles.

"Be that as it may," comes her curt reply. "Until the time comes where I have no choice but to fight, this is the extent of my charity. Please, for all of our sakes, leave our shores and return from whence you came."

The old woman ambles away and almost reaches the door, but Draco slinks across the room and jabs his wand against the base of her skull before she can clutch the knob or even gasp.

"Petrificus totalus," he says, followed by a growling, "Obliviate."

Draco levitates the healer and floats her through the door, kicking it shut behind him with his boot. No one else reacts with any surprise save for me, and I realise that wiping the woman's memory must have been the plan from the start.

Harry staggers to the bed and collapses near my feet, having the decency to appear chagrined.

"No loose ends," he says by way of explanation, patting my calf. He's the least bruised and cut up of the three of us, though his eyes are drooping in the corners and red-rimmed. "Malfoy will disillusion them until they're back inside the clinic. She won't remember a thing when she wakes."

I nod as if I understand this plan, though my memory of it ever forming is fuzzy.

"Why is Malfoy helping us?"

Harry and Ron exchange an unreadable glance, though it's Harry who finally answers after a few false starts.

"The Malfoys have defected from the Death Eaters' ranks, or so they claim." He plays with a torn edge of my sheet, then pinches the bridge of his nose.

"What do you mean they've defected?" I ask, frowning as the words roll over my tongue.

Harry sighs and bounces his foot over his knee. His clothes have seen better days. There are more holes in his sock than there are threads, and most of his toes are visible, tufts of downy black hair and sand granules clinging to his skin. It's obvious he hasn't bathed since arriving, attentive to my needs before his own. The scent of him is sharp and so absolutely familiar and wonderful that my heart swells, fresh tears brimming in my eyes, though the wizard in question mistakes their origin and squeezes my calf.

"No tears for what happened, Hermione. We're safe."

I force a tight smile and blink them away, which appeases Harry enough to continue.

"Everything happened in a blur when Bellatrix started torturing you," he says. "She was so deep in her cups that she didn't even turn when Lucius sent a fiendfyre spell at her back. It was cowardly, but even I can't find a fault when he killed the devil's right-hand man. Er, woman."

I gasp at the vivid image of fiery beasts engulfing the malevolent witch. Not one bone would be left to bury—a fitting ending. Harry grimaces as though he understands precisely what I'm thinking.

"Yeah. It was a living nightmare. Had I not been bound on the floor, the spell would have hit me, too. But Malfoy was quick and levitated me down to the dungeons before the flames swallowed the room. It was like they'd planned it all, which he told me later they had, though not exactly as it happened. Figures they've been scheming for themselves. Anyway, Malfoy freed the other prisoners and led us through the tunnels. Luna was there. And Ollivander, too. If we weren't so far underground beneath all that stone, I think we would have burned along with the rest of the Manor."

Harry takes a sip of my water and smacks his parched lips before passing the glass to Ron, who gulps the rest and casts an Aguamenti until liquid threatens to spill over the rim.

"It was absolute chaos when we broke the ground," says Harry, summoning a towel for Ron. "The Death Eaters were apparating to the gardens in droves, trying to snuff the flames. But you know how fiendfyre is. It doesn't stop burning until everything is destroyed. Luna and Ollivander fled without a word as to where they were going. Malfoy rennervated me so I could run, but I was useless on my feet. So, he stunned me again and dragged me with a levitation spell through several apparition points. Eventually, we landed in a dark house. Lucius was there, and maybe Malfoy's mum. The details are still a bit fuzzy after all the spinning. I think it was Lucius who used legilimency to get the locations of the Order's safehouses from my head. He was starking mad when he learned that we were holed up in Grimmauld Place, though I don't think he realised it's considered headquarters."

Harry's eyes have a faraway look behind his smudged glasses. "It's a miracle any of us made it out alive, to be honest. We should have died there. We would have died there if Bella had been expecting us or if more people had been at the Manor aside from the Malfoys."

Ron sighs and walks to the window, leaning his head against the glass. Harry watches the other boy for a moment, mouth drawn in a grim frown, then continues his story.

"There isn't any way to get a message out. The skies are being watched for owls. But Lucius said they'd try."

I nod as if the Malfoys helping us makes any sort of sense, though suspicion weighs heavy in my gut. This is the same family who's tried to capture or kill us multiple times over, who probably would have succeeded had we not escaped by the skin of our teeth.

However, the fact remains that the Malfoys did save us this time. Although there isn't a cell in my body that believes their motives are altruistic. They must have realised that fighting on the winning side means nothing if their entire legacy is destroyed. I can't imagine that Voldemort has left their coffers intact, either.

"That explains how you got out," I say. "But what about Ron and me?"

I don't remember escaping, though I suppose I wouldn't, considering the circumstances of my mental and physical torture. Ron returns to the bed and plays with my fingers as he fills in the gaps in Harry's story.

"Malfoy shoved a wand into my fist and pushed me onto you. As soon as I had a hand on your body, I apparated to the beach. I tried to go back at first for Harry… That's why you almost drowned, 'Mione. I was going to leave you."

A tormented expression flickers across Ron's face, and I squeeze his hand before he can spiral.

"Stop," I say. "You didn't know that would happen, Ron. And you heard the healer. Aside from the curse, I'm fine."

It doesn't seem as though Ron believes me if his shining eyes and sniffling are any indication of his thoughts, but he nods all the same.

An hour later, Draco bursts through the door with the healer's bag strapped over his shoulder. He dumps a slew of potions onto the table as Harry re-seals the wards. It looks as if Draco's stolen the clinic's entire inventory, vials clinking as he organises them by label and shoves the extras in the drawer. My stomach twists as I count the bottles. The people in this town need the healer's assistance just as much as we do.

"Take it all back," I say, motioning with my good hand. "That isn't meant for us." My other arm is braced against my chest, still aching beyond belief, though the worst of it is dulled from the analgesic potion.

Draco shoots me a withering glance as if I've just asked him to snatch celestial bodies from the sky.

"Stuff off, Granger," he says at last, turning his back to me. "This is all for you."

Time passes in stretches of thready consciousness, lapses of lucidity woven between excruciating bouts of pain. When my groggy eyes blink open next, a groan escapes my throat as the dawning light of a new day shines its rays directly into my face.

Harry rouses at the disruption and pours potions down my throat before disappearing into the neighbouring room to scheme with Ron and our newfound ally: the Death Eater turned Order member overnight. Most of the planning takes place where I can't hear, partly because Harry is cautious of overexerting my brain with complicated plots. The other reason, which I suspect is the primary reason they shut the door between the rooms, is that Ron is overwhelmed with guilt and can't stand to be in my sight for more than a few minutes.

I've told him it's ridiculous to blame himself for what happened on the beach, but he wears my wounds on his shoulders as if they're his scars to bear.

There's nothing for me to do in the bedroom since walking by myself is out of the question, so I'm left to convalesce in silence, alone with my thoughts. The dust bunnies on the rafters and the cracks creeping along the plaster walls keep me company until I think my sanity is going to snap.

Ron appears after what feels like hours, though it has probably only been minutes. He's wearing a look on his face that makes my stomach drop to my knees, and I think I might have preferred his avoidance.

"Harry and I are leaving for Grimmauld Place in a few minutes," he says, unable to meet my eyes. "The Wizarding Wireless Network says that anti-apparition wards are active throughout Britain and Scotland, effective immediately. The only way to get through is with a bloody licence. Malfoy thinks the Dark Lord suspects foul play. His mark's been burning nonstop since yesterday. Won't stop whining 'bout it. Apparently, his family's Manor was the Death Eaters' headquarters, so it's an even bigger loss than we originally thought. Harry and I will have to travel the muggle way now. Don't s'pose it's so different from taking the Express."

The air whooshes from my lungs as I grasp what this means.

"Take me with you," I say, trying to sit up. The movement is too fast, and I collapse into the pillows as the room spins. "Please, Ron. Please don't leave me here alone. I can travel in a wheelchair."

Ron shakes his head and sits on the edge of the bed, lacing our hands together a final time.

"The healer was right to place you on bedrest, 'Mione. Just getting you to the loo takes all your strength. There's no way you'd make it to London in this condition, no matter how many pain potions you drink."

I clench Ron's fist to stave off angry tears, glaring through blurred eyes.

"So that's it, then? Why can't Malfoy go instead of you?"

A gutted frown crosses his face as if I've punched him.

"If his parents sent a message like they claimed they would, then the Order didn't believe them. It has to come from someone with proper clearance who isn't a Death Eater. And we don't have the time to wait until…." His eyes narrow as he stares at my bandaged arms. "Look. We know that Malfoy helped us all escape, but there's a big difference between him knowing the Order's location and him actually accessing it. If he gets inside and it turns out he's a double agent, then we've damned the entire cause. That's my family, 'Mione. We can't do that to them."

An icy shiver cascades down my spine.

"So you're leaving me here with him."

It's a statement of fact more than a question, and Ron looks just as guilty as I'd hoped he wouldn't.

"There isn't any choice. Harry and I aren't in the best of fighting conditions, either, but we think we'll manage to protect each other's backs if we go as a pair. The journey shouldn't take more than a few days. Malfoy isn't… Uh, well. It's odd to say, but for as awful as he's been, it seems like he wants this war to end almost as much as we do. 'With as little carnage as possible' is what he said. Guess we all have a common cause now."

Harry knocks on the doorframe and walks into the room with the healer's satchel slung over his chest. At the sight of him packed and ready to leave, it's too difficult to speak anymore, so I let go of Ron's hand and reach towards Harry's, shuddering when he kneels at my bedside. Goodbyes are too permanent, so we hug each other instead with promises that they'll return in a few days' time. With a final parting glance, the door shuts at their backs, and I'm left alone in a ramshackle house with a man who, up until a few days ago, might have turned his other cheek at my demise.

It's hours until Draco ventures into the bedroom and minutes more before he speaks, lounging against the doorframe with his arms crossed and his hair mussed.

"Do you want to try actual food tonight or another nutritional potion?"

The question takes me by surprise. It's several seconds later before I process that Draco Malfoy is asking me what I want for supper like he's a bloody servant.

"Um…." I glance at the window. Darkness slants between the threadbare curtains, and I note that it's much later in the evening than I thought. Had I fallen asleep? I clear my throat and glance back at Draco, chewing my cheek as he studies me. Shadows trace his eyes, aging him beyond his years. For as exhausted as I feel, he actually looks it. "A potion, please. I don't think my stomach can handle any solids."

Draco shoves off the door and rummages through the bedside table until he retrieves a green-labelled vial.

"Here. Open wide," he says as if I'm a toddler, but I clamp my mouth shut and shake my head.

"Absolutely not, Malfoy. I can drink it without any help."

The silence is deafening as Draco stares down his nose at me, expressionless except for the arch of a single blond eyebrow. Eventually, he scoffs and thrusts the vial into my good hand, clamping my fingers around the uncorked neck. I'm still on my back and unable to push up onto my elbows with my splint, which Draco realises after a moment with an aggrieved sigh.

At once, I'm lifted into a sitting position with the pillows supporting my spine and shoulders.

Draco hovers as if he thinks I'm going to slump over or die, but I tilt my chin and raise the potion to my mouth with a shaking arm, determined beyond reason to prove that I can do it. Half of the liquid spills down my chest before Draco growls and realigns the bottle with my lips, tipping the contents down my throat with more care than I probably deserve.

"Fuck, Granger. There are only three vials left. I hope your stomach is in better shape than you think because Potter and Weasel took all the muggle banknotes with them. There isn't any soup or liquids here besides water."

Heat blooms across my cheeks at the admonishment.

"Well, why didn't you say so? If I'd known the situation was so precarious, I wouldn't have tried."

Draco drags his palm over his jaw and flashes me a scathing look.

"Says the most stubborn woman in existence. You're pushing too hard, like always. You can't even sit up alone. Or walk to the loo. Or bathe. Come to think of it, is there anything you can do other than make my life a living hell?"

I grit my teeth and jut my chin towards the blackened window.

"Why don't you just leave then, huh? Nothing is keeping you here. If helping me is so atrocious, the door is right over there."

Draco follows my line of sight as if he's actually contemplating the proposal. Anxiety pools in my chest as I grimace at the idea of being left truly alone. There isn't any way I would manage to care for myself without help, which Draco seems to realise since he slumps onto the mattress much in the same way that Harry and Ron had done earlier, wearing a tight-lipped frown. The bed dips with his weight, slotting me closer to his thighs as he rakes a hand through his hair. The warmth radiating from his solid body is a welcome relief in this draughty room, regardless of the source.

"Granger…." His steely eyes meet mine. "Let's start this over, alright? If those two idiots actually make it back alive, you only have to hold on for a few more days before a capable healer will see to your care. Then you'll be free of me forever. In the meantime, can you try to do as I ask without fighting? I'd like nothing more than to leave this cottage with my family jewels intact, but that isn't going to happen if you keel over from pride."

There's nothing more I'd like to see than Draco Malfoy strung up by his bollocks, which makes my lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. His pale eyebrows arch towards his fringe as he catalogues the change in my expression, and I can only imagine that I appear dreadful, like a deranged, disheveled cretin pried from the ocean floor. This is the first real mattress that I've slept on in ages, the first actual loo we've had access to in months, and I haven't combed my hair since God only knows when. There is probably seaweed in it.

The war has been kinder to the Malfoy heir, though his cheeks are sharper than I remember.

"Fine," I say, letting my head loll onto my shoulder. It's too heavy to hold upright, anyway. "Fighting is a waste of precious energy."

Draco mutters something unintelligible and snaps his fingers. In seconds, my body levitates beneath the covers as he arranges the pillows into a sleeping position. It's a shocking display of wandless magic, and my eyes flit back and forth between his barren palms as if he's hiding an invisible wand.

"No wand," he says as though he can read my thoughts. "Minor levitation is simple to hold with practice. The Brightest Witch should know this."

I bite my tongue as Draco transfigures the mattress to thrice its size. He nabs a few pillows while I seethe in silence, replicates them into identical clones, then builds a fortress between us that's over a foot tall. The mattress creaks as he collapses onto the other edge, hidden from view.

Next, the oil lamps snuff out with a snap of his fingers, plunging us into darkness. I swallow the lump that's formed in my throat, anger turning to apprehension.

This is the first night in seven months that I've been separated from Harry and Ron, and sleep doesn't come easily. I try not to sniffle, I really do, but it's impossible to stifle the little whimpers and sighs that bubble out of my chest. Eventually, Draco tires from my restlessness and deconstructs the pillow fortress. His pale face glows in the moonlight as he leans over the centre of the bed, and I can just make out his expression, thin-lipped and frustrated, as he squints in the dark.

"Do you need a draught of dreamless sleep?" he asks after a moment, and it's perhaps the kindest thing he's ever said. I nod and blink back tears, swallowing my startled gasp as he levitates me into a sitting position.

The vial presses against my lips, milky liquid pouring over my tongue like the sweetest nectar.

Seconds later, a blissful fog fills my head.

Draco's soft frown and minty breath are the last things I remember before drifting into a dreamless slumber.