Morning brought with it the stark light of day, and the uncomfortable truth of reality. Gone were the intimate, soft feelings of bliss and comfort — the afterglow had faded, and everything was hard and sharp once more.
Hermione awoke to find herself alone in bed. Her hand reached out to brush the space next to her, and found the crumpled linen sheet still warm. A pinprick of unease and hurt skirted across Hermione for reasons unbeknownst to herself, but she quashed it down. She pushed herself onto her elbow to scan the room, and found Draco seated at the window seat across the room.
He was fully dressed in simple black trousers and a black sweater, wore a deeply contemplative expression on his face, and seemed to be lost in thought — so much so that he didn't notice Hermione had woken, until she had wrapped herself in a linen sheet and padded over to him.
At the sound of rustling fabric, he finally stirred and snapped his head towards her. A frown marred his face for a moment, before it faded. He unfolded his legs and shifted to make room for Hermione, indicating for her to sit across from him.
Hermione folded herself into the window seat. They stared at each other for a moment; she took in the weak morning sun ghosting across his features. A scar on the bridge of his nose, eyes like molten silver — and a face that so rarely showed emotion, because he kept it bundled deeply within; never allowed himself to feel.
"Do you regret it?" Hermione asked quietly.
Her mouth was dry, and her tongue darted out to lick her lips.
Draco's mouth twitched as he watched her.
"It certainly makes my job harder," he responded evenly. There was a ghost of a smile across his face, and then a regretful expression.
"No," Draco eventually admitted, when Hermione did not respond. She allowed the silence to stretch — she needed to know.
"No, I don't regret it. But you need to work harder at Occlumency now," he said slowly. His voice had become low and forceful, and he watched her face as he spoke.
"The feelings you have … they will have, undoubtedly, intensified. The memories of these events will be associated with strong emotions. Voldemort will have an easier time detecting them. Once he realizes there's something there, he'll pursue it relentlessly," Draco said. His expression was hard as marble as he regarded her.
Hermione worked hard to repress the shiver that threatened to roll up her spine. He didn't need to explain how much danger they had put themselves in, as a result of their night of passion. They both knew.
"I would erase the memory with Legilimency if I could, shredding it so completely that it couldn't be recovered or undone like a Memory Charm could, but there's no telling what might go with it because memories are linked inextricably," Draco added bitterly, almost as an afterthought. "It's nearly impossible to make a clean cut, unless you erase everything associated with it."
Hermione stared at him for a moment.
Such a thought did not spring forth spontaneously. There was an air of regret in his words.
"You- … you've thought about erasing my memory," she whispered in horror.
Something in her was reeling at the thought of Draco reaching into her mind to erase away any evidence of himself. Quite suddenly, she felt like a child clinging obstinately to their parent, terrified of monsters in the dark.
Draco's mouth was a thin line as he stared back at her. His eyes flickered momentarily, but his face was inscrutable.
"How dare you," Hermione began hotly, nearly stumbling over her own words in anger. "You don't— you don't get to do that to me. These are *my* memories. You don't get to— to take away my autonomy, my history. Who I am."
He gave a low, mirthless laugh.
"Granger, your history is one that could very well get us both killed. What good are your memories to you when you're dead?" he replied coolly. "You didn't seem too fussed about practicing Occlumency for a while, if I recall correctly."
Hermione bit back an angry retort as a wave of guilt washed over her. She had indeed abandoned her responsibilities, and Draco, for a while.
Draco gave a low sigh.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, looking away. "I- … I'm doing everything I can to protect you, Hermione. I do everything I can and I'm not proud of what I've done. What I would do."
At this, Hermione felt her anger evaporate fully. It was hard to hold onto resentment and rage when faced with the reality of Draco — that he had been worn down, just as she had, by the war and holding on after.
That while she had herself and him to worry about, he carried the weight of his family too, and the shackles of obligation and duty.
Hermione reached a hand out — tentatively, shyly, to grasp Draco's larger hand. She tugged it gently to her mouth to press her lips against it, and meet his eyes.
"I'll try harder," she said quietly.
He nodded back and they sat for a while longer, neither speaking.
Occlumency did not come any easier to her after that, in the weeks that followed. Hot July days bled into the stagnant haze of early August, and training was just as exhausting as it had always been — yet Hermione found that she could endure it better. There was a blessed lightness in her heart that hadn't been there before. That hadn't been there since everything had fallen apart.
Draco trained her as rigorously as ever, but there was a marked improvement in sessions in the way that they interacted with one another. The explosive fight seemed to have broken a dam in him — whatever he had been holding back had finally surfaced, and the intensity of it nearly overwhelmed Hermione.
Sometimes, she would catch him staring at her in a way that made her breath catch in her throat. There was an even, measured quality to the way he moved around her; his touches lingered for a fraction of a second more, he stepped a hair's breadth too close. From the darkening of his eyes, until his pupils had nearly swallowed his silver irises, Hermione could tell that it was only his iron discipline honed through years of war that held him aloft.
And when he snapped, it was like a wildfire burning — like an inferno blazing around her, that swallowed and consumed and demanded, and Hermione could only cling to him helplessly.
They staggered into walls and tumbled into bed. Sometimes, Draco didn't even bother with that — he simply ripped Hermione's clothes off and took her against the wall, plunging into her with a single hard stroke that left her seeing stars. He moved steadily against her, staring into her eyes until all she could see was beautiful molten silver, the colour of patronuses, his forehead pressed against hers. She clawed his back and left deep scratches upon it with her nails, alternating between kissing him desperately and panting his name.
She grew to become accustomed to his body again, but it was a new discovery each time. His ragged breaths and the way he shuddered and shook as he climaxed, groaning deeply in her ear. The way he gripped her hard enough to hurt, but the pain intermingled with deep, intense pleasure. How possessive he was as he held her, in the way that Hermione knew she was truly safe, that her heart was safeguarded — she belonged to him.
In her reacquaintance with his body, it didn't escape her notice that he was bruised and battered every time he came to see her. Sometimes, he would return from his missions smelling of smoke, blood and Dark Magic — a darkness in his aura, a desperation in his touch. She didn't ask Draco as to his whereabouts, nor what he had done — she didn't want to know, and she knew he didn't want to revisit those dark places. He simply wanted to forget, to escape, if only temporarily. All she could do was envelop him in her arms and peel back the layers of body armour and clothing, cradling him close and healing what she could.
"You're going to be the death of me," Draco murmured, cradling her face and kissing her in the aftermath. "You really are. You have no idea, Hermione."
He had tugged her wand from her grip and thrown it aside half-way through Hermione's healing; he had needed intimacy and touch, more than he needed his vitals checked and blood replenished. Unwilling to argue or choose between the two, Hermione had simply allowed him to ravage her and sink into her, drawing healing magic to her bare hands to press against him, until she could no longer focus due to the building heat and pressure in her core.
"The things I would do for you," he whispered, more to himself than her. "The things I have done for you."
She found that she couldn't say the words she so badly wanted to say. Her heart ached for him, for them both, for their impossible situation, so Hermione kissed him back and poured into it all the emotions she had, so that maybe he could know a fraction of what she truly felt for him.
It was only when Draco had drifted off into an exhausted sleep in her embrace, that his breathing had become deep and even and after all his bruises and contusions had been healed by her, that she dared speak.
"I love you," Hermione mouthed wordlessly, her lips pressed to his jaw. "I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to escape with you and we're going to run far, far away from all this," she whispered.
They were words too risky for the light of day. They were words that she was terrified of speaking, for the fear it might seal their cursed fate.
Her feelings were biblical; intense and reckless.
Hermione knew there would come a day of judgement and reckoning, and wondered if damnation might await her.
There was an intensity in the way she worked thereafter. Hermione poured herself into research in the library, pulling out dozens of books and combing through each and every one of them. Her research was progressing at a glacial rate — it was only through brute force and stubbornness that she was making any progress at all.
She couldn't find any means of removing the Dark Mark, short of burning Draco alive to burn out all the cursed magic from his blood. Cutting the Mark off would do nothing; Draco would just bleed out. Hermione found some promising information on the use of Holy Fire to perform a cleansing ritual, but realized quickly that it would also involve immolation. Certainly, the Mark would be removed, but Draco would also be a pile of bone ash by the end.
Rita Skeeter would proclaim he was the most prestigious, most pureblooded, most magically elite form of ash that there was, thanks to his Malfoy ancestry, Hermione thought with a snort. She slammed the useless tome shut and stalked off, vowing to return for another fruitless attempt the next day.
The frustration and exhaustion must've shown in Hermione's face, because Narcissa commented upon it during their healing session.
"Something bothering you, Miss Granger?" Narcissa asked coolly. "Is being the other woman not to your taste, not living up to your expectations?"
Hermione stiffened and worked hard to bite back the angry expletives on her tongue. It wouldn't do to erupt on Narcissa, not when it had taken weeks for the older woman to recover from her own torture.
She swallowed hard before answering, and her voice came out calm and collected.
"This wasn't the outcome that I had expected, no. But I imagine a lot of things take us by surprise, don't they? Like being trapped like a captive in your own home, by the machinations of a monster," Hermione responded with equal coolness. Her hands were steady as she worked, casting diagnostic charms and scribbling her results onto a clipboard of parchment.
Narcissa stared back with palpable dislike, but was quiet for a spell.
When it had been quiet for so long that Hermione had forgotten about her anger and her thoughts had wandered back to the issue of the Dark Mark, Narcissa spoke again.
"This wasn't the outcome I had envisioned for Draco," Narcissa said quite suddenly.
Hermione gave a disbelieving snort.
"You never imagined he would become Voldemort's right hand man? The second in command of a fascist regime? Or did you mean an adulterer?" Hermione responded testily.
Narcissa's nostrils flared and her voice was icy when she responded.
"No, I never imagined my son would become mired in servitude to the Dark Lord, much like his father and I are," she replied coldly. "I had wanted a better life for my son."
"And when have you ever given him free rein over his own life, I wonder?" Hermione sniped back. She had finished the patient reports at this point, and was standing by her workstation with her wand held loosely and arms folded. "He's never had a real choice, has he? His entire life was dictated to him by you and Lucius, planned meticulously."
"We raised him to be a proper pureblood heir, worthy of his name and title," Narcissa retorted. "You wouldn't know anything about th—"
"And look where that's gotten him now. In servitude to the Dark Lord. Torturing and murdering on a daily basis. In a loveless marriage to a stranger. He despises his life and there's no escape from it, no where to go. No way out," Hermione said. Her voice had dropped to a low whisper, but every word was hissed out with barely contained fury.
Her heart twinged painfully for the boy that Draco had been — forced to grow up too quickly, crushed under the burden of his own name.
Narcissa face was ghostly pale, and her voice was thin when she spoke.
"He has … adapted to the strife and hardships. Responded admirably and thrived, even. My family has remained intact and whole, and our good name restored because of him," Narcissa said in a low tone.
"And how long do you think Voldemort would tolerate a protégé that matches or even surpasses him in power? Do you really think he'd allow Draco to continue living, when he realizes that his greatest weapon might very well be the greatest threat to him now?" Hermione asked harshly. "Do you not see the wounds and injuries Draco carries because of Voldemort? When Voldemort is certain that there are no other obstacles in his way, when all threats have been eliminated, he will then realize that the only threat that remains is Draco."
To this, Narcissa said nothing.
Hermione had known they were long overdue for another session, and that one must have been looming, but to see Voldemort again was like plunging her entire body into ice water.
It never became easier. She never became accustomed to the pure, abject terror of seeing him, of being in his presence.
The Great Hall of Hogwarts was bathed in the putrid stench of rotting flesh, made worse by the humidity and dripping wetness that seemed to echo throughout the hall.
She had been made to kneel again, to prostrate herself before Voldemort, her face pressed to the cold stone floor. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her breathing ragged; Hermione tried hard not to retch at the smell that permeated the air.
This time, they had guests.
When Draco had entered, dragging her along roughly and throwing her bodily to the ground, Hermione caught a glimpse of several terrified people huddled to the side. She wasn't able to manage a good look at them before Draco had kicked and held her down; all the better, even — she didn't want to see them.
"You have brought me … sssssomething of note this time, I hope, High Reeve? I hope you have not forgotten our last meeting," Voldemort murmured silkily. His voice was a quiet whisper, but it seemed to cut through the air like the sharpest steel; nobody dared to make a sound, not even the terrified captives.
The snakes undulating around Voldemort let out their own cacophony of piercing hisses to underscore the implicit threat of his words.
Hermione trembled slightly, unable to control her shivering from the cold and her own fear.
When the snakes finally fell silent, there was another sound: a rough scraping upon the stone floor. Something heavy was dragging itself along, twisting and writhing forward towards them.
Draco shuffled behind Hermione and she heard the clink of armour as he bowed deeply and respectfully.
"Yes, My Lord. I have worked tirelessly. I thought the trail had gone cold by now, but I was finally able to root them out - Horace Slughorn, his wife and children."
The name was vaguely familiar to Hermione. She sneaked a peek over at the huddled captives off to the side, and could only just make out the indistinct form of a fat old man. A few smaller forms surrounded him, cowering with him.
The rough scraping sound was growing distant; it was moving away from Hermione, and towards the captives.
Voldemort, it seemed, was all too familiar with Horace Slughorn.
"Sssslughorn … that is a name I have not heard in a long time," Voldemort breathed. "I thought he had disappeared … I had ssssearched for him … his association with that old fool, Dumbledore."
"He has hidden his trail cleverly, but I tracked him down in the end," Draco murmured deferentially.
"A paltry offering … you have made slow progress, High Reeve … I am displeased. Crucio."
Draco hissed in pain and dropped to his knees, his body armour hitting the stone floor hard enough to ring out in the empty hall. The curse was sustained for nearly a minute, Hermione's heart squeezing as she heard Draco groaning quietly, but Voldemort did not seem angry. He released Draco to focus his red eyes upon the huddled mass and his servant was forgotten.
"I shall accept this offering. For now," Voldemort whispered silkily. His gaze was now upon the old man, who grew pale with fright.
"Tom, please — I, I mean to say, My Lord, please," said the old man, nearly sobbing with terror. His voice was thick with tears and trembled as he spoke. He clutched desperately at his wife and their grown children.
"My Lord, I swear to you, I never spoke to Dumbledore, please. I told him nothing I—"
Whatever it was that Horace Slughorn had done, was cut off abruptly in pained gurgling. Voldemort's giant python had struck — it had wrapped its thick, muscular body around Slughorn and was squeezing. His family around him scrambled away in sheer terror and his wife gave muffled, hysterical sobs; she had clapped her hand tightly against her mouth and was crying against it, evidently fearful that loud wails might upset Voldemort.
There was desperate struggling from Slughorn. His eyes bulged so far out of his sockets that Hermione thought they might pop out. He wriggled his body desperately, but the python was bigger and stronger. The tussle continued for a few seconds, Slughorn's face turning from red to purple as the python tightened, before there was an almighty cracking sound. Slughorn's body instantly went still.
His eyes had become empty and lifeless. The snake had compressed his ribs until every bone had cracked in half, and Slughorn's chest had caved in completely. There was a stench in the air; he had soiled himself upon his demise.
Slughorn's wife crumpled to the floor; she had fainted clean away. His children wept silently and huddled together, unmoving.
Hermione dry heaved; there was bile in her throat, acid churning in her stomach. She squeezed her eyes shut as hot tears rolled down her face, dripped onto her forehead, and then pooled onto the stone floor.
Voldemort sighed with irritation.
"It is sssuch a pity that they can only die once, isn't it?" he mused. He hissed something to the snakes twisted around him, and they rose up as one to encircle his body, shifting up to bring Voldemort forward upon a throne of snakes. Slowly, they rolled forward in an undulating mass towards the remaining captives. Evidently, Voldemort meant to toy with them himself.
"You may go, High Reeve. Ensure that the Mudblood is well cared for … I would like to have her as my guest of honour at the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts."