Notes: Happy New Year!
WARNINGS: Brief references to torture/sexual assault
36. This I Do Vow, and This Shall Ever Be
"This isn't going to work if you can't stay still."
The charming smile drops from Astoria's lips as her stare turns baleful. "I'm not a bloody statue, Draco. I do have to breathe and all the other, very human needs."
He lets out a huff and attempts to find the slope of her neck on the parchment below. "You could at least pretend to be trying."
"I am. You're just being completely unreasonable. If you want it so bloody perfect you might as well just cast petrificus totalus and have done with it."
"That wouldn't work," he mutters, smearing a line of charcoal with his free hand. "Your expression would be totally wrong."
Astoria lets out a long-suffering sigh, but resumes her pose. "I can see why we never did this before."
He raises a pale brow at her. "Oh?"
"You're a complete control freak," she tells him. "I would have killed you in less than a minute."
"You wouldn't have killed me, you liked me too much."
Her smile falters and Draco cringes. They've just begun to find a path forward in this new world. And here he goes and dredges up their past without a second thought. Without remembering he broke her heart and then stomped on it.
He sets the charcoal aside, brushing his dirty fingers against his dark slacks.
Astoria gaze is a touch too bright, her eyes glossy and wrong. He cards a hand through his hair, wiping it from his brow.
"I'm sorry. That was a stupid thing to say."
She nods absently, neither accepting nor rejecting his apology. The afternoon sun is brilliant where it spills across her chestnut hair, giving her a crimson halo. She's gorgeous, awash in light, the delicate lines of her face contoured like marble.
He's struck once again by magnitude of her beauty. She's more art than girl, too perfect for him to reach out and touch. Ethereal and light, the product of the divine.
"Stop looking at me like that," she whispers, honey eyes skittering away.
He looks at the charcoal sketch instead. He's barely begun and all his lines seem choppy and uneven, hardly doing justice of the majesty of her.
"When you look at me like I'm some wonder, like I'm your heart's desire," she takes a shuddering breath. He stares resolutely down at his pale imitation of her perfection. "It makes it all come back. So help me Merlin, I'm still…"
Draco knows exactly what she doesn't say. The ropes around his chest tighten. "I'm sorry. For all of it. For letting you believe I'd died. For not telling you the truth about me until it was too late."
"I forgive you," she murmurs, "truly I do. But that doesn't mean it doesn't feel impossible to live with sometimes."
Draco understands that better than Astoria will ever know.
Living with the impossible.
He feels the slide of warm skin against his back. The curve of wicked lips at the nape of his neck. A delicious shudder runs down his spine. It leaves him ravenous for the forbidden.
He swallows and forces logic into the chaos of his desire. He is glad to watch Hermione and Tom find joy together. He is proud to give Hermione the opportunity to build her life back into something vibrant and vital. He is gratified to watch Hermione draw out the best in Tom, to watch the layers of darkness fall away from the other boy every time her looks at her.
He is happy for them.
He also aches. For the intoxicating heat that once was his. For the boy who slips a little further from him every day. For the shadow of what might have been.
But Draco isn't selfish anymore. Nor is he needlessly reckless with the lives of others. Tom's darkness—with the Deathly Hallows in his possession—is a very real risk. If Hermione can guide him through the tumult, the better for them all.
For the only thing Draco is certain of is that Tom Riddle will still burn the world—and himself—for Hermione Granger.
It's best to make sure he's never required to do so. The dark boy isn't one to pay any heed to the magnitude of the collateral damage he wreaks.
"You're sad."
He blinks and Astoria's compassionate eyes come into focus. He smiles, hollow and weak. "I'm fine."
"No, you're clearly not," she persists, ever perceptive. "Is it Potter?"
"No," he sighs. "I've told you before, Harry and I were never like that. I barely got to know him before it all ended."
It's not entirely the truth. By the end, when he admitted his feelings to Harry, they were close. Close enough it broke a part of his heart when Harry's blade slipped between his ribs and all Draco could do was watch.
Astoria pushes off the couch she was so artfully arranged upon and comes to sit beside Draco at the table. They're in the parlor of one of her family's numerous weekend cottages. The décor is classic, all dark mahoganies and velvet upholsteries. Magical artifacts litter the bookcases, although several shelves are conspicuously empty, likely once home to the dark objects she's surrendered to the Ministry.
She leans forward on her elbows, lips pursing. "What is it, Draco? You know you can talk to me about anything."
And she's right. Astoria is the only person left who Draco can be honest with. He can't tell her everything—certain truths are not his to tell and risk far too much in their telling—but in matters of his own desire, he can be sincere with her. As close as he is to Hermione and Tom, there are certain truths the three of them will never admit to each other.
"You know about me and Tom," he begins, voice rough.
"You've barely told me a bloody thing, Draco," Astoria admonishes.
He's well aware. "Yes, I know. But you know that we… that…"
"I can hardly blame you for falling into bed with him. That boy takes my breath away, too. I'd do the same, if given the chance."
Draco's thankful for her lighthearted quip. It gives him the strength to explain, "yes, Tom is… painfully handsome. But it wasn't just sex. And now that it's over, I can't help but crave him. And they're together now and that makes me happy. Truly it does, but I can't quite seem to get over it either."
Astoria's jaw clenches, just the slightest tic of a muscle. "You're not meant to simply get over someone, Draco. Just because the only logical choice is to move on doesn't mean your heart agrees. It doesn't mean your feelings change."
They're not just talking about Draco and Tom now. He picks up the piece of charcoal, turning in over between his fingers. He opens his mouth, closes it, swallows down his trepidation and tries again.
"Do you…"
"Still love you? Am I still in love with you?" She lets out a rough laugh that's coated in bitter agony. "I don't know. I thought you were dead. I thought I'd lost you in the most permanent way possible. I thought I'd let you go. But—"
She cuts off abruptly. Draco can't find words, let alone the right words. He reaches out for her. She pulls back and he finds a new shade of shame to add to his collection.
Astoria shakes her head, dark curls falling over her shoulders. "It's a messy thing, love. Makes you lose your bloody mind."
He nods, speechless and helpless.
She pulls the parchment from beneath his clenching fingers. "You've made a decent start. How come none of us ever knew about this particular skill of yours?"
He manages to part his lips, but the words that emerge taste bitter in ways he's not prepared to examine. "My father felt art was best enjoyed rather than created. Such frivolity is beneath a Malfoy."
A dark chuckle escapes Astoria's delicate lips. "Ah, another boggart in the closet."
"You'll find my collection is quite extensive." His lips twitch upward, the barest hint of humor. It isn't funny, but sometimes the only remedy to tragedy is comedy.
Astoria clears her throat and glances sidelong at him. Something in her expression churns his stomach and he dreads the next words to leave her mouth.
"I found out… about your mother and the summer house."
The charcoal in his hand breaks into pieces. He feels the blood drain from his face. "What?"
"It was after you… died. I overheard your parents talking one night at the Manor."
"What were you doing at the Manor?" He seizes on the least nauseating detail.
She swallows, the graceful column of her neck bobbing. "After… after the only way I could sleep was to go to your room."
"You moved into my room?"
It had been the middle of a war. He thought at least she was away from the Death Eaters when he was no longer there to draw her into danger.
Her eyes are limned with moisture when she meets his incredulous stare. "It was the only way I could hold myself together, Draco. I needed…"
Merlin, he underestimated the ferocity of her feelings. He thought walking away would be enough. But even death brought her closer to him. He has no idea how to give her the freedom she deserves. How to extract himself from her soul so she can unfurl into the woman she's meant to be.
"Anyway," she pushes past the emotion threatening to devour them both. "I heard your father threaten your mother. He brought up what he'd done to her when you were younger, when you brought that Muggle boy home."
It's a wound that's never seen a scar, always bloody and raw.
He never imagined anyone else would feel the agony of it. But Astoria is staring at him and he sees nothing but his own torment in her honey eyes. He is suddenly and violently no longer alone.
Hot tears spill over his lashes before he can decide to let that particular wall give way. The childish fear, the lifetime of guilt bubble from his lips like water from a spring. She collects every drop.
He is ragged and worn by the time coherency returns. But lighter too, as if one of the iron weights that manacles his soul has finally come loose.
Astoria presses her soft lips to his cheek. He leans into the caress.
"Thank you."
The words are barely coherent, barely anything but the choke of air within his heaving lungs. They are certainly not enough.
"Always," she murmurs, tucking her head beneath his chin.
This isn't anything like the freedom he wishes for her, but perhaps for this moment, he can afford to be selfish.
Draco presses his lips to her temple.
~*~Break~*~
Hermione lets out an undignified yelp as she dodges the shadowy object falling toward her. A moment later, there's a dull thump.
She blinks and stares down at the bag. It's utterly harmless and certainly not worth her frantic reaction. She glares into the wardrobe, as if the force of her irritation can shatter its wooden walls.
Sighing, she gathers the bag in hand and dumps it unceremoniously on the bed. Clothes scatter in every direction, and explosion of color and texture.
The chill of fall has set in. Damp cold clings to the moor like a sodden cloak, icy tendrils clawing beneath her skin. Even in the dark of the night, when she rests within the blazing circle of Tom's arms, it sinks into her. Sometimes she is convinced she'll never be warm again.
She transfigured the small cot in Tom's room into an oversized bed with heating charms, but even that doesn't protect her.
She wakes every morning to nausea and bitter cold churning her gut. It's as if she's caught an eternal flu that lingers no matter how many remedies she tries.
Hermione digs through the disheveled array of fabric. There must be something here. Another jumper, a thick scarf. Something that will ward away the cold and give her back her strength.
She brushes past the folds of her summer dresses, memories of warmth dancing against her skin. If she closes her eyes, she can hear the bustle of the beach, can feel the warm lap of the water against her shins. It feels a lifetime away and just around the corner.
She groans and throws the dresses in the far corner of the oversized bed. Dreams of summer won't bring the warmth she so desires. She pulls a plush black jumper, soft like velvet, but thick as wool, from the bottom of the pile. A satchel crashes to the ground.
It clacks against the hardwood and Hermione frowns. None of her clothes should make that kind of noise. She reaches down and tentatively plucks the small bag from the ground.
It's unfamiliar, not one of the items she packed when they cleaned out the cottage in Cuxhaven. The material is silky smooth against her fingertips, rippling like liquid where she touches it.
She brings it to the desk and sets it down. A cursory wave of her wand reveals no hidden enchantments. It's simply a bag.
But her heart pounds as she reaches into it, as if her body knows something her mind does not.
She extracts an intricately carved piece of wood. Draco's old wand. The wand Tom used in their confrontation with Voldemort.
The next object is supple fabric, soft against her fingers. She recognizes it simply by feel, Harry's cloak.
The wand and the cloak are all the satchel contains.
Hermione lets the cloak slip between her fingers absently as she tries to figure out why these items were sequestered away. The wand she understands; it's a reminder of all that Tom's lost. But why keep the cloak with it? And why hide them away?
What's so important about a wand and cloak?
That questions snags, pulling a thread loose in her mind. A wand and cloak. There's nothing particularly important about merely those two things.
But a wand, a cloak and a stone.
The ice that seizes her veins has nothing to do with the cool mists of the moor. She swallows against the bile surging up her throat.
She's seen a black stone. Slughorn practically spelled it out for her and she still didn't manage to put all the pieces together.
She seizes the cloak and the wand and tears from the room.
He sits in the kitchen, ebony curls falling over his eyes as he reads. Hermione drops the cloak and the wand on top of his book.
His expression is implacable as he raises his head slowly. She wishes he would flinch. She wishes confusion would crease his brow.
"Good evening to you too," Tom says, voice betraying nothing.
She yanks his right hand from where it still holds his page. The ring glints darkly in the flickering candlelight.
"Tell me all of this isn't what I think it is," she hisses.
"This isn't what you think it is," Tom replies.
She glares at him, letting every ounce of her fear and desperation scour him. His sapphire eyes are hard gems, impenetrable and cold. She rips the ring from his finger and still he shows no outward reaction.
"These are the Deathly Hallows."
He doesn't deny it. He doesn't say anything at all.
The edge of his ring—of the resurrection stone—cuts into her palm.
"What have you done?"
He raises a dark brow, calm and far too collected. "What could I do? I have no magic. That wand, despite its power, will not work for me."
"But no one has taken it from you," she counters, pieces coming together as she speaks. "So it's still yours. Its power is yours as a Hallow if not a wand. And the stone. You must have gotten that from Harry. And after he died, we gave you the cloak. Sweet Merlin, we all but delivered the Hallows to you a silver platter."
"And having them in my possession is such a travesty why exactly?"
She scowls at his stony, perfect face. "I don't know, Tom. Maybe because you have a history of making rash decisions when it comes to immense amounts of power."
His jaw tics, the only sign her blow landed.
"I thought you believed I was different. That I could be different."
He's deftly maneuvered her into a corner. She wants to take back her words, to assure him surprise made her say them. But that would be a lie. The sight of the Hallows reminded her just how dangerous he can be, given the right motivation and proper arsenal.
And yet, he's also correct. She believes he's nothing like the dark creature that brought so much death and suffering to all of them.
She forces a steady breath, counting out the inhale and then the exhale. "Fine, Tom. Let's suppose you didn't collect some of the most powerful objects in the world for nefarious purposes. What do you need them for?"
The look he gives her is the polar opposite of his frosty nonchalance. It's pure warmth, the sun at the height of summer. His adoration, hidden behind glassy blue only moments before, shatters the façade, and crashes into her, a physical blow that rocks her on her feet.
His ring drops to the cloak below, her fingers losing cohesion.
"I'm going to need you to trust me, Hermione," he murmurs, his hand finding hers. The feeling of his skin against hers is beyond electric.
"Don't distract me," she protests, half-hearted and feeble.
"There's nothing to distract you from," he argues. "I will never do anything that could cause you harm."
And she believes him. Despite the damning evidence laid out on the table between them, she believes Tom.
Maybe it's the memory of him buried deep within her, his soul flayed open for her to see. Maybe it's the unerring truth that he has never deliberately moved against her, never hurt her more than circumstances necessitated. Maybe it's the desperate glint she sees in the depths of his eyes as he stares up at her now.
She sighs, the fight draining out of her in the face of him.
She claws in the pocket of her cardigan, coming up with a rolled cigarette. Tom snatches it away from her.
She blinks down at him, bewildered. "Don't you have any?"
He tucks the rolled paper into his jacket pocket. "You should quit."
How he's managed to catch her off balance so many times within a handful of minutes is beyond Hermione.
"You've collected the Deathly Hallows—even won the Elder wand. And you're asking me to blindly trust you. I'm entitled to smoke my way through this particular anxiety."
The column of his throat bobs, but his gaze remains unyielding. "I'm serious, Hermione. You need to quit. I'm sorry I got you hooked in the first place."
"You're about six months too late with that particular apology." She shakes her head, mounting energy making her fingers twitch erratically against the soft material of her cardigan. "And it's not like they're going to kill me right now. I just need to take the edge off. Something you've definitely not helped with."
"Please just trust me," he says and it's more of a plea than she's ever heard spill from his lips. And that includes their nights drowning in each other's arms.
The ice is back in her blood.
"What's going on, Tom?"
He drops his head to his hands and Hermione's concern spikes. Tom is many things, but desperate like this isn't one of them.
"I can't tell you." His voice is a ragged version of itself, edges worn and rough. "I promise I will, when I know for sure. But until I know beyond a doubt, I can't tell you."
Hermione wants to drag her fingers across his pristine face, to claw the truth from his full lips. But she knows it won't do a lick of good.
A cross between a groan and a shriek escapes her lips. This time he does flinch. It doesn't make her feel any better.
"You better not do anything stupid," she says at last, giving up the fight.
"When have I ever done anything stupid?"
Hermione doesn't dignify that particular question with a reply. He bloody well knows exactly how reckless he's been.
Instead, she grips him by the collar of his leather jacket and hauls him to his feet.
"If I'm not smoking anymore, it's your personal responsibility to take the edge off," she explains.
His gaze becomes molten sapphire in a heartbeat, his gaze dipping to her trembling lips. A smirk pulls at his mouth.
"I can't say I saw this conversation ending so… fruitfully."
"Shut up," she scolds, "and put your mouth to better use."
He laughs, crystal and clear and everything good. Some of the tension that seeped into Hermione abates. No one who laughs like that can be plotting anything cruel.
Tom gives her an iniquitous wink as he gathers the Hallows from the table. "Don't want these falling into the wrong hands."
"And that's why you hid them in my extra clothes bag?"
"I didn't think you'd go rummaging for your summer wardrobe for months. And who else is going to look there?" he counters and she's forced to concede that he has a valid point. Not that she'll admit it.
Her skin is still buzzing, the craving for a cigarette to calm her nerves scraping beneath her skin like an itch.
"Bloody take me to bed already or I'm petrifying you to get my cigarette back," she hisses.
"So bloody needy," he mutters, but there's an indulgent smile of his face that evokes warm tingles at the base of her spine.
He tosses the Hallows—the bloody Deathly Hallows—on his desk before glancing at their bed. It's still piled high with her clothes. He lets out a low growl that sends tension coiling between her legs and swipes an arm across the bed. The clothes drop into a haphazard heap on the floor.
Tom crosses back to her, kicks the door shut, and waves a hand vaguely toward her. "You'd better put up a silencing charm because I fully intend to make you scream."
Bloody hell. Her mind goes completely blank for a good ten seconds before she manages to extract her wand from her back pocket and follows his instructions.
The instant she's in his arms, the biting chill fades from her, chased away by the ardor sizzling between them. They've made love a handful of times since that first night, but every time is exquisite and unique. Every time cracks her open and leaves her raw and new.
It's so much more than sex. So much more than the tantalizing glide of him within her. It's… but she can't begin to explain it. The feeling is too deep for words.
She no longer worries she'll freeze, that their explorations will trigger the ghosts of her trauma. What they do together is in a different realm than the torture she endured. Where that was dark cruelty made manifest, this is the physical embodiment of salvation.
Tom's mouth comes down on the column of neck, lips parting, tongue hot against her skin. She whines and tangles her hands in his mess of ebony curls.
"Please…"
She doesn't know what she's begging for, but Tom obliges and gives her everything.
Hermione welcomes the warm oblivion.
~*~Break~*~
"Did you know?"
Draco's hand jerks, drawing a harsh charcoal line across the parchment. He stares down at the ruined portrait, mind unable grasp what just happened. Where Astoria's face was haunting perfection in shades of grey, now it is a streak of darkness.
He drops the charcoal and glowers up at Hermione. "This better be damn good, Granger."
Her blazing cinnamon eyes flit to the desk in front of him. She swallows audibly. "Sorry," she mutters, grimace swallowing some of her ire.
"As I said, this better be good."
Her shoulders hunch forward the slightest bit, caving her frame inward. She's wearing at least two sweaters as well as a Slytherin scarf that he's fairly sure came from his wardrobe. She runs a hand through her disheveled curls and sighs.
The air in the room seems to change with her exhale, the space between them chilling. Hermione crosses her arms and shivers despite the myriad layers swaddling her.
"About the Deathly Hallows. Did you know?"
Years of Malfoy and Death Eater instincts keep his face neutral. It's honestly a relief that she knows the truth. While Draco was resigned to keeping Tom's secret, he was never enthusiastic about it.
"What happened?"
Hermione's eyes narrow and his skin prickles as she rakes her stare over every facet of his implacable façade. She harrumphs and goes back to shivering violently enough that he can hear the chatter of her teeth.
"You're not surprised," she observes. "Which means you did know. How long?"
"Too long," he admits. Draco's not about to let her know exactly how long. He owes Tom nothing, but upsetting Hermione helps none of them.
He plucks a throw from his bed and rises. She remains still, too still, as he wraps it around her trembling shoulders. Hermione doesn't protest when he leads her to sit on his bed. She perches at the edge, as if ready to flee at any moment, but allows his hands to caress her shoulders, rubbing what warmth he can into her.
"Did he tell you?" she murmurs.
A scoff trips off Draco's lips. "Hardly. I figured it out and then reamed him about it. He was…persuasive about not intending to use them for World Domination or any of his previous avocations."
Hermione slumps against him. "He can be rather persuasive when he wants to be. I used to see these things, Draco. I would have seen the ring and known. I wouldn't have given him the cloak at all. Even after Slughorn warned us, I still wasn't looking closely enough, putting it all together like I would have before."
"You've been through a lot," he says. "Too much to hold yourself accountable like that." He stares across the room at the jagged black mark across Astoria's face. "You don't believe him?"
Hermione's features skirt a dozen emotions. "I want to believe him. A large part of me does believe him. But what's left of my acumen tells me to be careful."
Draco shakes his head. "He makes that rather difficult."
"Being careful?"
He nods, a rueful sigh on his lips. "Bloody charming bastard."
"Certainly has us fooled."
Draco slants a glance at her. Although her trembling is no longer quite so violent, she still shakes. Where she was vibrant at the cottage, now she's wraith-like, more akin to the skeletal creature he remembers from the Manor dungeon.
He can't help but note she wasn't this way until Tom started spending his nights with Hermione beyond silenced doors. But he also knows Tom would never intentionally hurt her. He's a twisted soul, out of time and out of magic, but Hermione is his foundation. Draco sees it every time Tom's azure eyes crack wide open at the sight of her, warmth spilling forth.
One version of this abused boy might have ended up a monster, but that boy never knew love. He never loved another, but most importantly, he was never loved in return. Tom is loved twice over and he knows it.
"Have you considered he's not up to anything?"
Hermione tilts her head up to him, tangled curls sliding over Draco's shoulder. "He united the Deathly Hallows, he's up to something."
"Okay, fine. Point taken. But maybe he's not up to anything bad?" Draco's lips work silently as he tries on words and discards them, searching for the right approach. Finally, he says, "like, whatever he's doing, maybe it's for good? Maybe we can trust him."
Hermione is silent, her stare stripping him bare. Draco just manages not to look away. "Have you talked to him lately? Truly talked to him. Beyond all the blather and cigarette smoke?"
She chews her lip and nods. "He's hanging on by a string," she whispers. "Being Muggle is destroying him, no matter what I do."
Draco knows. He's watched Tom splinter. It's visible in the small things. The tremble of his fingers on a cigarette. The glassy stare toward an invisible horizon. The way he flinches just the slightest bit when Draco draws his wand.
And there are the behaviors that are impossible to miss. The hours lost on the moors, fading in and out of shapeless grey mists. The way he only picks at his food, his solid frame growing lean. The refusal to come with either Draco or Hermione as they gradually transition back into the echelons of society.
"He's destroying himself," Draco counters. "But for what purpose, I can only imagine. I don't think the Hallows are going to be used to hurt anyone but himself."
He feels the half-moons of Hermione's nails dig into his forearm. "He wouldn't—"
She cuts off abruptly, but the thought lingers between them. The chill in the air is back, the sensation visceral and eerie.
"I—" he wants to deny it. To assure her Tom isn't capable of ending everything, that he's fought too hard for what he has. That his sacrifice will never be in vain. But he can't quite believe it himself. He settles for a half truth. "I don't think so. I think there's a purpose to what he wants with the Hallows that we simply don't understand. He might harm himself in the process of that scheme, but I don't think…"
Her nails dig deeper. Draco doesn't complain.
"I can't."
She could be referring to a thousand things. He knows what she means nevertheless.
"I know."
The silence settles between them, murky and full of doubt. He guides her hand from his arm, capturing her delicate fingers between his. Hermione's shivering returns with a vengeance, rattling her frame against him.
He turns her hand over in his. The blue of her veins stands in stark relief to her milky skin. He clears his throat twice before managing to say, "I'm worried about you too."
"Whatever for?" But the humor in her voice doesn't match the panic that flits behind her eyes.
"You're losing weight again. And you're always frigid."
"It's these damn moors. So bloody damp." But her stagnant laugh fools neither of them.
"You almost looked better in the dungeons," he whispers.
Hermione jerks, eyes flying to his. "You can't be serious."
"Perhaps not by the end, but for the first few months, yes."
"I thought you didn't come visit me then."
The tang of regret is metallic and grating. "No, but I saw you when they were—"
Her throat works and he hates himself for bringing up this piece of poison. "When they were still trying to torture my obliviate away."
"Yeah."
Draco doesn't like to think about what Voldemort did unsuccessfully or what Tom did successfully. Both are horrific, even if the latter was with Hermione's blessing.
Hermione shifts, but doesn't pull away. "Something's wrong with me, Draco. Something big. No matter what I eat, I'm nauseous. No matter how many layers of clothing I wear, I'm frigid. It's that bone deep cold that never relents, that takes your breath away with its ferocity."
"Have you told Tom?"
She shakes her head. "He's struggling enough as is. I don't need to add to his worries."
"He would want to know."
Hermione sighs. "I should be able to figure this out on my own. My body has been out of my control for so long. This is a chance to take ownership again, to find a solution myself."
"You didn't even finish your final year at Hogwarts, Hermione, let alone a healing apprenticeship," he counters. He understands the sentiment, truly he does, but this is her health not some Hogwarts assignment.
She tenses, but is limp against him a moment later. "Then help me."
"It's not like I finished seventh year either," he replies.
"I know… I know. But I just need to do this, Draco. I need to take control."
He rubs his thumb over her chilled palm. Even with their hands pressed together, she's still cold to the touch. "Something's clearly off, and I will help you. But only if you promise to tell Tom and go see a proper healer if we can't sort it out in a week."
He sees her reluctance in the slant of her jaw and the burn of her cinnamon gaze, but she nods. "Fine. One week."
Draco lets out a low breath and pulls her into him. One week is hardly enough time for him become a proficient healer. Even if he still had access to the libraries of the Manor and the Summer House—both now surrendered to the ministry along with a large portion of the Malfoy fortune—he would still be out of his depth. Tom was always better with the healing arts than he was. The other boy is the one who healed her broken body time and again. Draco merely cowered in the background, woefully inept and bumbling.
But he'll honor his promise to Hermione for now. He won't enlist the help of the boy they both care too deeply for. The boy who is unraveling before their very eyes.
The boy Draco still misses in the depths of the night.
He pulls Hermione closer, resting his chin atop her raucous mane. Perhaps he will be able to do this one thing right.
History is not on his side, but Draco knows the path forward looks nothing like the quagmire of destruction that lies behind.