A/N: Thank you for your patience. It's been a hectic few weeks — I got super sick and now I'm literally en route to scatter my grandparents' ashes. But I am glad to (finally!) be able to bring this chapter to you and hopefully the next one won't be such a long wait. :)
Hermione was aware of the squeezing of apparition, of appearing on the stoop of Grimmauld Place, then tumbling through the door and, somewhere between there and the floor, becoming so hopelessly entangled in the Invisibility Cloak, Ron, and Draco, that by the time they hit the ground, she couldn't say where any of them ended or began. The three of them were grunting and squirming, trying to get free without crushing each other, and when Harry and Kreacher stumbled into the entryway, they cried out in the assumption that the three of them had all been horribly wounded.
It took several minutes to put themselves to rights and confirm that, barring Draco's burned hand, there had been no injuries. They moved in the direction of the kitchen, to where the Burn-Healing Paste waited, Hermione anxiously lingering by Draco's side while Ron attempted to recount everything to Harry.
"You weren't gone for very long," said the latter. "I mean, that's better than the alternative, I s'pose, but I —"
"He changed the wards."
Everyone turned to Draco, who stood stoically by the table while Hermione searched for the jar he needed.
"Come again, Malfoy?"
"Those wards… they're blood wards. Ancient blood wards. The only way" — he swallowed, his unwounded hand balled into a tight fist — "the only way to change them is if a Malfoy changes them. W-which means — which means that he changed the wards. For him. The manor wards…"
Draco's voice faded, apparently at a loss for words. Hermione was tentative as she reached for his hand, careful not to touch the blistered skin on his palm. She'd found the Burn-Healing Paste. She unfurled his hand, scooped out some of the paste with her fingers, and smeared it across the blistering burns. Draco was trembling.
"They're trying something at the Ministry," said Ron seriously. "Something about blood."
"We know You-Know-Who takes blood seriously," said Harry, eyes flickering to Draco, "which might also explain why he had your dad change the blood wards…"
It was a paltry attempt at sympathy, but it was enough: Hermione burst into tears.
The boys made noises of alarm, but she didn't care. She threw herself at Harry, arms coming around his middle like a vice as she sobbed against his chest. She felt his hands tentatively pat her back as he chuckled, having realised she was just overwhelmed, and she swatted him for it. "That was a terrible idea, Harry! We could have died! There were Dementors!"
Letting Harry go, she turned to Ron, seized him around the middle, and hugged him just as hard. "Calm down, Hermione," he chided her with a smile. "We're all alive, aren't we? Hey — Malfoy — I didn't know you could cast a Patronus. What is it?"
"Not sure," came Draco's voice from far away. "I've — I've never been able to cast it like that before…"
"Yeah, well, nothing like a dozen Dementors to inspire you. Hermione, are you sure you're alright?"
Hermione freed herself from Ron's grasp, tears still hot on her cheeks, marched over to Draco, and wrapped him in the strongest hug she could muster. He hardly moved — his hands hovered awkwardly around her shoulders — and she felt Harry and Ron watching with amusement and surprise.
"I thought we were going to die," she said again, her voice muffled by his chest.
She couldn't exactly articulate how this was different from all the other times. They didn't have Hogwarts to go back to, Madame Pomfrey to piece them back together, or Dumbledore to tell them they'd done the right thing. They were entirely on their own, and perhaps it was the Dementors or the Death Eaters or the throbbing pain in her chest, but she couldn't keep the tears away anymore.
"Well," said Harry in amusement over the scraping of kitchen chairs, "let's release Malfoy and figure out what to do next, alright? Oh, and Kreacher, could you bring some chocolate please?"
Hermione did as she was told and untangled herself from Draco without meeting his eyes. Kreacher brought out a plate of various chocolate biscuits which made Hermione feel warm in a distinctly magical way, and she listened to Ron retell the story of what they'd seen.
"Blood tests to determine magical ancestry…" mused Harry. "It's weird, though, isn't it? I mean, blood tests are what Muggle doctors use, and you all think they're barbaric."
Ron shrugged. "I s'pose if you want to decide who gets to go to Hogwarts, or work at the Ministry, you need a way to tell."
"There is no way to tell," said Hermione emphatically. "But it sounds like they're going to do it anyway. Don't you see? If they ever get to control Hogwarts, they're not going to let anyone in who isn't at least a strong half-blood, and they've already got the Ministry. Who knows what else they've got the Unspeakables working on…"
They pondered this in silence for several seconds before Harry spoke up again. "So, you said Macnair is off doing that, but who was the one you obliviated?"
"Dolohov."
Ron's eyebrows shot up. "How do you know that, Hermione? Last I checked, he had two legs —"
"I recognised his voice from the Department of Mysteries and — and because I attacked him that night we left Hogwarts. I — I must've severed his leg. By accident."
They stared at her for a long moment before Harry deadpanned, "You're joking."
"N-no, I'm not," she insisted, looking between the three of them, who all stared back. "Draco was hurt a-and — and things weren't going our way, so I used Sectumsempra —"
"You used what?"
"He was going to kill us otherwise!"
"I'm not — I'm not upset," said Harry. "At least, I don't think I am. Just… shocked. I mean, we told you what that spell did, and you — well, I guess of all people who deserve it…" Harry frowned. "Do you want some murtlap, Hermione?"
"No. Why?"
"You've been rubbing your chest all morning."
Hermione froze; her hand was indeed on her sternum, trying to soothe the pain there. She dropped it and took another chocolate biscuit instead. "I'm fine."
"Well" — Harry stood from his seat — "I'm going to go let the headmistress know about these blood tests they're working on."
"I'm going back to fucking bed," said Draco quietly, looking sullen.
Ron agreed, which left Hermione alone in the kitchen. She took the rest of the chocolate biscuits and nibbled on them as she went upstairs, to where early morning sunlight was now streaming through the windows. She could still feel the chill of Dementors on her skin. Perhaps it was her scar's fault.
There was a window seat on the second floor of the house she'd often thought of reading on, but Grimmauld Place had always been too crowded to do something like read in a hallway. She'd have been trampled with the entire Order of the Phoenix — plus the Weasleys — running around. But right now, she didn't want to read; her head couldn't keep up with anything but the dawn light and the chocolate, and for now, that would be plenty.
She settled in the window seat and listened to the sound of Harry's muted voice from the floor above and the creaking of Draco and Ron moving around in their respective rooms.
They were safe.
She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes.
"Expecto patronum…"
"Here — I'm squashing your arm —" She shifted until she was nestled more comfortably against his chest. "Try again."
"Expecto patronum… Expecto patronum…"
Hermione watched the faint white mist drifting from his wand, suspended in the air above them and refracting the lazy midday sunlight. His other arm was around her, cradling her against his side as they lay together on top of the bedding. The cloud of magic dissipated, some of it sinking lower and settling across their bodies like snow. As it touched her skin, a cool sensation washed over her chest and across her abdomen. It was so much better than murtlap.
Despite his increased proficiency with the charm, Hermione couldn't fathom what shape Draco's Patronus would eventually take. The magic he produced was vague and ill-defined; it could have been anything from an insect to a sea lion and Hermione wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. She'd spent a good deal of thought considering his attributes, too, though she'd never tell him she suspected it might be something feline.
That he was able to cast the charm at all seemed remarkable to Hermione, particularly in that moment, only hours after a close encounter with so many Dementors, and his family home, and more proof of his father's… betrayal? Was that how Draco saw it, to know his own father would give up everything they valued in service of a genocidal egomaniac?
Hermione was desperate to talk to him about it, but didn't dare risk it, not when he was still so fragile.
So, she curled against him and watched his wand move through the air, toying with the contentedness which hung there. It was nearly midday now, but they'd been up so long it felt like afternoon. Her body felt heavy and slow.
Draco's wand arm fell back to the bed; the vibrations of the incantation ceased. She missed the feeling of his voice reverberating in his chest, buzzing against her cheek.
"Are you okay?" he asked lowly, shifting a little so his lips brushed her temple.
She nodded against him. "Yeah." She bit her lip. "Are you?"
A long, slow sigh. "I don't know," he admitted eventually. "I'm alive, aren't I? And my hand — it's fine, now."
"I won't have to tape you up again," she teased, a tired attempt at humour.
"Small mercies," he agreed, and she thought she felt him smile against her hair. The hand belonging to the arm around her — the hand he had injured — started toying with a curl. "Do you think Potter will want to go back?"
"To the manor?" Hermione blinked. It hadn't even occurred to her. "I don't think so." Not unless there's no other option.
Draco nodded. "Good," he mumbled. "I don't want to go back."
Hermione didn't know what to say, so she turned until she was facing him, chin propped on her palm while her other hand fiddled with the buttons of his shirt.
He raised an eyebrow. "Potter or Weasley could come in at any second, you know."
"As if this is any more incriminating than what we were doing before," she retorted, rolling her eyes. "Besides, the door is locked and charmed. Maybe I just want to be able to see your face."
He raised his eyebrows again. "Oh? And why's that?"
"Oh, you know…" She grinned and avoided his eyes; her pulse beat faster and something within her jolted. Maybe it was the residual Patronus in the air; she felt giddy. "Various nefarious reasons."
"You are quite nefarious, aren't you, Granger?" he mused, his hand coming up to draw her hair, which was hanging down between them, behind her ear. In the same motion, he brought her head down until she was close enough to kiss.
She settled down on top of him, savouring the warm angularity of his body beneath hers. His touches were slow and gentle; not the desperate, hungry way he touched her in bed, but no less passionate. Hermione kissed him back with all the tenderness she had and felt herself grow suddenly overwhelmed by her feelings for him.
He sensed it; in a swift motion, she was suddenly beneath him, and he was placing sweet kisses to her face.
There were inexplicable tears in her eyes, though she couldn't put any of it into words. It seemed she didn't need to, though, not with him, and that only brought more wrought emotions to the surface. She was exhausted. He must have been, too.
His weight settled more heavily atop her. She wrapped her arms around him as his head settled on her sternum, his lips brushing the exposed purple-blue of her scar, and they fell asleep as the midday sun shone brighter into the room.