45.
It was dark and musty, and Hermione was cramped between a warm body and what felt like the lawnmower.
"Ouch. Something's poking me again, Granger," Malfoy said pathetically. He shifted and nearly knocked her backward.
"Careful – Jesus, I –" She flailed an arm out and smacked her hand against the side of the shed, hopping on one leg, her other knee coming up and smacking into what felt like Malfoy.
"Ow, fuck, that was nearly my bollocks your knee just hit, woman." There was a laugh in his voice along with a hint of pain, and his hand grabbed her wrist, pulling her upright again.
"Oh hush. You sound like such a baby. My knee reaches nowhere near your...um –"
"Salazar's sake, considering where you had your mouth earlier, I'd think you could say it," he said almost primly, and Hermione lost it. Laughter bubbled up in her, and then she was grabbing at Malfoy for balance, burying her face against his chest as she snickered hysterically, shoulders shaking, heaving for breath, nearly crying she was laughing so hard, in almost silent, whooping gasps. He huffed a laugh and shuffled them around a bit, then murmured a lumos and a dim light illuminated the dusty, cramped garden shed.
"I feel like I want to buy your father a new garden shed," Malfoy said as he looked around them, twisting to peer behind his shoulder at a garden rake put away with the tines facing out. "They can't be that expensive, can they?"
"You'd be surprised," Hermione said, her giggles subsiding, wiping tears from her eyes and taking a tiny, shuffling step back, which put her hard against the door. "Well. I guess the rules are back in effect now," she said with a regretful smile, feeling a little silly as she said it. She wondered if Malfoy thought her insistence on sticking to them was prudish, or foolish. He'd said he understood, but...she eyed him uncertainly in the dim light, wringing her hands together nervously.
Malfoy just said, "I know, Granger," with a shrug and a resigned smile, his eyes catching the light of the lumos, silver and smoke. "You made that clear in the hospital, and I understand. You have your boundaries about what you're comfortable doing – what you consider acceptable before you and Weasley separate officially – and I know I'm responsible for you crossing those lines." His serious expression flickered, an unmistakably smug smirk flashing through for a moment as he said: "Multiple times today alone."
God. Hearing that made guilt prick through her again. She'd slept with Malfoy in her family home. In her marital bed. Using condoms she'd bought for Ron. It suddenly seemed so sordid. So underhanded, selfish, and disrespectful. Not to Ron, so much as her entire family, as a whole. And the fact that she couldn't make herself regret it, even a little bit, just made her feel worse. Hermione pressed her lips together, looking down at her feet and suddenly feeling like crying. Just because she hadn't wanted to stick to the perfect letter of her rules while she was still reeling from being kidnapped and poisoned, didn't mean she had to head straight in the opposite direction to multiple, hedonistic rounds of sex.
Oh damn. He was right. Malfoy was right.
"Granger? Are you alright?"
The breath Hermione took was shaky, as she tried to throw off the shadow that had fallen over her. "I'm fine. Just feeling a little guilty." She attempted a smile as she shrugged. "Just like you said I would."
"Shit." He was frowning now, expression disconsolate as he stared at her, half a foot apart in the cramped shed. There was a small drift of spider web in his hair, she realised, and dust motes were thick in the air. She fished the spider web out and he hooked a wry smile at her. Not the ideal location for a tête-à-tête. "It's not stupid. And I'm sorry, Granger."
"It's not your fault." She sighed. "I just feel so torn." Somehow her hand found his free one – his other hand busy holding both his wand and her purse. "I want to just keep being the way we were today. It was amazing, Malfoy. Amazing. But I promised the children a family Christmas, and it looks like Ron and I might actually be able to be amicable, but not if you and I are splashed all over the press. And I feel like I can't have one foot in, and one foot out." Hermione felt her cheeks glow hot as she looked down at their hands. He held hers very tightly. "I don't think I can handle sneaking around, and sometimes pretending to be proper, and sometimes just..."
"Doing what we did today?" Malfoy offered wryly, not sounding annoyed. She risked a glance up, and his eyes were absent of any blame, or resentment. Just clear grey, filled with an affection that made her heart hurt.
"Yes," she said in a small voice. "It feels like whiplash. It's easier to just shut it down altogether, and wait. Try to make the most of just being together, at lunch, or out with Rose and Scorpius. And then – then I don't feel so guilty either. Except for feeling guilty about making you wait." And she did feel wretched about that. But Malfoy made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, his hand pulling free of hers and rubbing her back, firm and soothing.
"Before we slept together, Granger, I hadn't had sex since my birthday – so I think I can survive until Christmas without dying." He smiled – there and gone in a blink. "Sure, you drive me insane, but I'm a grown man. I know how to take care of myself. I'm not actually going to explode, no matter how much I might feel like that. So don't feel guilty over that. Over me. You have enough to deal with already." His hand kept rubbing her back and Hermione sniffled, feeling stupidly teary still, her emotions suddenly, inconveniently, in a tangle.
"I just – I hate feeling like I'm putting my own selfish wants ahead of the children," she said, venting, spitting the words out. "Like everyone thinks it's okay for Ron to feel bored, and run off and sleep with girls nearly young enough to be his daughter. That's fine. No one's judging him for the way he's behaved. But because I'm me, because I'm the children's mother, I'm not supposed to want things for –" she broke off, tears blurring her eyes as she ranted in her father's tiny, musty garden shed, in the near dark. This was not a high point in her life. What must Malfoy think? Messily spilling her problems everywhere, at the most impractical time and place. But Malfoy just kept rubbing her back as though she were a distraught child, and when she looked up his eyes were understanding. Undemanding.
"For yourself?" he finished. Hermione nodded mutely, misery digging through her chest, unwilling to trust her voice right now. She tried desperately by force of will to stuff her tears back down and snap out of it, but it wasn't working.
"C'mere, Granger," he murmured, and pulled her into a hug that she clung to. "I'd tell you that you're not doing anything wrong, and that you don't have anything to feel guilty about, but I'm not sure that'd mean much, coming from me. But really, who gives a damn what they all think? Weasley's a prick, frankly. And Potter's a blinkered idiot. And everyone you know worships the ground both of them walk on, Merlin knows why. You're clearly an amazing mother, from what I've seen of Rose and heard from Scorpius. And you've obviously done your best to do right by Weasley in the separation and not cause a massive scandal, despite the fact that he's been as discreet as a rampaging troll. And on top of that, you've been doing your job, and dealing with threats, and then...this past week..."
Malfoy hissed in a breath like it hurt him to think of that, clutching her tighter and not going into detail, thankfully. But he didn't have to say any more. Hermione dissolved into inexplicable tears. Real, proper sobs, as she clutched to him, and he made a surprised sound and then held her a little tighter, patting her back. "There we go, Granger. It's alright. Let it out. Hang on, I've got a hanky somewhere. Don't get snot on my waistcoat," he said as if he was trying to jolly her along, worry and affection right through his tone as he dug out a hanky and passed it to her, before wrapping his arm back around her. She balled the hanky up, pressing it to her nose, which was streaming a bit, admittedly.
"God, I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm crying like this. It's ridiculous."
"I do, Granger. I do. You've had a hell of a week. Don't be so hard on yourself. After what you've been through... It's surprising you haven't cried more, honestly." Malfoy kept rubbing her back gently, steady as a rock, his voice just as gentle and steady as his hand. "I'm pretty sure the occasional crying jag in the days after you've been kidnapped and nearly killed is normal. I just wish you'd done it before we apparated to your father's garden shed. I feel like I'm about to impale myself on something if I make one wrong move."
She laughed tearily against his chest, sniffing hard into the hanky. And then he added: "You've been incredibly strong, Granger. So brave," and that set Hermione off again for some reason, back into floods of tears.
"No I'm not. I'm not brave. I was terrified. I was so scared Len was going to h-hurt me, and I had to make Ciaran think I adored him and it was awful, and they b-both just wanted to rape me, and I was so scared," she gasped, a blubbering mess. "And all I could think about was how the ch-children wouldn't be able to cope as well w-without me, because Ron's so bloody useless, and how Ron w-wouldn't know what to do, because he's so bloody useless, and how unfair it was that I was losing you – that you were losing me – when we'd only just found each other..." Hermione jerked in a juddering series of breaths. "I thought I was going to die in the d-dark," she whispered.
"I know. I know." He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, rocking them both slightly as he kept rubbing her back. Her flood of tears began to slowly peter out. "But you didn't. You're okay. You survived. You kept your head, and you got yourself out. You saved yourself, Granger. No one else. You."
"Only because of the felix felicis," Hermione whispered, voice strangled and wet as she tried not to slide right back into tears. "You saved me, really."
"I helped," Malfoy acknowledged, and she felt him shrug dismissively, her cheek pressed to his chest, one arm looped around his waist as she held the damp hanky with the other. "It's rather gratifying to think that I helped, because the entire time you were gone, I felt so helpless. So useless," he admitted, voice turning a little ragged with emotion. "But in the end, the felix was just sheer luck –"
"Literally," she couldn't resist adding with a small, wobbly smile. She could hear his heartbeat against her ear, a steady, slow lull, and the heel of his palm still smoothed over her back as though she were a child coming down from a tantrum. She felt a bit like it; eyes swollen and cheeks tear-streaked, still making the occasional juddering gasp as she anchored herself to him. God, she was an utter mess. Thank Merlin she had Malfoy; she didn't know what she'd do without him now.
"Hah, yes. Literally. But it was you who were smart, sensible, and brave, and kept yourself safe until you could use the felix felicis. And don't be ridiculous and deny it, Granger," he said quickly before she could, her lips parted to say the words. "You've always been brave. Ever since I first knew you – and despised you – you've been one of the bravest people I know. Unlike Potter and Weasley, you were smart enough to understand just how dangerous the things that you lot did really were, and you did them anyway. Feeling scared has nothing to do with it." She could hear a smile creep into Malfoy's voice. "You're a parent, Hermione. I know you've explained bravery to your children before. 'Bravery is being afraid, but doing it anyway. Not being afraid is just foolhardiness'," he said, as though it was something he'd said often, to Scorpius. And he was right – she'd told Rose and Hugo similar, many times before.
Somehow it was different when Hermione tried to apply the same logic to herself. She expected more of herself, she supposed. She was harder on herself. But... "You're right, Malfoy. Again." She drew back from him, sniffling and wiping her cheeks with the now rather sadly saturated hanky, as she tried to wrench herself into some semblance of order.
"Hardly surprising, Granger," he said teasingly, and she huffed and shot him a look as she set herself to rights. She smoothed her hair, straightened her jersey, and took a few deep, slow breaths – she felt nearly back to normal save for her swollen eyes and tear-sticky cheeks, and a touch of embarrassment. "Here," Malfoy said then, taking the sodden hanky back from her. "Hang on." The garden shed went very dark as he extinguished his lumos, and then passed the hanky back to her a moment later clean and wet, lumos shining again. "Give your face a wipe," he said briskly, and Hermione did as she was told with a wry smile.
"I feel like a child," she complained ruefully as she passed him back the hanky, and Malfoy chuckled, drying it and shoving it in his pocket.
"You're fine." He smoothed a damp lock of hair back off her forehead. "Go easy on yourself, Granger. You can't expect to bounce straight back to normal. The Healers said it'll take a while to process it, and you haven't even fully healed physically, yet."
"I suppose," Hermione agreed, reluctantly. It was frustrating to feel so emotional, and fragile. And she couldn't even go into work to distract herself – she was going to be stuck at home in her father's flat for a week with absolutely nothing to do, and her cases either piling up, or getting passed off to people she knew wouldn't do as good a job as she would. She said as much to Malfoy, and he gave her a fond look.
"You're such a workaholic, Granger. You'll survive a week, and so will the department. Spend the time resting." She made a dismissive sound and scrunched up her face in distaste, and he grinned briefly, seemingly amused by her. "Plus, we have lunch on Tuesday. We'll go to the Folly, shall we?"
Cramped in the dimly lit mustiness of the garden shed, they made their plans, and then there was no excuse for them to linger any longer. Malfoy sighed, and looked at her gravely. "I don't want to go," he said. "But I don't have a reason to keep you any longer. Do you think you could start crying again?" She gave a watery snicker at that instead, and he gave her a faux unimpressed look. "Very unhelpful, Granger."
"I love you," she told him earnestly, her stomach twisting, her fingers squeezing his tightly. "I don't want you to go either."
"Hmph. Well, forty-four more days until Christmas," he said, mouth all tight with displeasure, before it slid into a wicked smirk, "and the end to your damned rules. And then, at the start of school term, I expect you in my bed. Regularly, at least." Oh God. Hermione's insides clenched and sent pain and pleasure running through her abdomen, and her tender nether regions, her body trying insistently to tell her she should fuck him right here in the garden shed. For one, mad moment she was genuinely tempted.
"Oh yes," she breathed. "Regularly. Maybe constantly."
His eyes flashed silver and hot. "If you need me, just apparate over. Any time, day or night," he said, and then kissed her chastely on the mouth. She leaned into it, her lips parting slightly against Malfoy's closed ones, greedy despite herself, and she whimpered as he pulled away slowly. Despite the dim light his eyes were gleaming, and his mouth tilted in a half smile. "Go on, Granger. Your father will be worried."
Her father had been getting a little concerned. He was visibly relieved when she knocked on the back door, beaded purse in hand and handbag over her shoulder, in the burgeoning glory of the sunset. "What kept you, love?" he asked her as he locked the door behind her, and then he turned and caught sight of her in the stark hall light. His expression shifted; a grey worry aging him. "You've been crying. Are you alright?"
She nodded. "I'm fine, dad. Just... It's been a rough week –"
"So I heard," he said emphatically, all bristling worry and anger. "From Harry, on Friday. Five days after you'd gone missing!"
"Dad... They just didn't want to worry you before they knew," she said, moving through to the spare room and dropping her purse on the dresser, her handbag beside it. She dug out her phone. "They didn't tell the children either."
Her father shot her a scathing look from the doorway. "I'm not your child, Hermione Jean, I'm your father. I deserve to know when my damned daughter is kidnapped by some maniac, not be told days afterwards, as if I need to be sheltered from reality."
Christ, Hermione was glad she'd already had a good cry, or she'd be sobbing right now, pinned beneath her father's angry, fraught worry. She was on the verge as it was. "I don't know what to say, Dad," Hermione said, exasperated. "I wasn't the one who decided not to tell you. Harry and Ron are. Go yell at them."
"God." Her father heaved a sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, love. I don't mean to take it out on you. I did yell at them, by the way. Quite a lot."
"It probably did them good," Hermione said lightly, as she followed him through to the kitchen, where he told her to sit down at the table and popped the kettle on for tea.
"Who brought you over? I hope someone escorted you."
"Malfoy did," Hermione said, cheeks heating, and her father saw the blush and grinned.
"I hope he comforted you appropriately when you cried," he said as he waited for the kettle to boil, clearly enjoying Hermione's discomfort as she put her elbows on the table and tried to hide her cheeks with her hands.
"He did." She remembered how he'd been such a lovely combination of surprisingly sweet, and briskly cheering, and a smile spread over her face as she ducked her head to try to hide it. Malfoy had been sheer perfection all day, in fact. She remembered the bathroom, and – Merlin's pants, she couldn't start thinking about that in front of her father. "He was wonderful," she said, and then pressed her lips hard together, pulling her hands down from her face and fidgeting with her phone instead.
"Hm," her father said very meaningfully as he set her tea in front of her, taking note of her demeanour. "I'll bet he was." Hermione felt like she was going to burst into flame, her cheeks flared so hot.
He whipped up a bowl of tinned applesauce and hot custard made up from custard powder on the stove, after Hermione said she needed food that was easy on the stomach. "It's what you always liked when you were under the weather when you were little. And it's fruit; it's good for you," he said with a cheeky smile as he set the bowl in front of her.
"Mum usually gave me jelly too," she said, pretending at petulance, remembering being only about eight or so, tucked up sick in bed with a tray on her lap that held a bowl of applesauce, custard, and jelly, and a mug of Lemsip.
"Well, jelly takes time so you're out of luck, I'm afraid." Her father sat across the table from her, watching too closely as she ate her 'dinner', as if he was afraid she'd vanish out from under his gaze. He didn't ask her any questions, aside from one wondering how she was feeling now, and she was grateful. She didn't think she could stand going over the whole, horrible story again. Besides, she was busy devouring her dessert.
"This is so much nicer than the hospital food."
"Everything's nicer than hospital food, love."
They watched telly after she'd eaten – her dad had another Eight Out of Ten Cats Does Countdown recorded, and that made the perfect distraction. She curled up under a blanket her mum had quilted, another mug of tea in hand, feeling cosy and safe in her dad's snug sitting room. After Countdown her father let her pick what they watched next, and she smiled to herself and dug through her parents' collection of DVDs, putting on Anne of Green Gables. Her father took a call from Karen right when Gilbert was busy fishing Anne out of the river. He scurried out of the room as Hermione waggled her brows at him, and got a mock-glare in return. And unexpectedly, Ron texted around nine, to ask if she was doing okay, which was rather nice really. She told him she was fine, thank you, and wished very badly that Malfoy already had a phone.
That night Hermione lay in bed after forcing down her horrible potions, and missed him with an intensity that hurt, tangibly. She felt very alone in her dark spare bedroom, in the narrow bed, the door open a few inches so that the hall light slanted in, her wand clutched in her hand.
When she finally fell asleep she had muddled dreams that slowly warped into nightmares, and she woke at nearly 6 am, with a start. Her pillow was damp with tears and she had only vague, jumbled recollections of running through the woods, scrambling up cliff sides and along rocky stream banks, feet bare and bruised and arms scratched and bleeding, pursued by a wolf with green eyes.
Hermione sighed, rolling onto her back and staring up at the white ceiling. It was just a dream. She was perfectly safe. She needed to pee.
