Chapter 4

Hermione stormed from the lift, putting as much space between herself and Draco as possible. Her high heels sank into the hallway's thick carpeting, and she stumbled.

"Steady." Draco's hand brushed her elbow. She swatted him away.

"Don't touch me," she hissed.

"Wait until we're inside."

"Hurry up."

"Please, calm —"

"Do not tell me to calm down," she snapped, shoving past him and into their shared suite. She stared him down as he closed and locked the door. "Is that why you were so keen to take me with you? So you could pass me around like some fascinating trinket you found on the street?"

Draco's reply was slow and controlled.

"I didn't pass you around."

"Do you know what Rua said to me as we left?"

Her stomach churned. Adelmo Rua, Draco's counterpart for the Italian ministro, had met them upon their arrival at the Hassler Roma. For hours, they had sat with him over drinks, discussing Quidditch, sailing, and market performance — subjects designed to circle the issue of policy without broaching it directly. Rather, he and Draco had conversed. She had sat silently, sipping at her cocktail and enduring the deadweight of Adelmo's gaze and the suggestive turn of his lips as he ran his finger up and down the stem of his champagne flute.

"I can guess."

"He said he hoped you were willing to share." She jabbed her finger into his chest. "I am not going to sleep with you, and I am not going to sleep with Rua. You might have hired me for the week, but I'm not just some whore that you can pimp out to sweeten the deal."

The muscles in Draco's jaw tightened.

"Rua won't touch you."

"Am I supposed to believe you'll stop him?"

"You don't think I would?"

"I think you'd choose your own self-interest over my well-being," she snapped. "You'd never risk yourself or your reputation."

He closed the space between them, his restraint fraying like an old rope.

"You don't know what I'd risk," he said with a hiss. "What I have risked. For you. For people like you."

Crack.

Draco's reaction was immediate. One moment she stood before him, glaring up at the fine angles of his cheeks and the sparking grey of his eyes. The next, shoved hard and held at his back in an unforgiving grip. He stood tall, wand aimed at the source of the noise: a house-elf clothed in a white, Roman-style toga. Her right ear had been cropped short by accident or intention, and she quailed beneath the glowing tip of Draco's wand. She extended a shaking arm toward him, offering a scroll tied with a gold ribbon.

Draco released his grip on her to take the parchment.

"Grazie."

The elf's light brown eyes drifted over Draco's left shoulder. Draco noticed, shifted, and kept her hidden behind the wall of his body.

"Dismissed."

The elf bowed and disappeared. Draco dropped the note onto a side table and walked toward the windows, wand at his side.

"Meet me in the bedroom."

"Excuse me?" She caught him by the shoulder and tugged. "We're not through."

"No, we aren't," he agreed, rounding on her.

She expected a resumption of their argument, but instead saw his brows drawn together, his eyes creased at the corners. A faint echo of his worry wrapped around her chest.

"What's wrong?"

"Go to the bedroom and close the door." He took her hand. She flinched, tried to pull away, but his grip tightened and his eyes met hers with an urgency she didn't understand. "Meet me in the bedroom." He leaned in close, his nose brushing the shell of her ear. "I won't ask again."

The cut of the threat held the warmth of a promise, and, for an insane moment, Hermione debated calling his bluff. His eyes, though. That look he gave her, concerned and serious. This wasn't a time to test boundaries.

Before she closed the door, she looked over her shoulder. Draco was walking the room's perimeter, wand aimed at the skirting board and eyes narrowed in concentration. A knot of understanding untangled within her: whatever had just happened was not about her.

After fifteen minutes, the bedroom door opened. She stood, hands twisting before her, anxious for something to do.

"Draco?"

He held one finger up, pointed toward the door, mimed it closed. She obliged, then watched as he surveyed the room, removed his shoes, and climbed onto the bed. He stood near the footboard at the room's approximate center. Within his first few wand movements, she recognized the wards.

Anti-Apparition. Imperturbable. Muffliato.

He repeated the spells in the loo and walk in closet, then sheathed his wand.

"We're being surveilled. The Italian government isn't allowed to use hotel property for its own ends, so it conscripts the property of indebted patrons instead. That elf is named Tia. She belongs to Isabella Zabini."

A cold weight dropped into her stomach. Though Adelmo's behavior had been repulsive, the argument over Draco's responsibility in the matter seemed relatively unimportant when compared against the threat of discovery. He had every reason to protect her, every reason to keep her close. They were in this together. Allies. And though he hadn't asked for her trust, he had it anyway.

"How do you know?"

"Because I've met her, and because my elf is doing the same thing with the Canadian Minister for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

"What do we do now?"

Draco began to unbutton his shirt.

"Nothing. The bedroom and en suite are safe."

"Safe?"

"No eavesdropping, no recording, no surprise visits. Not in here, at any rate."

"Won't they be suspicious?"

"A warded bedroom isn't uncommon — everyone is entitled to their privacy. The entire suite, however…" He punctuated the thought with a shrug. "If you've done nothing wrong, you've got nothing to hide. If you've got nothing to hide, you've got nothing to fear. I should have expected a move like this, especially from Rua. We need to assume that everything that happens beyond that door will be reported to the Italian Prime Minster and the Dark Lord."

He sat on the edge of the bed to strip his socks.

"This doesn't change anything."

He spared her a look.

"Why would it? You've made your desires quite clear."

She shifted her weight and looked at the bed. Had she?

"I'm going to do my best to keep Rua away from you, and I'm not going to touch you when we're in private." He rose, languid, graceful, his shirt falling open to reveal the lean lines of his chest. Her mouth went dry, and she looked stubbornly into his eyes. "But I can't keep that promise when we're in public. We have an alibi to maintain."

With aching slowness, he lifted his hands to her shoulders. She felt their weight like the pull of gravity, keeping her rooted when she threatened to float.

"May I touch you here?"

"Yes." She could barely manage the answer.

His hands shifted, moving down her arms, settling at her elbows, lighting her on fire.

"Here?"

She nodded, and Draco stepped closer. She swayed as his hands settled on her waist, his touch light. She remembered, unbidden, the way his fingers had dipped beneath her panties just two days ago, the feel of his skin and hers, the heat, the sensitivity she didn't know she possessed at her hips. Just a few more inches. He could keep going.

"Here?"

Yes.

Common sense intervened.

"No."

Draco's hands dropped, but she wasn't able to breathe until she stepped away, the physical space between them freeing up oxygen and leaving her cold.

He moved past her to the en suite. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to think about the mistake she'd been about to make or the liberties she was suddenly so comfortable giving him.

And when they'd both finished their nightly routines, when Draco began pulling pillows off the bed and transfiguring bedroom bench's cushion into a rough approximation of a mattress, Hermione chose to take her mistake a step further. Fingers curled into the sheets in her lap, she cleared her throat.

"Draco, you don't have to… The bed is big enough for us both."

He considered her, as if he could gauge her honesty by the expanse of the silence between him. Then, he nodded.

The lights extinguished with a snap of his fingers, and she heard the susurrus of silk as he untied his robe and let it fall to the floor. She felt the depression of the mattress to her right, heard the rustle of sheets against his body. The smell of him, clean and close, mint and clove, was too reminiscent of sixth year to examine without undoing years of assumptions.

She lay back, shoulders stiff against the pillow, and tried for a deep breath. They were separated by enough space for a third person, but Hermione swore that she could feel warmth radiating from his body. What could he feel, from his side of the bed? The thrum of her heart against her ribcage? The tension in her limbs as she held herself rigid, too nervous to relax?

His even breathing gave her the answer. The anxiety she felt was not shared. And that was a good thing. Draco wasn't attracted to Hermione Granger, after all. He was attracted to Vivian Ward. Hermione was an unwelcome surprise, a traitor, and a Mudblood. She was everything he wasn't and nothing he would ever want.

It better that way. Simpler. More logical.

And if she kept repeating it, maybe she would start to believe it.

Of all the ways she had imagined waking next to Draco, alone had not been one of them. But when her eyes opened, that's what she was. Their gazes met in the vanity mirror. He had already showered and dressed for the day.

"The note Tia delivered last night was an invitation for a tour of some of Italy's more exclusive exports — racing brooms, marabbecca scale, and wine. We'll be traveling with Adelmo, his wife Livia, and a few aides." He ran his fingers through his hair, flicking the fine platinum strands across his forehead. "We leave in an hour."

She pulled the sheet up with her as she sat.

"When were you going to wake me?"

He paused, met her eyes once more.

"Honestly, I'm not sure."

With a final flick, he left the room. Forty minutes later, she joined him at the dining table. He greeted her with a warm smile.

"Good morning, Vivian."

Her alias — a subtle reminder that they were being observed.

"Good morning. I'm looking forward to the tour," she lied, helping herself to caffe latte and biscotti. "Will it last all day?"

"I believe so."

"Will we be Portkeying?"

Draco sipped his coffee with a strange look, as though fighting a grin.

"No."

And when they met Adelmo in the hotel's courtyard, Draco's expression made perfect, horrible sense.

Brooms.

Two two-seaters, polished to a high shine and trimmed with brass backrests and footholds, hovered above the stone pavers.

"The newest models," Adelmo said, skimming his fingers over a handle. "The finest in Italian luxury."

Hermione felt her stomach turn as he rattled off the brooms' statistics. Most of it was empty jargon to her, but two numbers stood out: zero to sixty in 4.1 seconds and a top speed of 122 miles per hour.

"There are cushioning and shielding charms," Draco muttered, shifting close. "You won't even feel the speed."

She breathed a sick little laugh.

"Perhaps la signorina would like to fly with me," Adelmo ventured. "My wife has seen the countryside many times and is no doubt tired of my narration."

Hermione doubted that was all Adelmo's dead-eyed wife was tired of. Still, she put on a polite smile and tried not to look ill.

"No, thank you, Minister."

"I must insist. We will by flying over many historical areas, which I know will be of interest to a bright woman such as yourself."

"While I appreciate the offer, I must refuse," she repeated, putting some ice into her tone. "I'm not a great flier, so I fear your stories would be lost on me."

"Even more reason. I will take the utmost care. You will never feel safer than in my arms."

"Minister —"

"Vivian flies with me, Rua," Draco cut in.

Adelmo gave him an appraising look, as if he were resizing an adversary.

"Very well," he said with an oily smile. "Shall we mount up?"

Hermione felt the heat of Draco's hand at her back.

"May I —"

"I don't care where you touch me," she whispered, failing to control her growing panic. "Just make sure I don't fall off."

"You won't fall," he promised. He braced the broom as she swung her right leg over and found her balance. Draco kept a hand on her shoulder as he mounted up behind her. Her breath hitched as he leaned in. She could feel the strength of his chest as it pressed against her back.

"Feet up." His voice was a low hum in her ear. His hands teased hers out of their death grip on the handle. "Thumb knuckles toward the sky, elbows in. Keep your eyes open — you're less likely to get sick that way."

Adelmo's broom shot off from in front of them, streaking like a golden comet over the streets of Rome and into the cloudless blue sky.

"Draco, please…" She was not sure what she was asking for, what the tremors in her voice and body might have earned her aside from his pity. Maybe his pity was enough.

"Hold on tight."

The broom's acceleration pushed her into the seat and lodged a scream in her throat. She fought the instinct to close her eyes as they gained altitude and sped to catch up with Adelmo. Draco's arms pressed against her shoulders.

"You're okay," he said. "I've got you."

Hermione steadied herself on Draco's arm as she dismounted. They had been flying for hours, and the uneven gravel drive provided scant cushioning for her tired legs. She wobbled, and immediately his hand was at her elbow. And even though they had been in almost constant contact for the entire day, his touch still sent a spark through her, like a jolt of unchanneled, unexpected magic.

He felt it, too. It was in his eyes, the way his hand conformed to the curve of her arm, the way his body angled toward her even when they were on the ground. The breeze toyed with her hair, curling a blonde strand across her forehead. Draco swept it away, tucked it behind her ear, rested his hand on the back of her neck. He lowered his head. He was going to kiss her.

"Still okay?"

Her stomach flipped. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

"Yes. We're almost done."

"Almost."

"Welcome to Dioli Vineyards," Adelmo said brusquely, pushing between them. He marched down the drive, trailing after Livia, who was already over halfway to the villa at its end.

From above, the southern Tuscan vineyards resembled a quilt, rhomboid patches in shades of green and yellow stitched together with the silver thread of rivers, the dark green of trees, and grey paved roads. From the ground, the vineyards rolled around them like a verdant ocean in the late afternoon sunshine. The shushing of the branches and the faint creaks of the vines in the breeze made Hermione feel as though she were on a ship. She closed her eyes and inhaled the sharp, chlorophyllic scent of living things and the round, pungent scent of mineral-rich earth.

"First time in Italy?"

Her eyes drifted back to Draco's. He had been watching her.

"Is it obvious?"

"Yes."

"Is it a problem?"

"No." He held out his hand to her. "It's charming. The winemaker will love you for it."

"Have you met him?"

"No, but his wines are famous throughout wizarding Italy. It's taken them years to expand their market share."

"Production problems?"

Draco shook his head.

"Artificial scarcity. If everyone could get a bottle of Dioli wine, it wouldn't be worth having."

"Wine as a status symbol."

"As it's always been, so stop sneering," he said with a gentle squeeze of her hand.

"Is it worth the cost, at least?"

He grinned at her.

"That's for you to decide."

The villa, with its squared-off lines, red-tiled roof, and intricately curved ironwork, looked like something from a postcard. The man who flung its doors wide looked as if he, too, had been quarried and pieced together with similarly meticulous detail. He inclined his head in greeting.

"Welcome, Ministro, cara Livia." He kissed Livia's cheek, then extended a hand to Draco. "Signore Malfoy, welcome to my vineyard. And this is?"

"Vivian Ward," Hermione said, not waiting for the introduction.

Draco swallowed a laugh. The winemaker raised an eyebrow but took her hand. His skin was cool and dry.

"Luca Dioli."

"Your vineyards are beautiful, Signore. Thank you for hosting us today."

His square face cracked with the first hint of a smile.

"It is my pleasure." Then, addressing the group at large: "We will start with the winery itself, then the fields, then a tasting. I have a barrel of Brunello di Montalcino that will remind you of why Italian wines are the best in the world."

The villa's interior was as open and sun-drenched as the fields. Luca led them through arched hallways of pale stone, past tastefully decorated rooms, and near a kitchen that smelled like freshly baked bread. He stopped at a dead end.

"This land has been producing grapes since the 1800s, and my family has worked it for just as long. We have withstood wars, droughts, pestilence, theft, betrayal, and counterfeits, yet the Dioli name has always carried a reputation for exceptional wine. With that reputation comes jealousy. This is natural, but we have had to create security structures to protect our assets."

He withdrew his wand and, with a series of quick flicks, the wall behind him turned partially transparent. Hermione's skin prickled as she walked through it.

"The Ministero has graciously cast their proprietary protection wards over my home and fields. I am notified at once when visitors arrive, expected or not. The brew area is similarly guarded. I only trust my family with the location of my wine vault, and I do not trust many of them." His voice held no trace of mirth.

They turned the corner into a room three stories tall. Stainless steel equipment shone in the ambient light, sorting lines and presses, fermentation tanks and bottling stations. Empty oak barrels were stacked in the corner like a pyramid to Bacchus.

"Muggle equipment?" Hermione asked.

"The art is ancient and our vines are old, but the process has changed over time," Luca explained with a smile. "Not having magic has forced Muggles to invent new ways of operating, of improving." He rested a hand on a tank. "These machines have increased my yield and decreased my processing time, yet I have not changed the bottle price. My bottom line has increased year-on-year since their installation."

"Impressive." Draco turned to Adelmo. "The Ministero supports this?"

"The Ministero supports all ideas that enhance productivity and ease the burden of work from Italy's citizens."

"And technology is not all the Muggles have given us," Luca said.

They walked through a second transparent wall, exiting at the villa's rear. Hermione noticed movement in the distant field, white hats dipping above and below the wavy line of green and brown. She shaded her eyes with her hands and squinted.

"Labor."

She could hear the smile on Luca's voice, and the bright October day seemed to darken. Draco gripped her elbow as they approached a group of about three dozen Muggles. They moved slowly up the rows. Each carried a pair of clippers and wore an enormous wicker backpack. Some glanced back at them — quick, darting looks that were at once frightened and defiant, like their satisfied curiosity was worth whatever punishment they risked. Most, however, kept their heads down, diligently pruning their vines. They tossed the fruit into their backpacks with a practiced motion.

"Criminals, mostly," Adelmo explained. "Some troublemakers, some homeless, some immigrants with no documentation and nowhere else to go."

The Muggles were painfully thin, their skin burned red and brown. Their clothes were tattered, wearing thin at the shoulders from the constant friction of the straps. The man in her row shifted his pack, revealing a patch of skin between his neck and shoulder rubbed a bright, raw red. She gasped, and the worker — a young girl, she realized now, with a fine-boned face and chapped lips — looked up from her vine. Her eyes were wide and dark, and Hermione felt something in her shake loose at the depths of sadness they contained.

"They live off-site and are bused in daily at Luca's expense depending on his needs," Adelmo continued. "They harvest from dawn until dusk with four, fifteen-minute breaks and thirty minutes for lunch. The ones who are not wards of the state are compensated with a flat daily fee and may earn a bonus if they exceed their kilogram quota."

"Do you feed them?"

Draco's fingers tightened around her elbow, his warning far too late. Not that it would have stopped her. If Adelmo noticed her sharper than normal tone, he gave no sign. Just a condescending smile, as if her question was one a child might ask.

"No, Vivian. We do not feed them."

"You should."

Adelmo and Luca exchanged a look. The pressure on her elbow increased. Hermione pulled away from Draco's grip to face Luca squarely.

"Are all the grapes harvested on time? Do you have any waste?"

"Some," Luca conceded.

"Enough to make a difference in your bottom line?"

He shot Adelmo another look.

"It all makes a difference, my dear."

"Your workers are skin and bones. It's a miracle some of them are standing, let alone harvesting." She looked at the young girl, who tried hard to disguise her eavesdropping. "If you fed them, you would get more out of them. You would end the season with less grape waste and more Galleons in your vault."

The winemaker considered her, head cocked.

"Any profit gain would be offset by the cost of their food for the year."

She thought she heard some calculation in his voice. A note of cajoling, perhaps. She answered him with a skeptical look.

"You only need to feed them for a season, not the year. But if it's truly a concern for you, perhaps Minister Rua would be willing to create a program to subsidize the cost of their food. After all," she finished with a glance at Adelmo, "the Ministero supports all productivity-enhancing ideas."

Silence fell heavy among the group save for the rustling of vines and the snip of shears. Then, Luca laughed, a single, soft sound. His light brown eyes shone with mirth as he looked at Adelmo.

"We will meet next week to discuss further, yes?"

The minister looked as though he had swallowed an insect.

"Of course," he answered, a bitter twist to his lips. "I look forward to it."

Hermione lowered herself into the tub, wincing as the hot water slid up her calves and thighs. The sting was necessary; they had dismounted thirty minutes ago and she could already feel her legs and lower back stiffening. She sank into the lavender-scented bubbles and let her head fall back against the rolled towel, moaning as the charmed water jets pulsed against the pressure points on her back.

Just as she began to drift, Draco knocked.

"Yes?"

The doorknob twisted. She recoiled, sending a small wave of water and soap onto the floor.

"I didn't say you could come in!"

"I'm not coming in. I just want to talk, and I didn't want to do it through the door."

"It couldn't wait?"

Draco kept his eyes averted as he lowered himself to the floor, pressing his back against one jamb and his feet against the other. His knees tented, pulling the hem of his trousers up enough to reveal several inches of ankle.

"I've ordered supper."

"Thanks. I'm glad you declined Rua's invitation tonight. I don't think I could've handled one more minute with him."

"I think the feeling was mutual. You put him in a difficult situation today."

"He has a meeting next week," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "I'd hardly call that difficult."

"Does Rua strike you as a man who enjoys work?"

"Certain aspects of it, maybe. The control, the power."

"He doesn't like to give without getting. You didn't endear yourself to him today."

"I wasn't trying to."

Draco lifted his hands in a placating gesture.

"I wasn't saying you should, but we still have a few days left here. You'll need to be careful around him. More careful than usual," he amended at Hermione's incredulous huff.

"Rua doesn't scare me."

"He should."

If Draco felt the weight of her glare, he didn't show it.

"It was brave, what you did today," he ventured after a minute of silence.

Guilt twisted inside her chest. She looked down at the velvety cloud of bubbles, watched as it shrank.

"No, it wasn't. Brave would've been hexing the lot of you and freeing those Muggles."

"I think that crosses the line into stupidity."

"Maybe they're the same thing. Maybe the world needs a brave, stupid person to do something rash."

They lapsed into another silence.

"Why sex work?"

Hermione shifted, stretching her legs beneath the water. She'd known the question was coming. It was natural to be curious; sex work was miles away from what anyone, herself included, expected. That didn't make answering any easier. At least there was distance between them. It spared her the obligation of looking into his eyes.

"I should have died, you know. In that raid on Grimmauld Place nineteen years ago."

Draco's head twitched.

"You weren't there."

"I was. Ron and I had had a fight. Another fight — I don't even remember what it was about anymore, we had so many in the years after Harry died. I went out into the back garden to get some air."

The tub's warm water seemed to vanish around her as she was transported back to that night. She felt the chill of the November evening and the scratch of the wool sweater she had grabbed on her way out. Saw the dead weeds, the rime of frost on cracked paving stones, the dark sky through patchy clouds. Smelled ozone, sawdust, smoke.

"The initial blast threw me off my feet, and I landed near the back fence. I saw the house start to collapse. It was like the walls were made of paper, the way they buckled…"

"Modified Reductor. It targeted the wood."

She paused for a moment, let the new information color her memory a shade darker.

"That makes sense. I'd always wondered."

"Hermione…"

"I ran. They were screaming for help, but you were coming, so I ran. I tried the country for a while, but it was too empty. I couldn't get lost there. So I came back to the city. I've worked in teashops and factories. A bookstore once, but it got burned down for selling banned literature. I was doing fine until you passed the Purity Papers Permit."

"That was Rabastan's idea. I tried to talk him out of it."

"Doesn't make a difference."

Hermione flicked the water with her fingers, trying to quell her resentment. She had seen policies ruin lives before. Had witnessed young witches and wizards ripped from their Muggle parents' arms for no crime other than existing. Had walked past Muggle ghettos, where the tenants were dirty and starving, stooped and dead-eyed from a day's hard labor. She had thought, foolishly, that she had avoided the worst of it. She'd been wrong; the worst simply hadn't caught up to her yet.

"I quit before my employer could ask about my blood status. I had a few months of expenses saved, but no one would hire me without papers. When my money ran out, I had to make a choice: find a job that didn't require papers, or homelessness." She affected a shrug. "This is what I chose."

"I'm sor—"

"Don't. I don't want your pity. I made a choice. I've accepted it. Besides, an apology without action is about a useful as a bird with its wings clipped. It may look nice, but it's never going to go anywhere."

"What do you expect from me?"

The question was so sad it almost made her laugh. She shook her head, incredulous.

"You still haven't learned? Even after all this time?"

He shot her a look somewhere between disbelief and anger.

"It's not about what other people expect from you. It's what you expect from yourself. People expected you to be an arrogant, spoiled brat, so you were. People expected you to be a follower, so you are."

"Do you think that's all I am?"

"If even half of the rumors I've heard about you are true, I know it's not. It can't be. What I can't figure out is why you think it is."

He looked away first, lips curled into a soft sneer, hands fisted by his sides.

"You don't know what I've seen, what I've —"

She rolled her eyes and swept a wave of water at him. He shot to his feet, spluttering and staring down at his soaked shirt.

"What the hell!"

"Oh, come off it," she scolded. "I know exactly what you've seen and done. I've been on the opposite side of it for 27 years. I've been the effect to your cause ever since Hogwarts, so don't paint yourself as some inscrutable anti-hero because you want to assuage your guilt. You're the villain in this story, and you'll remain the villain until you decide you're not."

"I've done everything in my power to help you!"

"And what about everyone else?" He stepped back as she gestured wide, flinging another spray of water across the floor. "We're beaten! All the Order members have been killed or worse, and You-Know-Who's government has so thoroughly oppressed its people that no one is fighting. Any hope we have needs to come from within his administration."

"From me."

"For lack of a better option, yes! You have an opportunity to make a difference."

"One person can't topple an entire regime," he snapped. "That's a fairy tale, and you're naïve for believing in it."

She tore her eyes away from him and drew her knees to her chest.

"Better to try for a fairy tale than to just accept the evil in the world."

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Maybe I don't," she said, her tone as bitter as willow bark. "Maybe I'm wrong about you."

"You're —"

The crack of house-elf Apparition cut him off. His shoulders stiffened, and whatever fire had been kindling within him guttered out.

"I'm sorry for interrupting your bath. I'm going down to the lobby bar for a drink. Don't wait up for me."

He closed the door on her, but any hope she had of settling back into the bath was gone. Her mind buzzed with anger, with all that she had left unsaid. She leapt from the tub and threw on a robe.

"Draco, wait."

She couldn't have been more than a minute behind him, but both the bedroom and living space were empty. She wrapped her arms around her middle, feeling a little lost. He'd actually left her. For the first time in days, she was alone, free to do what she wanted. Which was unfortunate, because what she wanted to do was yell at him until he understood the force of his untapped potential.

She held onto her irritation like a lifeline and enjoyed the evening just to spite him. But when the clock struck midnight, her resentful glee fizzled.

He'd left her, and he hadn't come back.

A lone receptionist slouched at the front desk, giving her only a passing look before turning back to her magazine. The looks she received at the bar lingered, but Draco's was not among them. A few melancholy notes drifted through the lobby, picked out haltingly on a piano. Without knowing how, she knew it was him.

Draco sat hunched over the bench, his fingers skimming the keys and applying pressure without pattern. He didn't seem to notice her. Didn't acknowledge her at all until she slid a hand onto his shoulder. He lifted a hand from the keys and put it over hers, wrapping her fingers in his.

"It's late," he mumbled. "You should be sleeping."

"So should you."

He let his head hang.

"I've been thinking about what you said."

She looked over her shoulder. She knew better than to believe they were alone.

"Not here."

"I expect more from myself. I always have."

"Draco, don't —"

"You're right about me."

Unfocused eyes met hers, then drifted away.

"I know." She leaned down close to him. "Let's go upstairs, Draco. Please."

For a moment, she thought he might argue. Then he nodded and stood, the piano making a discordant sound as he caught his balance on the keys. He slung an arm around her waist.

After an unsteady walk through the hotel, she kicked the bedroom door closed and lowered him onto the bed. He sagged forward, placing his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

"Hermione."

She knelt before him to unlace his shoes.

"How much did you drink?"

She froze as he brushed his fingers across her cheek and into her hair.

"Finite." The tension in his brow eased, and he leaned forward. Hermione's heart raced as his forehead pressed against hers. "I've always loved your hair. Always wanted to touch it. Never had the chance…" He released a shuddering breath as he twined his fingers through her curls. "I never knew…"

She rested her hands on his forearms. It would be so easy to fall into him. A lift of her chest, a tilt of her chin. That was all it would take for her lips to meet his. But once they touched, she was afraid they would never stop. And though desire tugged at her, and the whisper of inevitability scorched the space between them, the timing had to be right.

Gently, she pushed down on his forearms. His fingers loosened, dropped, and she pulled away from him.

"Did you pack a Sober-Up?"

He nodded and gestured toward his bag. She plucked a small, poppy-pink vial from his travel potions' case and pressed it into his hands. He thumbed the cork, tipped the contents into his mouth, and swallowed. Then he doubled over.

"Hate that potion," he moaned, arms curled over his stomach.

She did, too. The side effects were short-lived, but severe. She sometimes wondered if it was worth taking at all.

"Fainting, vomiting, or headaches?"

"Headaches."

"Lucky you. It makes me vomit."

He gave her a bleary, wincing look. She dimmed the candles until the room was bathed in a gentle, orange ambience. While Draco fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, Hermione ran a washcloth under cool water. When she returned, he had stripped down to his shorts and lay on the bed with his palms pressed to his eyes. He flinched when she set the cloth on his forehead, then lowered his hands.

"Thank you. Shouldn't last much longer."

She watched his pain recede with each breath. After five minutes, she set the washcloth on her nightstand.

"Better?"

"Getting there."

"Good enough to sleep?"

"Yes."

She extinguished the lights and changed into her pajamas, navigating the room by touch and memory. She crawled into bed and turned over, her back to him.

"May I hold you?"

Something in her chest squeezed tight. The last person to hold her — really hold her — had been Ron. She had loved him with the reckless passion of youth and the very real fear of her own demise, and when he died, part of her had, too. She remembered feeling numb for months, viewing the world as if through a thick gauze, her infrequent moments of clarity accompanied by breathless grief. The gauze had thinned over time, the grief whittled down to an occasional ache. The numbness remained, a feeling of unreality, like she was disconnected from everything and everyone.

Draco threatened connection.

Over the days they'd spent together, he'd offered countless opportunities for it. Every touch was an invitation, every conversation a foundation upon which they could build. But at what cost? Anything they created would be destroyed when she left. Even if she stayed, they could never survive it. Not in their world.

But maybe the transience made it safe, mitigated the risk enough so that their inevitable separation didn't bring crushing pain with it. Maybe she could allow herself to feel something for a night. For a week.

"Yes."

She shut her eyes as Draco closed the space between them and draped an arm across her waist. His chest moved against her back with each inhale, and his hips cradled hers, warming her from head to toe. She released a shuddering breath.

It didn't make sense for her to want him. It didn't make sense for her to want anyone; desire was a luxury she couldn't afford. But Draco was different. They shared a past and an intimate understanding of who they had been as young adults. Being with him now was like sweet nostalgia, a chance to acknowledge what could have been and live, even temporarily, the life she deserved.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she answered.

It was at least halfway true.