Part VI: The Only Ones Who Know

Draco POV, takes place one month after The Last Drop

New tags: mild blood and injuries

A warm summer rain dripped through his hair and down his face. It always rained in Scotland. A battle wasn't going to change that. He knew his magic was at its end. It had been too long since he'd had any rest. Too long since he'd gone more than an hour between spells. But he didn't have hours to wait for a train or a bus or even one of those Muggle flying machines that Granger explained to him once. None of them were quick enough. He didn't have the luxury of time.

For a month they planned a coordinated attack on the Dark Lord's final stronghold. Charlie split his combat team into two, hoping to lure the last ranks from their hiding place in a crumbling old castle. It was morning when they arrived. For once they weren't outnumbered. Longbottom dueled with Bellatrix while Draco engaged Dolohov. Not for the first time. They'd dueled with a vicious snap of wands. Each taking minor hexes and jinxes until Dolohov slung something nasty at him. Something that left him bleeding. Something he pushed from his mind as he continued to fight through the rain.

He'd used unforgivables before. Been trained in them extensively as a teenager. Felt the pain of cruciatus and made himself sick using imperio when he was just sixteen. There was one he hadn't used before, though he'd seen countless times. But when Dolohov asked if he had seen Potter's Mudblood, if he knew if she was still ripe, if she still screamed — he didn't hesitate. The flash of green was bright against the hazy sky. Lighting it up for an instant before it was over.

Longbottom didn't hesitate either. And in a quick succession of spells Bellatrix was no more than a rag doll, crumpling to the ground with the snap of a cherrywood wand. Charlie and Dawlish tried to defeat Greyback, but the werewolf ran. Without those three to protect him, the Dark Lord was weakened enough for Potter's combat team to move in after them. Draco had feared seeing his father in battle. Not for the first time. But Lucius never showed, and Draco wondered if he would be there at the end. At the Dark Lord's side. In the room where the last stand was inevitable. At the top.

"Malfoy, shit, you're bleeding. You need a healer," Charlie said, and handed him a portkey. "Almost over, mate. We've got this. Go."

Draco nodded and retreated to the treeline, until he was out of sight. The portkey was wrapped in a damp handkerchief so he tucked it into his pocket. There was only one healer he trusted. Only one healer he wanted to see.

Deep breaths in and out helped center him. He focused on his magical core, willing it to do one last thing for him. Willing all of his magic to gather. Rest later, he promised, and turned on his heel. Picturing a narrow street and a dusty pub. Not caring if he splinched during apparition because she could make it better. She made him better.

He'd been visiting Inverness for about six months when he first felt it. Blooming warm beneath his ribs. At first he thought it might have been her healing spells. Stitching a rather nasty gash on his chest. It was deeper than most of his cuts were, but not as deep as the slice of sectumsempra across his torso. She'd fixed him. Again. She was always fixing him. And when she was done she'd watched him. The glamour that he'd worn that day wore off, and still she looked at him. In a way that had him asking what she was doing.

And then he felt it. His heart squeezed and bathed in warmth when he met her stare. She made some quip about a scar on his face and he'd chuckled to buy himself time. If he hadn't, his voice would have caught in his throat. Said something about her doing the carving.

He thought of her all week after that. In the darkness in a tent in Wales. In the halls of Grimmauld Place, when he delivered reports. In the conservatory at the Manor, while having tea with his mother. Walking Muggle streets in the rain and the sun and everything in between. And when he conjured her face in his mind, it was bathed in an amber glow. And he felt that same warmth once more.

The first time she kissed him, angry and rough, he was briefly angry himself. That he hadn't kissed her first. That he wasted half a year not holding her lips in his.

For another six months they traded kisses in secret. In frantic moments. And he carried them all with him. In the lonely days and lonelier nights. He'd wanted all of her, and after a particularly horrid day he thought he might have her. But when she pulled away to check on her patient he left. Terrified of what it might mean to cross that line. It was almost like admitting that he cared for her, to want her.

And then he'd crossed it anyway. When his mother died — when she lost more friends — they'd taken comfort in each other. Continued to, for another year. If he could hold her, he was alright. For an hour. For that hour he knew she was safe. When he left, he'd hold onto that hour. Until the next time. If there was one.

He knew he loved her from that first time. The way she silently took his hand and brought him to her safe place. A safe place in a safe house. He was grieving, still in the shock of it all, but when she'd started counting — he knew before she finished the first two numbers that he loved her. He'd known before then, if he was honest with himself. When he'd kissed her until his lips hurt and his hands shook. If he'd only taken the time to look.

But to love was weakness. His father taught him that. The Dark Lord repeated it, in his many speeches about Potter and Dumbledore. He'd watched so many people lose the ones they loved. And then he'd lost his mother. The thought of losing Hermione took him from her arms every time. He couldn't feel that. Not ever. So he'd always left her first. Hoping that the next time he came for her she'd end things. Move on. Tell him he was just a distraction. Someone to fuck and that was that. But she never did. She always took his hand.

The door of the Inverness safehouse was weather beaten and rattled in its hinges when he fell against it. The last storm had done a number on the building. He leaned against the wood, holding his side in one hand and his wand in the other. The rune — he needed to trace the rune. So she knew he was there. So that she would come for him. The muscles in his legs weren't working properly. No matter how hard he strained he couldn't stand. Couldn't make himself get up, even when he ground his teeth and pushed. With a bloodied hand he traced his rune as high on the door as he could. Algiz. When it opened he fell forward, pulling himself over the threshold. Knocking the door shut behind him with a foot before he collapsed fully on the floor.

Breathing hard, he looked around. Everything was as it was a month before, when he'd come on his birthday. When he'd held her closer. Made love to her on the bed, even though he always told himself he couldn't. It wasn't just fucking. It never was. He'd been so tempted to turn around and cross the room and take them away, to find someplace safer than here. He'd looked back at her and known for certain what love looked like. It had curly hair, tousled and cut just below her jaw. Love's eye's were a brown so warm it felt like treacle tart and cinnamon tea in front of a fire. It was Hermione, looking at him like she couldn't bear to see him go.

He wondered what he looked like to her, in that moment. In every moment he turned away from her. If she felt it too.

It smelled of stale ale and dust and the metallic sharpness of fresh blood. His blood, slipping through the trembling fingers at his side. It was dark and warm, sticking to his skin and saturating his ratty jumper. But he'd made it inside the pub. She'd be there soon. Soft yet quick steps on the stairs. The rippling coolness of a diagnostic scan. She'd make him better and he'd finally tell her what he wanted. Forever.

There was heat around his smallest finger. A searing bit of pain that ended in an instant. When he looked at the silver signet ring he couldn't bring himself to remove, the filigree of the metal glowed. And there, on the side of the band, twisting up towards the carved M, was the snake of his house sigil. Signifying the head of the family.

The magic was ancient. He'd learned of it when he first slipped the signet ring on his finger. When his father was gone, the ancestral magic would automatically transfer to him. It was always presented as something that would happen when he was old and his father even older.

And now he was the last Malfoy.

There was one night he thought of often. When he was alone and looking at the stars. Seeking the comfort of his constellation among the endless expanse of sky. It was winter. He'd had a drink while she told him another sad story. Another couple doomed from the start. He wondered if she did it on purpose, to remind them both. Or if it was unconscious. That her love of stories had gravitated towards melancholy romance. It became his favorite genre, mostly because of how she told them.

"Were they real?" He asked. The whiskey warmed him more than the fire but it was her somber expression as she'd finished the tale that reached his bones. He sent the glass to the sink. They were up in her flat, at the little table. With his legs stretched out on either side of hers across from him. She'd fussed over the tear in his trousers. The one she'd made and mended years before. The first time they'd shared stories.

"Scholars think it was based on another, older story. Shakespeare did that a lot." Hermione pushed her stool back and started to tidy. It was something she did when she was thinking, he'd noticed. Keeping her hands busy.

"But did it really happen?"

"I don't think anyone can prove it didn't, but then again it's a tragedy written for the stage. Anything similar in real life might not be as dramatic." She had the kitchen area clean in seconds and moved on to the living area, folding the blanket over the arm of the sofa.

"Do you think they all end like that?"

"What, plays?"

He waited, for perhaps longer than was necessary. But he couldn't help but watch her as she moved. The way she took her steps with purpose but sometimes stopped, like she'd thought of something more important in that moment. How her hair bounced. The way her hands smoothed the blanket, trying to get the lumps to flatten.

"Draco? You still awake over there?" She asked and smiled softly. Leaning against the sofa.

"Sorry. I meant…lovers. In, I don't know, violent delights, or whatever that bit you read from the book said." He closed the space between them to rest his hands on her hips. Her own settling above them, tracing his hands before pulling him closer by his arms.

"Maybe it depends on more than just circumstances. People like to trivialize Romeo and Juliet for being teenagers. Puppy love, they call it. But if they hadn't been who they were, maybe things could have been different for them. In different circumstances…They could have loved in earnest."

Big, brown eyes blinked up at him and he stroked her cheek with his thumb. "Instead of in secret."

The floor was cold and covered in a thin layer of dust. Beneath him was wet with blood. He was close to the door. She would come down the stairs soon. With a grunt he stretched his arm across the wood planks and pulled — sliding through the blood and gnashing his teeth at the pain. He tried to cast a stasis charm but it wouldn't work. His magic was too weak. Whatever Dolohov hit him with was too strong. Even a basic suturing charm failed. He lay on his side until the stars in his vision dimmed. Then he took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes when it rattled. Dragging himself another meter across the floor and repeating it until he reached the bar. Panting and clutching his side. Holding the skin as tightly as he could.

Splattered blood. Like when he tried to help prune roses in his mother's garden as a boy. Pricking his fingers on thorns and leaving red raindrops on white petals. Sticking to the velvet softness of the flowers. The sting of each blooming bead of blood had made him hiss. My darling, what's happened? It was nothing like his current state. He hoped the bleeding would stop soon. It was starting to feel cold. From the damp clothes. He hadn't bothered to cast drying charms in the rain. It wasn't as if he had the strength for it anyway.

Hermione would be there any second. She'd say something about how horrible his injury was and he'd make a joke about ruining the floors. Then she'd run her diagnostics and scold him for joking in a time like this. And he'd look at her and know what love was.

He wanted to be with her — he knew that more than anything else. It frightened him, to want something so badly. To love so deeply. Because to want was to be vulnerable and if he was vulnerable, he would lose everything he had left. And all he had left was her.

But if he didn't try—