Part V: Just One Safe Place

Alternating POVs, takes place immediately after The Harder I Swim The Faster I Sink, over the course of a year before The Last Drop. The events of part V are chronological.

New Tags: mutual pining | emotional hurt/comfort | smut

Author's Note: There will be seven parts total (some parts are more than one chapter) and I post on AO3 (darkofthemoon) first, as a series. Here on ffnet it's posted as a single work. The best place for updates is twitter (xdarkofthemoon) and I do also have a tumblr for asks and sharing visuals (darkofthemoonfic).

And just a quick note to reply to Elena's comment on the last part that yes I am okay! I process emotions through writing and for me, that means a lot of grief processing. Really appreciate you asking xx

He lasted all of five days before he went back to Inverness. In the same clothes. With the flimsy excuse of a small burn on his right arm and a twist to his ankle that twinged when he put too much weight on it. Simple things. Injuries that most of the Order knew how to heal in the field, if you asked. But Draco never did.

The old wooden door was smoothed by countless rainstorms. He traced a straight line, with two diagonal lines extending about a quarter of the way down, one on either side. Algiz. A rune for protection and shelter. All of the safehouses used a runic symbol for entry. With a soft click, the door opened and he stepped inside.

Footsteps on the stairs, quick and light. And then she was there. One hand on the edge of the railing, gripping tight.

"You're here," she said. The fabric of her skirt ruffled against her legs and she smoothed it over.

Draco swallowed. "Don't you have a procedure?"

"Right," she said, and took hesitant steps into the room, trailing her hand through the air until she could rest it on the bar. "What was I missing when you—when we—the last time you were here?"

At first he wasn't sure if he understood her question. They were both missing more than they could say, that night. And still. But then he realized she meant it more literally. "You made a valiant attempt at tea, even though neither of us would have drank it if you did have any in your cupboards."

"Now you."

"Now me," he said, and huffed a laugh. "Alright then. Detention first year, whom did I request to be partnered with?"

Granger almost smiled, and for a moment he wished he'd said something that would have made that smile whole. "You wanted Fang, so Hagrid sent you and Harry off with his slobbering dog."

"Eleven-year-old children in a dangerous forest without an adult. No safer place than Hogwarts."

That earned him a small smile. The hint of a dimple. It was enough.

"You seem alright but I think I know by now that you might be bleeding somewhere I can't see," she said, crossing the room. Stepping ever closer. He could see that she was tired. That one of the pins in her hair had loosened, and the curls had begun their escape.

"Couple of scrapes. Would you mind?" He asked, trailing his eyes across her face.

She'd already performed her diagnostic charm and pushed his sleeve up, exposing the red, angry skin. It was cooled and soothed under her wand then she eased the sleeve down. So he twisted his hand, just enough to catch her fingers before they could pull away.

"Do you have other patients?"

Brown eyes looked up at him, blinking twice. "No, there's no one else here."

"Good," he said, and bent to kiss her. Just one more time, he told himself. Just this last time. Then he would let her go. She slid one hand onto his chest, reaching towards his shoulder before gripping the back of his neck to deepen the kiss. Pressing onto her toes to stretch up against his body. And he knew it wouldn't just be one more.

With a soft peck she pulled away and blushed, pushing him to sit in one of the chairs. Before he could get any ideas about tugging her onto his lap she examined his ankle. Crouching at his feet. Applying pressure at various points and asking which hurt. He almost made a joke that everything hurt. All the time. Instead he told her the spot that was bothering him and detailed how it felt when he walked on it or ran on it, when walking wouldn't be enough.

And she mended that as well.

"Just a sprain," she said. "All better." With a hand she smoothed at her hair and tried to coax the renegade curl back into its pin. They watched each other. Glancing away when they caught each other's stare.

"Did you get more?"

She looked at him with a wrinkle in her forehead. "More?"

Draco wet his lips. "Tea. More tea."

Granger twisted her wand in her hands before tucking it into the waistband of her skirt. "Yes," she replied. "But no milk. Or sugar."

With a nod he reached for her left hand, then extinguished the lights. Walking with her to the stairs. Up away from the hospital ward to her little flat. It felt different there. Like he could let more of his walls down, if only for a short while. Just an hour. Just once more.

And perhaps she felt the same, because when the door shut behind her she held his hand between both of hers. Smoothing the pads of her thumbs along his knuckles. Over little nicks of scars.

"How are you really?" She asked, stroking the thin skin of his wrist. Across the blue veins. "Are you okay?"

He looped an arm around her waist and shook his head. "No. Not really."

"We could talk about it," she said, running her hands over his arms. He bent to kiss her neck — he'd wanted to kiss her neck for months and he couldn't remember if he did the last time he saw her. The skin beneath her ear was better than he imagined. So he kissed her there again. Leaving a soft pattern down her throat. Slipping her cardigan from her shoulder to taste her collarbone. The space that dipped at the top of her sternum. There was a freckle there. "Or we can not talk," she said, and hauled his mouth back to hers.

They traded tender kisses, the kind that could live inside clouds. He pulled the pins from her hair, freeing it. Brushing it back from her face. Catching his breath while she looked at him. Right through him. Mimicking his movements and smoothing his own waves.

"Your hair is longer," she said, letting the strands slip between her fingers. Repeating the motion until he leaned into her touch.

"And yours is shorter," he murmured back, pressing his lips against her wrist. Tracing shapes with the tip of his tongue. When her cheeks flushed pink he said, "I like it," and gently pulled on her curls. Baring her throat once more.

It was a one room flat, and he knew where all the furniture was after just a glance. He didn't need to open his eyes or take his lips from hers to walk her across the room and lay her on the sofa. With nimble fingers she unbuttoned his trousers and he lifted her skirt above her hips. They clung to each other, whispering and caressing.

It was better when he was with her. The ache, just behind his ribs. Worse than any curse he'd taken. Worse than any punch or kick. It was a forever sort of pain. But when he could hold her — when he could kiss her again and again, like they could just be together — that ache was dulled. Which was why he didn't stay. Because if it was better with her it would be that much worse when she was taken from him. Like everything else.

In between his visits she worried about Draco. There wasn't much else she could do until he came back. If he came back.

Percy told her that he'd joined Charlie's combat team, along with Angelina Johnson and John Dawlish, the auror. They left Britain often. She heard updates about them, mostly about Charlie, but she always asked after the others. Hoping that the response of, "And Malfoy's been an asset, Charlie says. Knows a lot about the Death Eaters they hunt down and fights hard." wouldn't change.

There was no more foraging. No more brewing. All of that was kept to their larger operations in London. At St. Mungo's, untouched by the war. Protections nearly as strong as those at Hogwarts. She was called there, sometimes. To assist. To train younger healers. But she always went back to Inverness at night. Hoping for a visitor.

Sometimes weeks would go by before she'd see him. Then they'd be so desperate they'd cling to each other, leaving bruises behind from how they held each other. How quickly they came together behind curtains and once, in the storage cupboard. Rattling vials and pressing a hand over her mouth to keep quiet, despite the silencing charms on each medical bed. She'd adjust her clothes and go check on her patients and he would leave without another word.

When he wasn't with Granger he was worrying about Granger. No matter how hard he tried not to think of her, everything reminded him of her. A sign for a performance of Hamlet, outside of a theatre.

"Do you know Romeo and Juliet?" She'd asked, before telling him their story one night. A tragedy.

When he walked Muggle streets in stolen clothes. Seeing Muggle women walk by, with curly hair or wearing threadbare cardigans.

Honey, when he could get it in a cup of tea. The smell as strong as her scarring potion. The one he'd become intimately familiar with. "Draco, you have enough scars."

It was worse when he heard her name. At other safehouses, when he'd bring Order members in to rest and his ears would burn. "Hermione said—" At headquarters, in strategy meetings with the rest of his combat team. "Granger said they're all full in Inverness. Will need to start thinking about—"

On the wireless, when Potterwatch would give updates.

The first time he heard her name on a broadcast he'd gone still. Picturing green light and hearing the snap of a neck. His father's snarl. His aunt's laugh. But she wasn't hurt—she was brought on to ask for anyone in the field in Scotland to keep an eye out for healing potions or ingredients. And before she left the broadcast she said, "Please be careful."

And he felt like it was just for him.

Because the last time he saw her, for help with the tremors in his hands, he'd stayed until her shift was over. Talking with her while she checked on her only other patient, a younger recruit he didn't know. Until she gave the girl another dose of pain potion and dreamless sleep to get her through the night. And then they'd gone up to her flat. First for a story. And then for more. He had her mouth on him and his hands in her hair. Her skin on his skin and the taste of her on his tongue. They knew each other's bodies in a way he'd only ever known his own. There was a gruesome scar on her ribs that she said was from Dolohov, when she was sixteen. He didn't have to ask about the word on her arm or the slivered mark of a knife's edge along her throat.

And when he buttoned his trousers and laced his boots she reached for his wrist and held it tightly.

"Please be careful," she'd said.

When he was quick, rougher, more quiet, she knew it was because he was afraid. And so was she. They relied on each other in a way she hadn't relied on another person before. Not just for sex. For the connection they shared, however unexplainable. When she was with him she felt less alone. When they talked, it felt like he understood her. And when they touched, when they kissed, she felt like everything would be alright. If only for a little while. She never expected him to stay, after. And especially not those nights. The nights where he'd kiss her hard and have her bent over the table in her flat before they'd had a chance to do anything else. He'd still look in her eyes when he came. Look at me, he'd murmur against her cheek. Those desperate nights when it felt like it might be the last time but she prayed that it wasn't. It couldn't be. She needed him.

He made love to her slowly, savoring it. Dragging it out as much as he could. Hauling her up from the sofa onto his lap. Guiding her with one hand on her back and the other cradling her jaw while he kissed her. Slipping down to squeeze the curve of her arse. Leaving a mark on her shoulder with lips and teeth. As if he had the right to claim her as his. She whispered in his ear and against his lips and over his temple. Praise and pleas and pleasured sounds. He took them all and stashed them away. For the times when he needed to pull himself from the depths. The times when the songs of screams and cries were colored with blood and dark magic.

When she squeezed her thighs around his middle he almost lost his focus. Wishing he could stand and drop her on the bed. To pound into her until they both collapsed and hold her until morning. One arm across her stomach and one to support her pillow, fingers threading between curls. Their legs tangled. To make her breakfast even though he hadn't a clue how. To spend the day with her until she had to leave for her shift. But instead he had minutes. Maybe an hour. And he'd make that hour count every time. He needed her.

Draco brought her a bouquet of dittany. The greens still fresh, preserved as best as he could with a stasis charm. Their potency wouldn't be the best, but they would help. He'd handed them to her with a wink. A good mood. The kind she rarely saw. But they were all in better moods lately. Harry had said they were closing in on Voldemort's newest hideout. That was all he could say, in his last letter. It was dated a week before she received it. She didn't even know what country he was in.

War lasted longer than she'd thought. Despite all the books she'd read about Muggle wars and magical wars. For some reason five years had seemed impossible. And here they were at five, if you counted from the Battle of Hogwarts. Six, if she counted their year on the run before that.

"This is perfect, thank you," she said, placing the dittany in a special jar to help maintain its freshness better than the stasis charm could. Once she got to St. Mungo's she could work on a new batch of essence of dittany for her medical kit.

"Got a bit of a scrape," he said, pulling up the leg of his trousers. It was a slash across his shin. Dried blood from at least a day before.

"You know you can fix these ones on your own," she sighed, cleaning the wound first to see how deep it really was. "The longer you wait the more likely an infection. And then you'd be coming to me for an amputation, not simple stitches."

"But yours are much neater than mine," he replied. "If I can hold off a day, I get the better seamstress."

Hermione didn't contradict him. The stitches she perfected were certainly more even than the ones she'd seen him do. Once she was satisfied that his wound was sealed and he wasn't hiding any other injuries from her, she asked him to help her clean up the pub. Stacking glasses and moving chairs under their tables.

While he showed off a little, sending bottles spinning through the air and racing towards shelves, she tested the charm she'd been working on for two weeks.

"Quem quaeritis," she whispered, trailing her wand over the traces of his magic. Tucking his magical signature into her charm. Then, she added it to the object she would turn into a portkey, once she was alone.

The little ceramic dragon's egg slipped into her cardigan's pocket. It was an odd thing to have found, at headquarters. In a box of belongings that went unclaimed. Whoever had owned them must have liked dragons. There was a replica egg for nearly every breed. When she saw black, edged with amethyst, she pulled it from the bottom. Draco had told her some months before that while his name essentially required him to like dragons, the Hebridean Black was always his favorite. He'd seen one, as a boy. On holiday with his parents. One of the few memories of them he shared with her. And now she would use the trinket to create a link to his magic, and this place, accessible in her pocket.

After the last patient was sent home that morning, the Inverness safe house was supposed to be abandoned. She'd already cleaned everything in the hospital ward. Collected the last bits of potions and gauze into her bag. Leaving only a small selection of her personal stores in the flat, just in case. The photo of her parents and her postcards were all tucked into an inside pocket. There wasn't anything else in the flat that she cared to take with her. Nothing that belonged to her, at least. She'd leave things as comfortable as she could.

"Granger?"

"Hmm?" She turned, one hand in her pocket, smoothing over the intricate pattern on the shell.

"Have time for a story tonight?"

She took his hand and led him up the stairs. "Maybe a short one," she said. Shutting her door behind them. He stood by the lone window, brushing the curtain closed.

"Why? Too tired for an epic tale?"

"No, I just…" Hermione smiled at him, and for a moment he smiled back. For the first time in months. Her feet carried her quickly across the room. Pulling him to her height to take his lip between her teeth. To run her hands along his back and into his hair until he picked her up and pressed her against the wall.

"Fuck," he whispered, tugging her ear and running his tongue over the spot his teeth caught.

There had to be somewhere. Sometime. Someplace. She held him closer. Her back hitting the wall with every thrust. Legs holding as tightly as she could. When he touched her she saw stars. When he kissed her, she felt like sunlight. And when he started to mouth words against her neck she thought she heard Please. Or maybe it was just the loudest thing in her own mind. It wasn't her mind that said, Never let me go. She felt the words take shape on her skin beneath his lips.

They both breathed and he set her down on shaking legs. Helping her right her clothes and leaving one last kiss on her forehead before fixing his trousers. One last whisper in her ear that made her shiver, "Thanks for the stitches, Granger."

She watched him leave. Waiting to hear the crack of apparition from the quiet street. Then she picked up her bag and headed down the stairs. Extinguishing the lights as she went. Gathering her books from the bar. Taking one last look around the place she'd called home for nearly two years before stepping out into the pale light of dawn. She took the little bit of his magic still infused in her wand and traced a rune over the door. Algiz. For protection and safety.

"Quem Quaerendo," she whispered. The little dragon's egg warmed in her pocket. It worked. She could get back to him. She would come back for him.

And as she turned on her heel she wondered if there would ever be a safe place where she could love him.