Hermione licked her dry lips.
She could hardly bring herself to utter the words. The expression on Draco's face was of hollow shock; stunned beyond belief.
He had watched everything crash down around him.
Everything that he had dreamed of and promised her had been razed to the ground.
He looked so very lost, suddenly. The scaffolds he had built up, had depended on … had been obliterated by her.
In his eyes, she could see the pain and trepidation for things yet to come; she could almost see his visions of her body, carved out by Greyback, laying broken and bloody upon the gleaming marble floors of Malfoy Manor.
She could see him twisted with grief. For what he had lost, when Hermione had been ambushed and captured, and what he had yet to lose.
In the span of mere hours, Hermione had unintentionally destroyed any possibility of their escape from the manor.
Voldemort had dug deeply into the ley lines beneath the estate. He had poured in his twisted magic, until the ley lines were tainted and corrupted beyond repair. Then he keyed the wards to his own magical signature.
They were trapped.
"It's— it's going to be okay, Draco. We'll figure something out," Hermione whispered.
The words sounded weak even to her own ears.
Her heart felt like lead in her chest. A heaviness that she might never escape from. How could things ever be alright?
Draco turned to face her and stared down at her laying on the bed. His face was strangely blank when he spoke again.
"Narcissa told me you were out in the gardens. Before she altered your memories. What were you doing there?" he asked.
Hermione flinched.
She was quiet for a long time before she spoke. When she finally did, her voice wavered.
"I— … I don't remember," she said, voice small. "I was trying— I think I was trying to stay. I was trying to save you. I didn't want to leave you, I couldn't bear it."
Draco stared at her, disbelief slowly giving way to outrage.
"'Save' me?" he repeated, voice trembling slightly with emotion. "This— … this was your idea of saving me, Granger? By getting yourself killed along with me?"
She could feel the cold rage that seemed to emanate from him. It rolled off Draco in waves, as if he could barely keep it contained.
"I would do anything for you to live, Hermione," Draco continued, voice low and hard. "There was never an after for me. There was never going to be a happy ending for us. We were doomed from the beginning and this was the best I could give you."
She could see the High Reeve in him.
As he stared down at her, face twisted with rage, Hermione could see clearly the man she had fallen for.
The complexities and darkness, the suffering and sins. There wasn't a single thread of his soul that she didn't love. He was hers, as much as she was his.
Months ago, seeing Draco like this might've scared her; terrified her.
But now, it only strengthened her resolve. Rather than frighten her off or cow her into submission, she found his rage plucked at something inside her.
They had been shaped by the same war. They had been sharpened by it and lost so much of themselves, that they only had one another left.
It was agonizing.
She had fought for him, killed for him.
She would do anything for him.
Emotion pierced her heart, cleaved clean through her, until all that was left was him. The heavens could have fallen, the very earth could have split apart, and it didn't matter — they would still cling to one another, until the very end.
She stared at him. She let her desperation and longing show plainly on her face and in her eyes.
Let him know, she thought desperately. Let him understand.
"Do you think I don't care for you, Draco?" Hermione asked quietly.
Draco said nothing, but his expression tightened.
Her voice trembled with emotion.
"Did you think I'd be willing to lose you, after all that we've been through? That was never an option. I promised myself to you — I promised that I was yours."
They start ticking down the days until the end.
October 22 loomed in the distance like a slumbering monster — all across Malfoy Manor, she felt the tremors of it. Every day, it took a step closer.
The house had always been more mausoleum than manor, more prison than home, but especially so after Voldemort had overtaken the wards.
Now, it felt cursed to the core.
A chill emanated from the wing of the house that contained the drawing room. It seemed to creep and spread throughout; through the walls, up across the ceilings, inching along the floors and carpets. It was a chill that no blanket could keep out, no Warming Charm could keep at bay.
It was a reminder that Voldemort was here. That he held power over the estate, was capable of magic that defied nature.
That this was now his domain.
The guests had fled in terror after the party and only Death Eaters dared to return. Bellatrix flitted in and out, but her attention was diverted; Hermione spotted her staring angrily at Narcissa, prowling outside her bedroom at times, like a vengeful house cat that did not take to a new guest in the home. Even Daphne had departed — Draco had told her this with a faint, mocking smile on his lips.
"It seems my wife is not particularly fond of the atmosphere in our home," he remarked blithely. "She's left for Europe again. I expect I may even receive divorce papers in the near future, judging by her hysterics upon seeing Rowle's body."
To this, she could only nod faintly. She had no words.
Hermione huddled in her room, growing colder every day, and wondered if the world would end in fire or ice.
Her fingers were numb and clammy as she worked but it didn't matter. She would wear herself down to the bone if she had to. Anything to save Draco.
There was no calendar. She kept time by the Daily Prophet.
Every morning, a new delivery of fresh propaganda.
There was no mention of the disaster at the autumnal equinox party, nor of the death of Thorfinn Rowle. Instead, the newspaper detailed at length of the Dark Lord's achievements in just a year: the defeat of Harry Potter, the creation of the Muggleborn Registration Commission, launching the wizarding world into a new era of magical supremacy were just the beginning.
His next steps were a bold vision for repopulating Wizarding Britain after the trauma of a civil war and the attempted coup d'état by Undesirable NO. 1.
Rita Skeeter ended her piece with a hint for the coming days until the Hogwarts Anniversary: "a deluge of delights to showcase the awe-striking power of the Dark Lord, with something special planned for the 22nd of October".
Hermione's hands shook as she read the words over and over.
She was quite certain she already knew what the something special would be.
She flipped the newspaper over and returned to her work, fingers trembling from more than just the icy cold of the room.
When Hermione was tired or had pushed herself too hard, the tremors came. The Cruciatus that Narcissa had tortured her with had been sustained for minutes, but it had been enough to cause lasting nerve damage. It became especially apparent after a long day, when she no longer had the energy or focus to force herself maintain a steady hand.
Her pain, however, was no match for that which Draco experienced.
He, along with Lucius, had been tortured severely after the autumnal equinox. They had failed to properly secure the Manor; they were unworthy of their ancestral home, so Voldemort saw to it to take it over for himself.
It was only Narcissa's offering of herself up as sacrifice that saved her husband and son.
Every time Draco returned to her, he was on the brink of collapse.
Whether from casting a dozen Killing Curses, or bearing the brunt of the Cruciatus (or whatever else Voldemort had thrown at him), he was barely clinging on.
But his eyes never left her face.
Even when barely conscious, he seemed unwilling to look away from Hermione.
"You need to rest," Hermione told him, after easing him into bed a few days after the solstice. He had returned to the Manor with his magic reserves depleted; the act of Apparating into her room had left Draco utterly spent. He crashed into the wall, and Hermione had to dash to help him onto the bed by Levitating him with his own wand. His entire body was cold and bruised, but it was his eyes that haunted her.
They had a wild look to them, like a cornered animal. Dark circles bloomed like violent bruises under his eyes. Gone was the calm and acceptance, regret and longing that Hermione had seen in the days leading up to the autumnal solstice.
She had destroyed his perfectly laid plans on reckless impulse.
Without the certainty of the future, of Hermione's safety, Draco had nothing left. All he could do was reassure himself of her continued survival. He hesitated to look away from her, hesitated to rest without her in his grasp.
The anxiety built in Hermione's chest until it was near paralyzing.
She couldn't sleep or eat.
Every moment spent away from her arithmancy, her research, her books felt like a moment wasted.
But every moment she had with Draco was numbered still. There would never be enough of them, and there would never be any more of them after October 22.
When she caught him staring at her, she would close the books. He didn't need to say a word; the longing, the possessiveness, the desperation was evident in his face. He would never ask or demand her — he need only show her.
For the first time in his life, Draco wore his heart on his sleeve.
Who was she to deny him?
Everything in her life was so cold. Her chest ached with the unfairness of it all.
She climbed into bed with him and tried to savour each moment as if it was their last. The feel of his skin upon hers. The mingling of their breaths.
Draco claimed her. Conquered her. Like she was uncharted territory, like she was an alien landscape, he learned every part of her. His fingers trailed across her skin and took her to places she had never dared explore; led her there and showed her feelings and sensations that Hermione had never known existed.
The openness and utter adoration on his face as he stared down at her broke her heart. His eyes were the purest silver, his irises dark.
"You're beautiful," Draco murmured. "I don't tell you that enough. I can never tell you enough; there aren't words that could ever do you justice."
He pressed open mouthed kisses to her neck and collar-bone. Her heart fluttered; she was certain he could feel her pulse beneath his lips.
"You're mine," he whispered. "No matter what happens. You're mine."
Hermione could do nothing but sob as emotion, pleasure, and an ache of longing so wretched that it felt like heartbreak ran through her. She pressed her lips to his and tried to forget the looming future, a monster in the distance.
"I'm yours," she promised, desperation in her voice.
With every kiss, every touch, every caress, she tried to forget how doomed they were.
As the end drew near, Hermione was forced to admit that they had no options.
She had exhausted the search for a way to get the Dark Mark off. She was a combat medic and Healer that had received a hastily cobbled together education in Europe before being recalled to the frontlines.
Voldemort had pressed the bounds of magical knowledge and charted into unknown territory. He and he alone knew the secrets of the Dark Arts.
Hermione was a teenager that had been thrown into a losing war, that had started before she was born, and now ended with her.
Like the hundreds of grown adults before her, she was another casualty.
To think that it could've ended any different, that there could've ever been a victory for her, was optimistic to the point of delusion. If she had years, decades even, maybe she could've found a solution.
But she didn't have the luxury.
In these last few days, she could no longer delude herself.
Her marked shift in mood did not go unnoticed by Draco.
He had collapsed after Apparating into her room again, in the very late hours of the night. This time, he had managed to stumble the few feet to her bed to pitch forward face-first into it.
Hermione had tried to help him onto his back, but he was heavy and awkwardly positioned. By the time she had rolled him over, he was already unconscious.
"Draco?" she whispered. "Dr- … Draco? Draco, please."
Her voice was strained and anxious, made all the worse by his lack of response. Her hands flew to his neck and grappled desperately for a pulse.
His skin was clammy and cold, his body heavy. The skin of his face was so white that Hermione feared the worst. If he wasn't already dead, he straddled the line.
Her heart was in her throat.
He had to be okay. He had to. It was unimaginable to her that he wasn't.
His pulse fluttered weakly under her fingers. It was nearly indistinct.
Hermione lunged for the wand in his arm holster, and began to cast as quickly as she could.
"Mippet!" she screamed.
The elf appeared, bowing and wringing her hands.
"Blood Replenishing, Strengthening Draughts, Dittany," Hermione rattled off. She couldn't keep track of everything — he needed almost all of it. His system was shutting down.
Mippet disappeared instantly. When she re-appeared moments later, Hermione yanked the tray of potions out of her hands so urgently that it nearly went flying. Distantly, she registered surprise and shock on Mippet's face, but Hermione ignored it. She turned back to Draco.
He was twitching and convulsing from the Cruciatus. His body tensed, every muscle taught. Hermione bit back a sob and unstoppered a Healing Draught with her teeth, grabbing Draco's jaw to force his mouth open. Half of it went sloshing onto the sheets, but the other half reached his mouth. She massaged his throat to encourage him to swallow it.
Some of the colour returned to his face. She pressed her lips to his clammy forehead. She would've offered a prayer if she thought anyone was listening.
No one was.
She poured an anti-convulsant down his throat next, so that the tremors would lessen. When they did, she was finally able to begin healing the rest of him.
Hermione worked for hours, unaware of anything around her. When Draco had finally stabilized and was sleeping, disjointed and troubled, she finally allowed herself to cry.
She wept for herself, for all that she had lost.
She wept for Draco, for all that she had left.
She clutched at his trembling, shaking hand, terrified that if she turned away, if she didn't watch him carefully and constantly, she might lose him. She massaged the tremors out as best she could, but he shook still — the Cruciatus clung to him, haunted him.
When Draco began to wake in the early morning, an hour before sunrise, Hermione was by his side at once. She kneeled on the bed, inches away and watched. He stirred slowly, his body clutching onto lingering bruises. She had tried to coax them to heal as best she could, but his natural healing refused to kick in. All she could offer him was pain relief.
When he finally opened his eyes and fixed his quicksilver gaze to her face, Hermione found herself she couldn't keep the tears at bay anymore.
He looked haunted and half-unconscious with pain, but the softness in his gaze was undeniable.
"Draco. Draco, I am so, so sorry," Hermione whispered hoarsely. "I'm so sorry I—"
His mouth twitched.
"It's fine, Granger. It's nothing I c—"
He broke off into a coughing fit. The movement sent a hiss of pain through him, acerbated by the spasms and bruises. Hermione could only watch in horror as Draco was swept away by it.
By the time the coughs subsided, there was a faint spray of blood flecks on his lips.
He slowly brought a hand up to wipe at the spittle and peered at it with mild interest. "That's new."
His complete lack of care for himself didn't make it any easier — it made everything so much worse.
He didn't care about himself insofar as his health. He saw his own body as a tool to use, to get Hermione to safety.
Her face crumpled.
Draco glanced at her and froze, his expression tense.
"Draco— Draco I'm so sorry. For all of this," Hermione mumbled. She lurched forward, desperate for him to understand. She caught his hand in both of hers and squeezed it.
"I can't— I can't get the Mark off. I don't know how. I— I couldn't find anything and you're being hurt, every day."
Everything in her chest ached for him.
She closed her eyes and brought his hand up, pressing her lips to it.
"I am so, so sorry Draco," she whispered.
He stilled. Then, Draco tugged his hand free from hers and pulled her gently by the arm, down until Hermione was pressed up against him. She moved gingerly, frightened of causing him more pain or triggering another coughing fit, but he didn't seem to care.
When she was tucked into his side and could hear the beat of his heart in his chest, Draco spoke quietly.
"There is nothing to forgive. The reason I'm alive today is because of you, Granger. My days have been numbered since I stepped through the front door and found Voldemort in my house, the summer before sixth year. I've been on borrowed time since," Draco said in a low tone. He gave a soft chuckle, and Hermione heard the wheeze of blood in his breathing passage.
Her heart clenched painfully.
She laid there with him for a long time.
When the sun began to rise, Hermione stirred and pushed herself up. Draco's arm tightened for a moment; he didn't want to let her go, but relented when he saw she wasn't making a move to leave.
She stared into his bruised and battered face and felt her conviction strengthening.
She would do anything for him.
"Draco," she said. Her voice sounded distant to her own ears.
She could feel her heart pounding, her blood rushing in her ears.
She stared out the window as she spoke, her gaze set on the rising sun. Its warmth and light; it was a glorious new day. A beginning.
"I can't find a way to get the Dark Mark off. I don't know how to. My Occlumency isn't strong enough to fight Voldemort off forever. Not when he's torturing me too. Sooner or later, he'll break through it," Hermione croaked. She swallowed hard.
"I need you to— to erase my memory of you, every trace of it. I need you to do this, to protect your family and yourself. He's going to kill me but I can save you."
Her words were finished in a whisper.
She felt lighter for a moment; it was as if the confession had freed her.
"No."
His voice was low and dangerous, full of barely restrained anger, and Hermione turned to stare at him in shock.
"No," Draco repeated, eyes glinting like steel. He looked feral; there was something distinctly inhuman in his gaze.
His entire body was shaking. Magic, primal and enraged, was rolling off him in waves.
"I refuse to let you die in this god forsaken fucking house, to watch it happen. I refuse to wipe your memory, Granger. Don't you dare. You will not die, miserable and terrified, with no memory of me."
Hermione felt her heart sinking.
He would never let her go.
He would never save himself.
They were destined to die together.