I think it's about time we brought Draco on board, isn't it? Thanks for making it this far. I hope you continue to enjoy it!

CHAPTER VI

Evidence. That was what Hermione needed, and by the time she met Draco in the hallway, she'd figured out what she had to do.

"Granger," he said, stopping as she stepped in front of him. His gaze swept down her body then up and over her head at the books and papers strewn across the library floor, and his eyes narrowed. "Did you come back down here last night?"

"Yes," she said, "but that's not important. I need you to listen to me. No," she said when he opened his mouth, clearly to object. "It's not important."

He must have picked up on the urgency in her tone, because he subsided with nothing more than a slight arch of his brow. A slight arch that nevertheless quite clearly told her he was ready and waiting but she'd better get on with it because he wouldn't wait forever.

She resisted the very familiar urge to throttle him and took a step closer.

"Listen," she said briskly. "In a minute, I'm going to go upstairs to get dressed and you're going to go to breakfast. When you walk in, Remus will be reading the paper, Tonks's hair will be purple, and Kingsley will be sat at the head of the table, by the doors, which will be open. A few minutes later, Hestia will push Sturgis into the doorframe, which he'll complain about, loudly. After that, Teddy will pry the lid off his drink and spill his juice everywhere.

"Orange juice," she added, very aware he was staring at her like she'd lost her mind. "It will be orange juice. Once he's been cleaned up, Arthur will walk in and ask what he has missed. Tell him the name Ndidi Mbachu. He'll remember her from the Ministry many years ago. She worked in the Death Chamber but was fired for her research into the Dark Arts. He and Remus will decide to go and track down her address."

She realised she'd been talking rapidly—too rapidly, so desperate was she to make this work—and took a brief, calming breath.

"The reason I know all of this," she said quietly, "is because I've been stuck in a time loop for Godric knows how long, and I have lived this day over and over and over and over, and I'm getting pretty keen for it to end."

Merlin, that was an understatement. She drew a shaky breath.

"Once everything I told you would happen happens," she said, "come and find me. I'll be outside."

Without thinking, she reached for his arm. His head jerked and he stared silently down at where her fingers had latched on to the soft green fabric of his jumper.

"I know it's a lot to take in," she said softly, "and I'm sorry to tell you this way, but if you don't believe me, then you"—she paused, then swallowed—"then you're going to die today, and I can't let that happen again."

She let go of him and stepped backwards, a lump in her throat. His eyes on hers demanded an explanation, but his mouth stayed firmly closed.

"Come and find me," she said. "Just come and find me."

...

He did come to find her, of course. Not twenty minutes later as she stood, alone on the sand dunes, staring out at the sea.

"So," he said mildly, stopping beside her. "A time loop, huh?"

She peeked at him to check he wasn't simply teasing her, but his expression was serious, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

"Yeah," she said. He pursed his lips.

"And I die?"

She'd meant to soften the blow, but she supposed the Kneazle was out of the bag now. She nodded.

"Every time."

He glanced at her sharply.

"And how many times is that?"

She wanted to say she'd lost count, but she hadn't. Of course she hadn't.

"This will be the twenty-fourth," she said with a sigh.

"Twenty-fourth?" He raked a hand through his hair and stared down at her in shock. "Bloody hell, Granger. Aren't you going mad?"

She gave him a sideways look.

"Do you think I am?"

He wasn't stupid. He knew what she was really asking.

"You predicted my entire breakfast," he said, giving her a glance that was half helpless, half amused. "All of it. Every single minute. And you and I both know you're no Seer."

"I'm not," she agreed.

"So, time loop," he said with a shrug. "I've heard weirder."

"You have not!" she said, oddly offended, and he laughed.

"Alright, so maybe I haven't," he admitted. "Whatever is going on here is pretty strange. But I believe you," he added, suddenly sober, and relief surged through her. "That's what you wanted to know, right?"

She smiled, eyes flickering up to meet his.

"Right."

He shoved his hands in his pockets, squinting against the salty sea breeze that lashed his hair about his eyes and whispered through the long, dry grass around them.

"How does it happen?" he asked. "My… my death."

When she hesitated, he tilted his head, eyebrows lifting. "Granger?"

"We go and find Ndidi," she said with a sigh. "Somehow, the Death Eaters discover we're there. They attack, and you…" She stopped, the words catching in her throat. "Your, um…"

Understanding tightened in his mouth.

"It's my father," he said flatly, "isn't it?"

Asked outright like that, Hermione realised she couldn't lie—wouldn't lie. Not about this. And better he know now, ahead of time. Better he be prepared.

As prepared as anyone could be facing an Unforgivable from their own father.

"Yes," she said with difficulty. "I'm sorry."

His eyes turned to flint.

"I knew it. Killing Curse?"

"Meant for me actually. You always dive in front," she said, hoping the knowledge that his father hadn't intended to kill him, at least not at that precise moment, might provide some comfort. If the way his lip curled was any indication, however, it probably didn't.

"No doubt he just wanted me to watch you die first." He stared bitterly at the waves. "He always was a vindictive son of a bitch."

There was nothing he'd said that Hermione could disagree with, not with any sort of conviction. She wanted to reach out to him, to slip her hand in his and let him know she was here, that he wasn't alone. But she knew she couldn't. Their relationship just wasn't like that, no matter how many times he'd sacrificed himself to save her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have told you."

"It's fine," he said, although the stiffness in his shoulders said otherwise. "The Death Eaters nearly killed him when I defected. Mother too. He's bound to want some form of retribution."

Hermione studied him silently. They'd not spoken much about his time before the Order, but he had told her a little—late at night, surrounded by books and parchment, and lulled into honesty by mugs of scorching tea and the flicker of fire beside them.

She knew a desperate Lucius Malfoy had offered everything he had to claw himself back into Voldemort's inner circle: his house, his wealth, his son. She knew Draco had made contact with Kingsley through his godfather, Snape—once their Potions Master, then a high-ranking Death Eater—before the older man had been discovered as a double agent and brutally murdered. She knew he'd pleaded, frantically, with his mother to leave with him.

She knew from the way he blanched if someone mentioned her that she hadn't.

He didn't speak of it, but she knew it ate at him. All of it. Snape. His father. His mother. She saw it in the way he pushed himself. The way he'd put up with the distrust and sidelong glances. The way he'd grit his teeth and bite back his response until finally, finally, people had begun to put their faith in him.

She wondered whether that was why he was always so quick to leap in front of her.

Those grey eyes flickered suddenly towards her, nearly translucent in the sunlight.

"You're looking at me like I'm some poor, kicked puppy," he said drily, and she smiled, a little self-consciously.

"Sorry."

"It's okay." He slanted her a teasing look. "I am, after all, the man that saved your life—twenty times, was it?"

Hermione fought a flush. It had been too much to hope he'd let that one slip by.

"Yes," she said grudgingly.

He gave her a look that was, in her humble opinion, far too smug for a man who had done nothing this morning but eat pancakes.

"Some might call me a hero."

"Some might," she agreed noncommittally.

"Not you?" He was teasing, she knew. He'd stepped a little closer, his long, lean body curving towards her.

Part of her had missed this; part of her just wanted to smack him.

"I have to say," he added when she fixed him a flat look, "I feel like I'm not getting the appropriate level of adulation a hero of my stature so rightly deserves."

Adulation? He wanted adulation? She'd lived the same morning more than twenty times trying to save his miserable life. Evidently, her expression revealed exactly what she was thinking, because his mouth twitched in amusement.

"That's not really the look of adoration I was hoping for," he said. "As a hero. A noble, selfless hero. A gallant, magnanimous…"

"Don't push it," she warned before he could come up with any more synonyms. "I'm rather hoping today's the day you won't have to be quite so magnanimous."

He flashed her a smile, the wind fluttering his hair about his forehead.

"Reckon I have to agree with you there," he said. "As much as I enjoy being the hero of the hour, I'd rather not be a dead one. I'll leave that sort of reckless self-sacrifice to you Gryffindors."

She huffed a little, because of course he had to get in a dig about her House somewhere, and prepared to shoot back some snarky comment about Slytherin self-preservation. But then her gaze met his, and he was looking at her with such sudden intensity that every word in her very vast vocabulary vanished into the ether.

"Not," he began in a low, gravelly voice, "that I wouldn't do it again. Because I would. Without even a moment's hesitation."

Hermione's throat tightened, and she wasn't sure whether it was because of his words or the look on his face.

"You shouldn't," she said. When his jaw set, she reached impulsively for his hand. "Malfoy, promise me you won't."

His fingers were warm, real, beneath hers, and Hermione was struck with a sudden wave of fear, so strong her knees nearly buckled with the force of it.

What if she failed even with him on her side? What would she do then?

"Malfoy," she said a little desperately. "Promise me. Please. I'm not worth it."

He laced his fingers in hers, and her heart deflated as he shook his head.

"You," he said matter-of-factly, "are worth a thousand deaths. And nothing you can say will stop me jumping between you and my father if I have to. Got it?"

Stunned into silence, Hermione simply stared. It sounded… It sounded like he might…

"Granger?" he prompted, and she forced herself to focus. There was, she realised, no point arguing with him over this. He was much better at it than Harry or Ron had ever been, and twice as stubborn.

Besides, he'd said he'd only sacrifice himself if he had to. She just had to make sure he didn't.

"Got it," she echoed.

"Good," he said softly, holding her gaze. Then as quickly as she'd caught it the first time, as suddenly as he'd gone from light and teasing to so intense it had taken her breath away, he dropped her hand and stepped away.

"I presume," he said as she blinked, bereft, "that you have a plan?"