Notes: I love hearing from so many different readers, so many different voices. It's truly a privilege to read every word you all decide to share with me. So thank you for your continued support.

This scene is perhaps my favorite-certainly one of my favorites-that I have ever written, fanfiction or otherwise. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

~*~ Thirty ~*~

The stench of battle was as acrid as she remembered, the chaos just as disorienting. Her throat was raw from the constant screaming of curses and the orders she now had to provide. The thick tang of magic coated her mouth, inescapable and impossible to ignore. Every spell, every directive reminded her just how unpleasant battle was. She wished for water, for the clean mountain air to slide through her lungs, untainted and pure. But they were no longer in the Alps and the thunder of Muggle bombings echoed from the horizon beyond their position. It didn't matter who you were, Muggle or Wizard, there would be no safe haven here.

A bolt of brilliant green jetted past her head, missing by mere inches. She jerked back, refocusing on the fight at hand. Another killing burst exploded to her right, but she was ready this time, firing back a handful of dark curses that she reserved for those bold enough to attempt the Killing Curse. There was a shriek and then the metallic scent of blood, copious enough to tell her there would be no further green light. She circled back around, firing a curse over her shoulder followed by a more audible, "Diffindo!"

The metallic scent increased and her lips turned up in grim satisfaction. They were surrounded, which might have made her nervous with another partner, but she was back to back with Draco Malfoy. It shouldn't have made her feel safe; it should have set her hair on end and made her run screaming, but it didn't. No, she felt—for the first time ever—perfectly at ease in the midst of battle. And it wasn't just his skill with a wand or his reputation as a great dueler. It was simply the fact that it was him. The only soul in the entire universe she could trust was standing beside her in this hell and she would not have it any other way, despite his past. Despite hers.

His shield flared around them and she set to work thinning the encroaching enemy lines. She hadn't been holding back, although she knew she should. These people were not Death Eaters; they did not deserve her wrath. But she was so tired of treading lightly, of keeping her aim so tentatively precise. Their lives were on the line—by no choice of their own—and she would deal with the guilt later. There was already so much to atone for, what was another death?

A part of her, a part that was growing stronger with every passing day, refused to give in. Another death mattered. She switched from a deadly hex to a simple perfectus totalus. The body dropped just the same and she moved on to her next target.

It took her a few minutes to realize Malfoy was stunning his opponents as well, neither of them leaving a body count any longer. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it. But then a particularly nasty spell caught her cheek and pain blossomed, her vision narrowing. She muttered a quick clotting incantation under her breath, swinging to face her would-be attacker.

He was only a boy, perhaps a year or two younger than she'd been at the start of the war. His eyes were wide with terror, his wand trembling between his fingers as he took a tentative step forward. She could see his mouth working, trying to muster the courage to form the syllables of the Killing Curse. The sight broke her heart, an instant reminder of just how much war robbed the innocent. He fell backward a moment later, frozen in his doomed attempt.

Draco—it still felt odd to think of him that way—met her stare, stormy eyes filled with crystalline focus. She nodded to him, murmuring a quiet, "Thanks."

They fell into a comfortable rhythm after that, each defending and attacking in turn, neither causing harm if they could help it. The others under their command were less reserved, but their arsenal was also significantly reduced and the overall casualties were far fewer and the injuries less severe than any of the fights she'd ever survived during the war. There was still blood everywhere, leaking down her brow into her eyes, in a ragged line across Draco's sternum, splattered across the cold mud at their feet. But by the time their enemy retreated, gathering their injured and incapacitated in large droves, the feeling of mortality was fading, life still thrumming steadily through her veins.

The crack of apparation, including the additional nausea that came from riding sidelong with Draco, echoed in her bones as they stumbled onto the steps of Nurmengard to find Grindelwald with a pleased smirk across his thin, pale lips.

"A first victory to my finest commanders."

Draco's head bent, eyes tracing the patterns of the stone at Grindelwald's feet. Hermione attempted to follow suit, but found such deference came much more unnaturally to her. Draco frowned, as if sensing her struggle, but merely said, "Thank you, my Lord."

"Get yourselves cleaned up before our victory banquet."

Hermione could hardly see how a victory like theirs deserved a banquet, but she wasn't about to argue with the first part of his directive. The smell of battle, perhaps less sour than usual, still clung to her every pore. What she wouldn't do for a thorough scourgify followed by a long soak in the tub.

"Yes, my Lord," Draco intoned, bowing his head deeply again.

"My Lord," Hermione managed, not quite able to match his subservient tone.

Then they were moving, Draco's hand at the small of her back, guiding her swiftly to their suite. The move from the manor near Grenoble to the castle at Nurmengard had afforded them significantly more luxurious lodgings, which included two separate bedrooms, a receiving room with adjacent balcony and a full bath with magically enhanced plumbing. To her surprise Draco led her directly to the bathroom, indicating for her to sit on the ornate bench adjacent to the large tiled platform that housed the oversized tub.

He rummaged around in one of the drawers below the sinks until he came up with a bottle of ointment and a fresh cloth. He ran the cloth under the sink before returning to her side. Without warning his hand was tangling in her wild locks, pushing the hair aside as he studied the skin beneath. Focus unwavering, he drew the cloth gently across her brow and she hissed, the sting of an open wound cutting through her.

"Sorry," he murmured, intense eyes still fixated on her temple. "It's best to clean them before I heal them."

Hermione knew that. Anyone who'd endured a battle knew that. But the gentle way he was touching her, the intense way his stare seared into her hairline, that was new. She and Harry had helped each other on plenty of occasions, but never with the degree of care Draco was exhibiting. It felt foreign; it felt perfect, like coming home at last.

She shifted, swallowing heavily. Draco didn't seem to notice as he moved on to cleaning the rest of her face, his touch reverential and impossible. When he came to her collar his eyes flickered to meet hers, the question in them clear. She didn't hesitate, hands lifting to her buttons as she shrugged off her robes and then her blouse, leaving only a plain bra behind. She'd been hit in several locations on her torso and it wasn't like he hadn't seen her naked before. Tom had forced him to watch her come undone on his hand for Godric's sake. That encounter had involved consent from neither of them. If she was to move beyond that trespass, she would have to make new memories, ones that involved trust, not blind lust.

As if sensing her intention, Draco sank to his knees beside her, eyes clinging to hers as the path of his hand continued downward, over the swell of her breasts and onward to the plane of stomach. Her skin twitched, her breath catching, but he didn't look away from her face, not even as he swabbed the wounds clean. Then he was whispering quietly against her skin. "Episky."

The wound itched then knotted together, the blood flow cutting off. Draco repeated the incantation on a number of other injuries he deemed too serious to let heal naturally. When he was done, he rose to his feet, retreating a step to survey her, studying his handiwork. Apparently satisfied, he moved to leave, but Hermione caught his wrist. A gentle tug and he was standing before her once more, brow raised.

"My turn," was all she said.

He blinked, owlish. She suppressed a smile and stole the cloth from his limp fingers before pushing him down on the bench. He complied, too shocked to do more than yield. His face was relatively free of any wounds, but she folded the cloth to a clean side and gently wiped the dirt from the angular panes of his cheeks. This close, he was more handsome, his skin more luminous, his eyes the depths of an indominable storm. She barely resisted tracing the strong line of his jaw or the full swell of his lips. But this wasn't about desire. It was about an intimacy she had never experienced before, a closeness that came from safety and security, not the need to satisfy an ache born of misery and violence. That need was a mere shadow now, more scar than pulsing wound.

So when he wordlessly shed his robes and shirt, she did not press her mouth to those enticing contours of his chest, to the strong lines of his pecs and gentle roll of his abs. No, she merely found the deepest of his wounds and dabbed until the blood was clear and the dirt long gone. Then she moved on to the next, fingers gently ghosting over his skin in search of injury, her only intent to heal. He'd been hit far more on his back than she had, which told her she needed to be more vigilant about guarding it for him. But still the injuries were minor, nothing a hot rag and a wave of her wand didn't fix.

When she was done, he guided her over to the sink, dropping the rag into it. His hand was hot on her skin as he turned her around, her back against the sink, his bare chest a hair's width from hers. She was against him in an instant, her arms wrapping tightly around him, his warmth blossoming into her in steady waves. His arms came up slowly, but then came around her with a force that took her breath away, his nose nuzzling into the crook of her neck, his breath hot, but steady against her skin. Hermione clung to him, relishing the feel of someone against her with no agenda but to be closer, to communicate the depth of a feeling that had nothing to do with sexual attraction.

"Thank you," she whispered, unable to form more complex words to describe what he was giving her.

His embrace tightened a fraction, his face burrowing further into her hair. "Always."

They stood there, simply intertwined, until Draco finally retreated, a wince on his lips. He stumbled a step backward, dropping heavily to sit on the bench.

"Are you…?"

He bit his lip, pure agony skating over his features for a moment. Heaving a sigh, he shook his head. "Nothing to do but wait. I've been working it close to the ragged edge for the past couple of weeks and the battle certainly did it no good."

"You need to take it easy, if we're going to survive this." She leveled a glare at him that was only half playful. "I need you. I can't do this without you."

"You are far more capable than you think."

Her eyes rolled before she could stop them. "You do remember the part where I came to the past to kill Tom but ended up being seduced by him? Or the part where fighting on a battlefield turned me into a sex addict, right?"

"You're not a sex addict." He looked unamused.

"No, just a bloody whore, right?" Her words weren't even angry, just resigned.

Draco was glaring at her now, an angry twist to his lips that had nothing to do with the pain in his leg. "Just because I've said a million terrible things, doesn't mean you should remember them. I was angry and confused when I called you that. I apologize. You are not a whore. You turned to sex for comfort and I used that against you. More than once. I just… I was projecting on to you, making you accountable for things you'd never done, decisions that I'd made. Consequences I have to endure."

All involving his wife's imprisonment and death no doubt. Hermione shook her head, forcing the thought aside. "My point was that I'm useless here without your help. You're the only one who's made me feel even remotely human since the beginning of the war, Draco, and I cannot lose that."

He sighed, the fight draining out of him. "I have no intention of leaving you in this hell on your own."

"Then take care of yourself."

"Fine," he muttered, storm clouds behind his eyes. "Help me to bed?"

She took a step forward and he rose gingerly to his feet, his left arm settling over her bare shoulders. Together they made slow, but steady progress to his bedroom. A thin veneer of sweat covered his brow when he collapsed to the bed, Hermione helping him lift the cursed limb as he scooted further back until his head could rest gently on the pillows.

She ran a hand over his matted hair. "It's okay to need help."

He didn't answer, but he did grip her hand tightly for a moment before slumping into the mattress, strength sapped. She allowed herself a wistful glance at his haggard features before she retreated to the bathroom once more, taps turned to full blast and steam filling the room as she finally sank into the bath.