A/N: It's my birthday, so here's a chapter! I'll try to have the next one up soon (there are some rather intriguing developments there, wink wink)
Their merry routine had been disrupted by their venture to Malfoy Manor. Hermione felt it at dinner, as they groggily spooned soup into their mouths and Draco kept flinching at the slightest noise. It was a sad reminder of the war they had almost been able to block out, to pretend was just out of reach.
Which was foolish, really. They wouldn't be here if it weren't for the war. They would still be at Hogwarts, finishing their seventh year, and perhaps she and Draco would have never been anything more than schoolyard enemies. It was an odd thought.
They all lingered in the kitchen after dinner; Hermione got the impression that none of them wanted to be alone. Even Draco would have rather spent time in Harry and Ron's company than lie awake in the darkness. She'd not dreamed during their nap, but night brought a different kind of sleep, and she was just as afraid of nightmares as she was loneliness. Her scar kept taunting her beneath her shirt; the Patronuses had only been able to do so much.
"Anyone fancy a game of Exploding Snap?" Ron asked the silent sitting room.
Harry sighed and slid from his armchair to the floor. "Sure, why not."
Harry's frustration was palpable, that his plan hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped. Hermione was sure, too, that he was feeling the effects of being locked away, not unlike Sirius had. She could see it in his eyes, that same unsettling wildness.
Curled up in the corner of the sofa, Hermione watched the two of them play whilst Draco sat just out of her peripheral vision. He was tense, and she longed to reach out and touch him — anything to help him let go of whatever thoughts were looping through his head. He hadn't said anything since after lunch — since they'd woken together in the cold bedroom, the last trace of a Patronus long gone.
Mind made up, she stood, hands on her hips. "Draco, when was the last time I checked your back?"
He blinked at her, still half caught in his own thoughts. "Few days ago. You said it was fi—"
She shook her head. "Stress can cause wounds to reopen. I need to check it again, maybe apply some disinfectant. And your hand! It might need more paste."
Ron snorted. "You really are our own personal Healer, aren't you, Hermione?"
Before she could give a suitable retort, the Exploding Snap card blew up in Ron's face.
Draco obediently followed her out the door. The house's quiet was eerie; Hermione got the sense it was following them up the stairs, enclosing them in its heavy presence. Draco's fingers fluttered near hers.
"Do you really need to check my numerous wounds?" His voice was soft.
"I don't know — do I? Are they hurting?" She opened the door to his — their — bedroom.
"No. My back's been fine for days, just a bit itchy. And my hand — that was healed with magic, so it's fine."
"Good." Hermione shut the door behind them. The darkness was thick and made her think fondly of a few hours ago, when the curious mist of a Patronus had cast its shimmering light through the air.
"Is this one of your schemes to get me alone again?" asked Draco suspiciously.
"Are you complaining?" She tried for playfulness, but it fell flat. Draco was frowning, and she could see his hands clenched at his side.
"I don't need… fixing," he told her slowly as he walked to the bed. "I don't know if that's what you do with Potter and Weasley but… you don't need to — to meddle."
"To 'meddle?' Is that what you think this is?" she demanded, flabbergasted. "Are you really so Slytherin that you can't imagine what it's like for someone to care?"
"Muffliato!" he whispered with a pointed look, jerking his wand in the direction of the door, but she didn't apologise for raising her voice.
"Look, I know you're upset your father isn't who you thought he was —"
He flinched like she'd struck him. "You don't understand —"
"I don't have to understand to care! Do you think we're going to laugh at you? Even Harry was sympathetic."
He flinched again. "I don't need your pity!"
Hermione made a noise of frustration. "Are you listening? It's not pity, it's compassion. Maybe I don't understand exactly what you're going through" — she took a step closer, until they were nearly chest to chest, forcing him to meet her eyes — "but I can see it's upsetting you, and I want to help, because I care about you."
Now that he'd met her gaze, it seemed he couldn't look away. "You — you won't understand," he insisted again weakly.
"I don't need to." She wrapped her arms around him, trapping him against her. He was rigid, but she didn't let go.
"You told me you didn't want me to talk about it," he said softly, "in the Room of Requirement…"
For a second, all she could do was stare at him as she cast back to eons ago, at Hogwarts, in the Room, when he'd been trembling in fear in the wake of Voldemort's summons. "I told you I never want to hear you praise him," she told him, exasperated, "not that I never want you to talk about anything at all! Please, Draco."
He shot her a glare, but it was a weak one, and then he sat on the bed so abruptly he nearly pulled her with him. She yelped and quickly situated herself beside him, desperate to relieve his hunched posture and defensive eyes.
"It's just…" He ran his hands through his hair. "That's — that's my home, and —" His voice broke, taking them both by surprise.
She bit her tongue, knowing that all the platitudes she was desperate to tell him would come out hollow. Instead, she reached out a hand and traced patterns on his back. It seemed to trip something inside him; suddenly, he was gasping and crying, and all she could do was draw him close and hold him.
"I can't do it," he whimpered.
Can't do what? she wanted to ask. Can't survive this war? The thought made her throat squeeze shut. She knew she could tolerate loss, knew she would have to, but there were some people she just couldn't lose, and he was one of them. He was her brewing partner, the one who teased her and quizzed her and held her at night. The only one she'd ever let snog her in corridors like a delinquent, or for whom she would keep secrets from Harry and Ron. He was Draco.
"I can't do it," he said again.
"Yes, you can," she promised, holding him as tightly as she could manage. "I'll help, and — and Harry and Ron will, too, you know."
Draco scoffed and leaned backwards until they fell back on the bed: him staring up at the ceiling, her on her side with an arm wrapped across his middle. "Don't you feel it?" he asked, swallowing. "The fear?"
"Of course I do. But I just…" She paused. What did she do? When the Basilisk was coming, when the werewolf was howling, and Death Eaters' footsteps thundered behind her, faster than she could sustain, what did she do? "I just go on anyway," she answered simply.
Draco scoffed again. "You're a bloody martyr, meanwhile I just think I'm going to be sick all the time."
"Well, that's part of it, too. Being sick, I mean."
He laughed a little, but it was bitter, and with a huff she sat up and climbed on top of him until she was straddling his hips. He yelped, taken by surprise, but his hands quickly came to settle on her thighs as he looked at her with curiosity.
She poked his chest. "It's shit," she declared, "but you move on anyway and eventually… it gets easier. It doesn't hurt so much. And one day you'll be able to think of your parents without so much pain." She leaned down, her hands coming to either side of his head. He was looking at her with such earnestness, and there were still wet tears shining on his cheeks. "You are brave, Draco Malfoy."
Before he could say anything, she kissed him.
"Merlin," he breathed against her lips, "you're incorrigible, Granger." His grip tightened on her hips. "Is there anything I can do to convince you I'm a lost cause?"
"Not a chance."
He grinned; his fingers started tracing patterns on her clothes. "Unbelievable." His expression turned thoughtful. "You really are scary. You took Dolohov's leg off."
"I — I didn't mean to." Something anxious leapt inside her; she'd been trying not to think about it. After so many years of violence, she'd taken pride in her pacifist methods. Now, what had she become?
"Hey, hey. Don't feel bad. I'm serious. No-one deserved it more than him. I — trust me."
His hand strayed from her right hip to her front, where her scar lurked beneath her shirt.
"A-alright," she conceded, unable to resist the warmth of his fingertips through her clothes. She brought her hand to his and slowly drew it beneath her shirt until his hand was splayed across her scar.
The heat from it rippled through her and she imagined her scar pulsing through purples and greens, mollified by the loving touch of his fingers.
By breakfast, Harry had resumed his brainstorming and, while Hermione felt mostly recovered from the previous day, she was hardly in the mood to entertain his proposals.
"Harry, I really think the next clue lies in Dumbledore's memories. We just have to think about it more."
"Yeah, but think about it: I've got really good at Occlumency now. I haven't had any dreams or anything. My scar barely even hurts anymore. And I can feel it, when I do it, that there's — there's something in there, you know? Not like that — thing — is part of me, or in me, really, but — look, I can't explain it, but I'm pretty sure I can use it to see into Vol— sorry, You-Know-Who's head."
"Potter, I'm not an expert in Occlumency," began Draco, "but I can tell you that feeling 'something in there' is not normal."
"Yeah, well, you just said you're not an expert, Malfoy."
"Harry," Hermione said irritably, "you are not going to reverse engineer your dreams to try and infiltrate You-Know-Who's head! Imagine if it goes wrong? You could expose everything! You could die!"
Harry pressed his lips together. Fed up, Hermione stood from the table.
"Where are you going?" asked Ron, half-buttered crumpet in hand.
"To work out the mystery Dumbledore left behind!"
"Meanwhile," scoffed Draco as he poured himself more pumpkin juice, "Potter's going to read the Dark Lord a bedtime story."
Harry shot Draco a murderous glare while Ron chuckled. Hermione, who was halfway to the door, froze.
"A bedtime story," she breathed. Everything in her head went perfectly still, falling precisely into place. "That's it!"
"It is?" asked Harry dumbly.
"Of course — of course!" And she sprinted from the kitchen, her footsteps pounding up the stairs as she raced to the library. There was a clattering behind her as the boys hurried to follow her, their shoes thundering on the wooden steps.
"I can't believe I didn't see it before," she called, though she was speaking more to herself than anyone else. "And after we talked about it and everything, too!"
"Hermione?"
"Hermione, what are you talking about?"
But she didn't answer as she barrelled down the hall, only slowing to open the door and surge into the library. She spent only a moment perusing the shelves before pulling out her wand. "Accio Tales of Beedle the Bard!"
"Accio — what? — Ow!"
"Out of the way, Potter and Weasley, and I won't step on your precious toes!"
The boys stumbled over each other into the library with exclamations of confusion and irritation. Hermione hardly heard them; she was rifling through the aged Black copy of Beedle the Bard, hungry to confirm her hunch.
"The tales of what?" repeated Harry as he adjusted his glasses.
"The Tales of Beedle the Bard," said Ron, as though this was very obvious. "You've never heard of it?"
"Raised by Muggles, remember?"
"Well, how come Hermione knows about it, then?"
"Draco told me," she answered distantly. "I asked about it, while we were brewing… I wanted to know more about wizarding children's books, and it's lucky I asked, isn't it? Because this" — she pointed to the page — "is exactly what Dumbledore was trying to tell us!"
"What, that Babbity Rabbity's got the next Horcrux?"
"Please don't tell me Babbity Rabbity was your favourite, Weasley."
"Oi! Don't insult Babbity Rabbity!"
Hermione shook her head, still staring at the page where the fine-lined illustration depicted the Three Brothers. "He wanted us to find the Hallows," she said to herself.
"He what?"
"Of course — the Cloak — that's why he showed us the memory of your dad, Harry, and the Wand — his duel with Grindelwald! And the Stone — well, he must've thought Snape knew — oh. Oh." And then she laughed.
"Hermione," began Harry with exasperation, "could you please, for the rest of us, explain what the hell you're talking about?"
"Dumbledore must've thought Snape wanted the Resurrection Stone," she said, as though this were very obvious. "In fact, I'm sure that's why he didn't trust him at the end, just before he died… Dumbledore was trying to tell us he thought Snape stole the Stone! He was there that day, too. But it's alright."
"Not that I have a clue what you're talking about," said Harry, "but why, exactly, is that alright?"
She turned to them finally, with a smile of joyful relief. "Because I stole it."
