Rose and Sword

by SanaNGU

Draco Malfoy, due to the prolonged absence of the Ancient Runes teacher, has been stirring up the class as he pleases with the help of his cronies, preventing the other classmates from studying. Hermione Granger, a responsible and persevering student, is not going to sit idly by.

43. Number four, Privet Drive

Hello, everyone! How are you? 😊 Let's get on with the story! I hope you're looking forward to know how it continues. I had a great time writing this chapter, and I really liked the final result, I hope you do too! 😍

Phew, we've got ourselves right into a war 😮. It's been two years since the fall of Hogwarts, and both the Order of the Phoenix and Lord Voldemort are fighting with all their might. We've seen glimpses of how Hermione is living it, as well as Draco. Each with their respective lives as soldiers of opposing forces. Separated... for the moment.😜

On the other hand, we have finally met Samantha! 😱 The poor French girl who has been behind the scenes for the whole story. She has taken a little more prominence in this last chapter, because it was necessary to tell her story. Poor girl... Voldemort got all kinds of information about Beauxbatons from her, and now he's still keeping her prisoner, nobody knows why. Any hypothesis?

As always, thank you all so much! Especially to those of you who let me know in comments, but in general to anyone reading this. Thank you for your kind words, you all are lovely! 😍

And, without further ado, get ready for a busy chapter...

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CHAPTER 43

Number four, Privet Drive

Hermione was soaked. It had been raining steadily for days, and, having been sheltered inside Shell Cottage all morning, when she Apparated at the entrance to Grimmauld Place she had completely forgotten to generate a Shield Charm. During the seconds it had taken her to react, and the buildings at numbers eleven and thirteen to move out of the way, the rain had completely drenched her.

She had been at Bill and Fleur's home, in the company of Oliver Wood. Discussing with him some coded messages from the Death Eaters about a new safe house that seemed to be hiding prisoners. However, the information was still biased, and they could not work with it. It seemed clear that they had found a new covert prison, but the location was vague.

She felt her feet sloshing as she ascended the old staircase leading up to the first floor from the hall, but she didn't bother to dry off yet. There was a meeting called in half an hour, and there were a couple of things she had to do first. She tried not to stare at the row of shrunken house-elf heads decorating the staircase wall, and instead patted the inside pocket of her robes to check that the papers she had brought with her had not been ruined.

She reached the first landing, and stepped aside to let three people pass. A chattering Kingsley, who just nodded at her without stopping talking, accompanied by her old classmate from her own House, Alicia Spinnet, and another woman Hermione didn't know. Alicia smiled at Hermione in greeting as she followed Kingsley down the stairs. Hermione assumed they would be talking about finances. That was Alicia's job, and possibly the other woman's as well. The girl had been working at Gringotts Wizarding Bank for two years after graduating from school, before the war started. She had then left her job and joined the Order at the request of her close friend Angelina Johnson, to handle everything to do with the organisation's finances: loans, collections, donations, food orders, invoices for clothing, protective equipment, hospital supplies, potion ingredients...

Hermione sensed that, judging by the normally relaxed Shacklebolt's apprehensive tone, the Order's balance sheets were not as expected.

She finally crossed the landing and knocked with her knuckles on the first door on her left. Without waiting for an answer, she opened it a crack and poked her head in. Her friend's fiery red hair was the first thing that caught her eye. Ginny was standing in the centre of the room, next to the armchair, which had some parchment precariously placed on one of its armrests. She had pulled her long red hair back into a casual bun, her own wand holding it in place. She was in attack position, making complicated hand movements as if she were wielding an imaginary wand. And she was already looking in the direction of the door, alerted by Hermione's knock. She smiled, between wheezes.

"You're back early," Ginny greeted. She pushed the parchments away from the armrest and sat there, resting, facing her friend. Her forehead glistened with sweat. "How'd it go with Oliver?"

"Nothing so far," Hermione admitted, lazily making her way into the room. A pungent smell, the source of which she couldn't quite place, wafted into her nose. She also noticed that it was a little warm in there. "He thinks he can have the location of the prison within three weeks, judging by the frequency with which the Death Eaters are sending messages and the speed with which we decode them. But he admits it could take up to four weeks."

Ginny arched her eyebrows in a fleeting movement.

"That's a long time..." She voiced aloud what her friend was already thinking. Hermione took a deep breath, corroborating that assessment, and pulled out the wad of parchment she kept in her inside pocket.

"I know... How are you doing?" she questioned, moving closer to her. She looked through the parchments she was holding, separated some of them, and held them out to her. "Remus told me you've been here all morning. Are you on your own?"

"Bill had to talk to a couple of people before the meeting, so he didn't have time to be here," Ginny commented, starting to leaf through the parchments. "But there's Terry, he's just gone to the medicine cabinet to get some ingredients, haven't you come across him?"

"Oh, no, I haven't seen him," Hermione confessed. Realising then that the pungent smell was coming from a bubbling cauldron on the desk in the corner. It was the fire on which it sat that was raising the temperature of the place. "But that's great, I've got some documents for him too... What are you going to do, by the way? Do you have time to go down to the meeting?"

"Yes, I think I'll go in the end. It's just that I'm having some trouble with one of the spells," Ginny confessed, the tiredness in her voice becoming more apparent. "The Blood Curse. According to last week's documents, they're teaching the fifth-years how to cast it. I've finally figured out how to perform it," she mimed the hand movement, a sort of circular twist of the wrist that simulated the outline of a drop, "and I can start looking for the defence counter-curse. I think I can have it ready by next week's meeting. But finding a spell to reverse it will take me more time..."

"Don't force yourself," Hermione advised affectionately. "You're working very hard," she looked at the parchments on the armchair, filled with notes in Ginny's almost unintelligible handwriting. "Isn't the Blood Curse hereditary?"

"The classic one, yes, but the magic, unfortunately, is very versatile. They've found a way to use it as if it were just another curse. Much more immediate. And terribly effective," Ginny spoke with her eyes fixed on nothing. Possibly praying that she would never have to see its effects. Hermione was nodding discreetly when she heard the door creak behind her. She turned in time to see an agitated Terry Boot stepping through the doorway. He was carrying several vials in his hands and had to close the door with his foot. But his eyes caught Hermione as he did so.

"Hermione," the boy greeted, recognising her. He was slurring his speech, as he was holding a stick of liquorice between his teeth. "Hi, I didn't know you were here."

As he spoke, he walked over to the desk. On it, besides the steaming pewter cauldron, were a couple of open books, some closed ones, some scrolls spread out next to a quill, a rusty brass scale, a mortar, half a dozen jars and Petri dishes with different ingredients, and a couple of silver knives.

"I've just arrived," Hermione confirmed, pointing to her sodden robes. "I've just come from Shell Cottage. And I have some more dossiers for you," she commented, separating a couple more parchments to hand to him. The rest were for Aberforth, but she would not see him until the next day. She set them on the desk table, within the boy's reach. He watched them out of the corner of his eye as he placed all the vials in his hands neatly on the table.

"Great, thanks, I needed that information," he took the liquorice stick from his mouth, and pointed to some of the writing with a finger. He squinted with interest. "Of course, damn, Wiggentree bark, why didn't I think of that?" he muttered to himself, picking up a quill and writing something on a piece of parchment on the table, which looked like a rough draft judging by the number of erasures and drawings on it.

Hermione smiled empathetically at his frustration. Terry Boot, a classmate at Hogwarts, from Ravenclaw house, was proving to be a great help. The Order had recruited him a year ago, initially as a support for the Healers; but the young man soon showed a passion and innate ability for potions, so he took to it willingly. He joined the division of wizards who prepared vast quantities of all kinds of healing potions and antidotes for use in the temporary hospitals. And, whenever he had time, he examined and sorted samples of poisons and toxic potions used by the enemy. The boy worked very hard and, despite being somewhat reserved and solitary, he was kind and a pleasant company.

Hermione's face became more serious and respectful as she added:

"How are you, by the way? I didn't get a chance to ask you the other day, have you heard from your father?" she questioned, with as much gentleness as she could muster. Ginny was silent, watching the young man's back. He blinked twice and shook his head.

"Not yet," he admitted neutrally, writing something else on the parchment. "It's... complicated, apparently. I've been told that as soon as they know anything they'll tell me. But not to get my hopes up," he said, feigning a strength that his eyes certainly didn't reflect. "But thank you for asking," he added, unable to look at her.

His Muggle father had disappeared a month ago, despite the Order's protections and concealment spells. And nothing had been heard of him since. They couldn't put a great deal of effort into searching for him, as the Order wasn't exactly overstaffed, but they were still looking. Without news, and, it seemed, without hope. Terry's mother had worked as an editor for the Daily Prophet, and had been killed during the Death Eaters' raid on Diagon Alley during Terry's last year at Hogwarts.

The boy could have given up on helping them after what happened to his father. He could have succumbed to the fear of being next. Of being a target. That his identity would have been revealed. But he didn't. He was still with them, and he was working harder than ever.

Hermione said nothing at his words. It was meaningless. An 'I'm sorry' meant nothing at this point in the war. Let alone 'it'll be all right'. No one wanted lies. No false hopes. Even less empty words. It didn't help at all.

Lost in the helplessness of not having the means to comfort a friend, her gaze strayed to the wall behind Terry. A place she tried never to look at. The Black Family Tapestry, depicting the Black family tree, occupied the entire surface. The Blacks. The Lestranges. The Tonks. The Malfoy's.

Her eyes betrayed her and she stared longer than she should have. With too much attention. She caught a glimpse of long, striking blond hair weaved into the tapestry, before she reacted and looked away at full speed. Possibly it belonged to Lucius, or perhaps Narcissa. But no. She didn't want to look. She didn't want to see his picture.

Ginny, behind Hermione's back, thankfully pulled her out of the mess she had gotten herself into. She spoke softly, breaking the dreary atmosphere with subtlety.

"You should change your clothes, Hermione. Or you'll get sick. I can cast counter-curses for an endless number of curses, but I can't cure a cold, I warn you," she tried to joke.

Hermione turned to look at her, smiling, feigning casualness.

"Yes, that's true," she agreed, looking at herself lazily. She gave her friend a rather sly look, and what she did was pull out her wand and wave it so that a stream of hot air shot out of the tip. She began to run it over her robes, drying them.

"That's fine, too. Slow but steady," conceded her friend, tilting her head to one side, smiling. Terry, more cheerful and grateful to see that the conversation was taking a different direction, chuckled. But then Ginny frowned, catching something, "Your sleeve's torn, though, did you notice?"

She walked over to her and held the left sleeve of her robes in her hands, which had a nice slit that revealed the jumper underneath. Hermione stared at it in surprise.

"No," she admitted, tugging carefully at the hole. "I don't know how long it's been like that. And... I don't think it's going to work with magic, it's missing a good bit of fabric. Later I'll sew a patch on it."

"Those robes are too worn out now, why don't you get another one? There are some unused ones in the wardrobe in the spare room on the first floor," said her friend, with a practical attitude. "There's no one settled in there now, see what you can find."

Indecision danced in Hermione's eyes. The stress in Kingsley's expression, and Alicia's fragile smile from minutes before, floated through her mind.

"I don't know if —" she murmured. And she tried to insist with assurance, "I don't need new robes. I can still use this one. I can repair it."

"Of course you can. But you can also let yourself get a new one," her friend said, staring more seriously into her eyes. "You've been using it for a long time. Indulge yourself. No one would think you're wasting supplies," she added, as if reading her mind.

Hermione smiled with slight embarrassment. She dropped her gaze, but nodded.

"Later I'll go and see what I can find..."

"Go now. Before the meeting," Ginny insisted, not allowing her to duck out. "You have time. See you downstairs in a bit, and I want to see that you've caught a nice one," she joked, with mock smugness. Terry chuckled from his corner as he poured water from his wand into the cauldron.

Hermione, with a deep sigh of surrender, and a withering but knowing glance at her friend, eventually left the room. Finding herself with no escape, she closed the door behind her and began to ascend, heading for the upper floor. The steps, though muffled by the ancestral carpeting, creaked somewhat irritatingly under her weight.

On the second flight of steps, she noticed a figure descending from the upper floor. She looked up, wanting to ascertain their position to gauge whether she should step aside to make way. Finding that it was Terence Higgs.

'Look what we have here! An essay from the Mudblood!'

The boy's eyes locked with hers as he felt her gaze on him, and his feet faltered on the steps. His face did not alter too much. It only wavered between a clueless serenity and an impossible-to-conceal discomfort. As if he wasn't sure he wanted to make eye contact but knew it was inevitable.

'Aha, there you are! Do you do the honours, Malfoy? If you want it, it's all yours...'

Higgs looked away out of inertia, awkwardly, before agreeing to look at her again, regretfully. Clenching his jaws, he then bowed his head stiffly in a cold salute. Hermione nodded back, serene. They crossed paths, and each continued on their way.

'You're fantastic. Whatever, man, you can wash them later. Come on, have fun...!'

Reaching the upstairs landing, Hermione pushed certain memories away from the front of her memory and returned to reality. Hesitating. She wasn't quite sure which room her friend had referred to. She knew that the first was Harry and Ron's, and the next was Mr and Mrs Weasley's. Would it be the first on the opposite side or the second? Both had been left free as a reserve, for any member who needed to stay there.

She decided to try the room across the landing from Molly and Arthur's. Pulling the snake-shaped handle, she found the room effectively deserted, gloomy, and with high ceilings. Like all the others. She removed her robes and laid them on the dusty bed. As she did so, she touched her hair. It was still damp; she had only dried the robes. She should dry it before she went down to the meeting, she didn't want to make such a scruffy impression. Sighing lazily, she started walking towards the old-fashioned wardrobe. As she did so, she took the opportunity to adjust the combat dress made of the Blast-Ended Skrewt armours. She always wore them as a precaution, prepared for the unexpected. They had the necessary spells so that they were neither heavy nor hot. They were flexible and fastened with ties. Two protectors for each arm, one for each thigh, and a large one for the trunk as a corset. Fred and George were working on shin guards, for extra protection, but so far they only had the prototype. The protectors were worn over casual Muggle clothing, usually a T-shirt or jumper and trousers, and under robes or a cloak so that they would not be visible. This was how almost all members of the Order dressed. At least those who were engaged in defence, or engaged in combat of any kind against the enemy.

After finishing tightening the side ties of her chest harness, she walked over to stand in front of the wardrobe and opened it. Her brow furrowed in disappointment. There were no robes there, just some thick blankets folded into two small piles. And a dull moth that flew out from inside. She grimaced. Then they'd be in the next room, she'd been mistaken.

"Granger..." a muffled voice suddenly whispered behind her.

The girl's heart skipped a beat. She suffered a sudden start, which made her jolt as if she had been electrocuted. She drew her wand from the holster on her thigh in less than half a second, her reflexes hardened by years of war. She spun round, raising her wand. However, she allowed herself not to attack immediately. Trying not to rush, despite the adrenaline boost. She was at Grimmauld Place. She was at Headquarters. There could be no enemies there.

Nor had she heard the door. And the room was empty when she entered.

For that, and for many other reasons, Draco Malfoy could not be standing in the centre of the room.

Hermione felt everything around her sway. Or maybe it was herself. Her wand arm lost strength, but she didn't allow herself to lower it. Her whole body lost solidity. Even the muscles in her jaw, allowing her mouth to open hopelessly. The air inside her escaped effortlessly. Slack. Stunned.

The boy was standing two metres away from her, dressed in the black trousers and bottle-green shirt she remembered he used to wear. Staring at her with wide grey eyes. How was that possible? What was he doing there? What was wrong with him?

The boy had an obvious convulsion and put a hand to his stomach. Squeezing the area. While his face contorted. When he pulled his hand away again, it was stained crimson. The stain also spread across his shirt. His legs trembled. He staggered. And dropped to his knees heavily, the sound of his body muffling against the faded carpet.

Hermione still held her wand aloft. She had forgotten that she could move. That she could do anything. She was watching everything, not participating. A part of her needed to run forward. To get closer. But she couldn't. She wasn't even aware that she could speak. Her jaw was trembling. Only clumsy gasps escaped her mouth.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so scared.

Draco looked up at her, clutching his stomach again. Blood began to soak the back of his hand. He was paler than the girl had ever seen him. His lips were almost translucent. His eyes were unfocusing. His eyelids were giving way.

"Please..." he murmured. Breathlessly. And that was the last thing he said. After two faint gasps, he fell sideways onto the carpet, slowly, quietly. Facing her. No longer moving. With his grey eyes open, lifeless.

Dead.

Dead.

Hermione dropped her wand to the floor. She managed to drag one foot across the carpet and stepped backwards. Her back collided with the wardrobe. She didn't hear the noise. She threw one hand back, trying to hold on to the side of the cabinet, to the polished wood. Her legs wouldn't hold her. She couldn't move. She couldn't close her mouth. Her jaw trembled in a vain attempt to articulate any words. There was no air in the room.

What...? What...? What had just happened?

She inhaled sharply, puffing out her chest hard. Not knowing when she'd taken her last breath. She felt something wet sliding down her cheeks. Her eyes burned. She was crying. And she barely understood why.

Because Draco couldn't be there. Because Draco couldn't be dead.

But he was there. He wasn't disappearing.

Hermione dropped to the floor, sliding her back down the wardrobe. Shrinking to the floor, any which way. She didn't care. Because the whole world had just stopped spinning. And all she could see was Draco's eyes open before her.

How was that possible? How? Was he dead? Had he died in front of her? And she hadn't done anything? It couldn't be. It was simply impossible. How was it possible that her greatest fear had...?

Hermione felt her stomach contract and she almost threw up. She exhaled what little breath she had managed to catch.

... become a reality.

Her greatest fear.

And then she understood everything. And she felt herself listening to the world around her again. Her chest, stiff, then began to heave in desperate sobs. Letting go. She looked away from Draco's lifeless face to reach for her wand, lying to one side. She picked it up, fingers unsteady. She pointed it at him.

"Ri-riddikulus," she managed to articulate. Though her voice didn't sound like her own.

A resounding crack echoed through the room. And Draco's body transformed. His hair turned from blond to red. His pale face was covered with freckles and became more elongated but rounded, less pointed. His nose lengthened. Her grey eyes became blue.

And suddenly Ron was dead before her.

Hermione couldn't catch her breath. She could only sob. The tears barely let her see. She could feel them trickling down her chin.

"Ri-riddikulus!" she said again, without lowering her wand. Ron's face changed again. His hair turned black as night, and the freckles disappeared. Green eyes stared unseeing at her from the floor, behind old round glasses with a broken pane. The lightning bolt scar was barely visible through the black hair.

Hermione closed her eyes tightly for the first time and threw her head back.

No more. She couldn't do this. Not like this.

"They're alive," she said to herself, in her mind, struggling to catch her breath more normally. "Harry and Ron are downstairs in the meeting. They're alive. It's just a Boggart, a magical creature. They're alive. And Draco — he's got to be alive too. He promised me he'd be all right. If he'd died, I'd know it..."

Trying hard to hold on to those thoughts, she raised her wand again, without opening her eyes. Without looking at the corpse of her best friend.

"Riddikulus!" she said more firmly. And her voice didn't tremble this time. After two seconds of psyching herself up for courage, she opened her eyes. Harry was sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking at her with glee. He stuck his tongue out at her, grimacing in amusement, and then disappeared with a crack, amidst wisps of smoke.

Hermione dropped the wand again and curled in on herself. She sat up better, folded her legs against her chest and allowed herself to sob loudly against them. Letting it all out. Draco's lifeless body, and the way he had looked at her before he fell dead on the carpet, floated before her closed eyes.

She had seen the Black Family Tapestry. She had seen the image of Lucius. It had moved something in her, she was sure of it. That was why the Boggart had transformed into Draco. He had been very much on her mind a few minutes ago.

He was always there. Always, in a corner of her subconscious. Never at the forefront of her thoughts.

She managed to breathe again. To cry in a more controlled way. She pulled away from her legs and lifted her face, looking at the loneliness of the room. She was alone again. The sobs still made her shudder. Her mouth was open, trying to get more air to regulate her breathing. She wiped her eyes and cheeks with the sleeve of her jumper.

It had been two years since she'd seen him. And seeing him like this was the last thing she had expected.

She hadn't heard from him. No news of any kind. She didn't know if he was alive or dead. Although she made him promise that he would be all right, in time she came to understand the absurdity of her own request. Still, her insides assured her that he was. She couldn't explain it, not even to herself, but she had the impression that, if something had happened to him, she would know. One way or another. A feeling. A different heartbeat. Something.

She wouldn't let herself think about him. Because it was pointless. It was unproductive. And all it did was distract her from her current life. From her missions. From her war against the darkness. It was a part of her life that had been over for years. The two said goodbye knowing they would never see each other again. They both began a clandestine relationship at Hogwarts knowing they would end up never seeing each other again. They had always known that. Because they couldn't be together.

They had been given the gift, or the condemnation, of living a life that wasn't meant for them for months at a time. Not the one society had placed before them, and urged them to live. They had surprised themselves by having feelings that they had been assured they would not have. That it was impossible for them to have. That it was not the right thing to do. That it was not morally acceptable. But they had done it. They felt the same. And everything they had been told was wrong, suddenly didn't feel wrong. It was incredible. And maybe it could have been forever, if it was up to them and them alone.

But it didn't. And they weren't allowed to find out. They had had to return to reality. Each to their own world. To their side of the board. To their side in this war.

She had almost managed to make the memory of him barely hurt.

But that Boggart had reminded her that feelings didn't have to fade with the passage of time. That emotions cared little for the prohibitions of society, no matter how powerful it was. How could she stop loving him, knowing that he loved her too, that it was mutual? They couldn't be together. And they never would be. She understood that. She knew that. But she wasn't going to stop loving him. In her own way. Never.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, pursing her lips. Without trembling. Without sobbing. Managing to calm herself. She stood up gingerly, her legs feeling numb. She closed the wardrobe at last, standing for a moment with her forehead pressed against the closed doors. They were at war. She could not waver. She could not allow her feelings to override her reason.

She turned around, a new light in her eyes. Purposely forgetting the old robes on the bed, she left the room. Nor did she go next door for new ones. She was already late for the meeting.

She dried her hair with the Hot Air Charm as she made her way down the staircase. As she was descending the stairs that led to the kitchen, she heard Arthur Weasley's voice say, "... and I can understand that, but I don't think it's wise to go to Slug & Jigger Apothecary again so soon. Not after what we know."

Alastor Moody, at those words, contorted his scarred face even more and began tapping nervously on the floor with his claw-like prosthetic leg. Impatient, and apparently fed up with the nonsense.

Hermione walked into the kitchen, quietly so as not to interrupt, and with an apologetic grimace by way of a tight smile. She hurried to sit at her usual place at the table, next to a restless Harry. He gave her a quick welcoming glance before returning his eyes to the discussion. Ginny, seated at the other end of the table, between Tonks and her father, gave her a quizzical look for her delay, which Hermione returned by waving a hand, unwilling to make a big deal of it.

Remus looked at Moody with patient reproach, almost like a frustrated father, and then turned to the Weasley patriarch.

"Unfortunately, Mad-Eye is right, Arthur," he insisted, in his slow voice. "You've heard Alice's statistics. We need the apothecary's loan. We will need to restock again soon. We need ingredients for potions, and antidotes. We need food," he emphasised.

"Books," Ginny added, her voice faint but firm. "So we can keep up with the lessons at Hogwarts. So we can keep up with that dreadful syllabus and know what we're up against."

"I understand that, but it's dangerous," continued the Weasley patriarch, still standing on his ground. "They're watching Slug & Jigger Apothecary closely. You heard Hestia, they followed her, they know we're going there. Despite having surveillance for the apothecary, we're putting him in grave danger. We can't afford to lose him..."

"He knew what he was signing up for when he offered to help us," Mad-Eye protested, mumbling through his crooked mouth.

"As much as he knew, if we know he's in danger now, we're knowingly leading him to certain death," Molly commented firmly, sitting beside her husband. Bill, beside her, nodded in agreement.

"All right, listen, we'll discuss the apothecary next week," proposed Kingsley in his deep voice, combing his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger, stressed. "It's not urgent at the moment. There are savings for another two months or so. Keep his surveillance, and I'll see if I can get a loan elsewhere," he looked at Ginny before adding, "Tell Boot to come down later, I want to know how urgent it is to get ingredients for potions. If it's imperative that we go to Slug & Jigger soon, or can we leave him alone for a while. And, Alicia, I also want the list of available supplies," he finished, looking at the young woman, who nodded and made a note of it.

"And Ollivander?" Moody interrupted, leaning back in his seat. "Do you intend to do without Ollivander as well, and isn't he being watched just the same?"

"We cannot do without visiting Ollivander," Ron opined, frowning in disbelief.

Harry, beside him, shook his head heavily and corroborated, "Ollivander is essential. We need our wands repaired after battles, they don't always come out well. We don't have many wandmakers willing to help us. And he's certainly the best."

"Perhaps, in his case, it would be best to bring him here without further delay," Remus proposed, drumming his fingers on the table. "Keeping him hidden permanently? Oliver told us they caught coded messages from the enemy about him. It's possible they intend to get their hands on him imminently. If they capture him, they'll have a spectacular weapon."

"In that case, we should bring him here," Kingsley corroborated. "His disappearance will draw attention, but I suspect it's the safest course of action. We'll deal with that. He can stay in Shell Cottage, there's more room," he looked to Bill for confirmation, who nodded his head in agreement. "Do you all agree?"

The vast majority nodded, or murmured. Tonks hastened to write it down on the parchment in front of her as an official decision of the meeting. A green Quick-Quotes Quill, placed in the centre of the table, hastily took note of every word that was spoken in the kitchen.

"Rescue mission? Is my division in charge?" Hermione asked, raising a hand, asking for permission to speak. Kingsley pondered for a moment but ended up shaking his head.

"No, a regular detachment will suffice. I'll talk to Aberforth. He manages Diggle's division, I'll tell him to send for Ollivander. Have him brought in as soon as possible. "

"But... Dedalus's regiment already has an established mission," Tonks interjected, stopping writing on the parchment and looking up. Her remark was discreet, but it was enough for a heavy silence to settle over the room. Everyone knew what she meant.

Kinsgley clasped his hands in front of his mouth and allowed himself to sigh. His eyes met Remus's across the table. In a knowing look. Almost asking for his help.

Lupin caught the look and spoke up, "I'm afraid we're going to have to start thinking about the possibility of ending this war without Albus Dumbledore's help. Kinsgley and I have discussed it, and we propose to relieve Dedalus's division of that search. Assign them to more useful duties."

Harry tensed at Hermione's side. Straightening like an animal that has spotted prey. A glint lit up his green eyes.

"What?" he sputtered, almost speechless. "Stop looking for Professor Dumbledore? Just like that?"

"Harry, it's been two years and we still haven't heard from him. We've searched over and over again..."

"Well, we've got to search harder! Or search better!" said Harry, raising his voice.

"Given the circumstances, we have to start thinking that inevitably Dumbledore can no longer help us," Remus insisted, still calmly. "He would have been the strongest link of this group, we all agree, but we have to assume that —"

"No!" Harry shouted, standing up so abruptly that the chair he was sitting in toppled over. "I refuse to assume anything!"

"Harry!" Hermione cried in alarm, grabbing him by the robes.

"No, Hermione, no! This is Professor Dumbledore we're talking about! Albus Dumbledore!" He looked at everyone at the table with a fiery expression. "The greatest wizard of all time! Dumbledore founded the Order of the Phoenix! And now he's in trouble! We can't give up so easily, there's got to be — !"

The Quick-Quotes Quill was frantically scratching over the parchment.

Remus raised a hand in an attempt to silence him and raised his voice as he said, "Harry, I understand. I really do. But more people are disappearing every day. Dumbledore wouldn't have wanted us to waste energy and resources looking for him for years when everything suggests —"

"Nothing suggests anything! You can't know what —"

A sudden crash muffled Harry's voice and startled everyone in the room. The door leading to the upper floors had creaked open, and a small, bedraggled Mundungus Fletcher entered the room, stumbling nervously on his bowed legs. He was very pale, and his bloodshot eyes were wide open.

"Damn it, Dung!" Remus exclaimed, sitting back down. "Don't show up here like that!"

"I could have killed you, you vermin..." Moody growled grumpily, putting his wand back in the pocket of his thick, patched robes.

"I bring news! Important news!" the little man exclaimed, pushing his ginger hair out of his face and approaching the wide table. Everyone noticed, as he came closer, the perennial smell of tobacco and alcohol that surrounded him. Mundungus was an expert at talking to the creepiest and most useful creatures in the wizarding world. His contacts with all manner of smugglers, pirates and criminals made him the perfect member to know what was going on in the underworld. The Order's spy network was effective, but Dung was impeccable, and his tips were often invaluable.

"What happened?" Arthur asked uneasily. Harry sat down again as well, attentive to the news, momentarily forgetting Dumbledore.

"There's goin' to be an attack," Dung explained. "Everythin' is ready. I've managed to find Sturgis Podmore an' got it out of 'im. 'E's under an Imperius Curse, but I've got 'im safe, with Doge's detachment... I've got all my men workin' on tryin' to get more details, but I've got the gist of it..."

"Attack? When? Who?" Remus interrupted urgently. Mundungus took a breath, audibly amidst the silence, and fixed his little eyes on Harry Potter, before confessing:

"They're plannin' to attack Privet Drive. Number four. Tonight."

---

It was still raining. The clouds gave no respite. The sky was nothing but an impenetrable blanket of uniform grey, darkened now that night was approaching. The sound of the rain was augmented by the fact that not a single car was currently driving down the drab Privet Drive. It was quite late, and only a middle-aged woman with a dark umbrella was walking along the pavement at a leisurely pace, possibly in the direction of her home.

The rain was washing the Dursley family's already shiny car even cleaner. The windows of the house were closed, and the curtains were drawn, as was to be expected on such a night. There was no light in the house. If a casual burglar had appeared in the neighbourhood and tried to break in, he might have done so. The owners seemed to have gone out, perhaps to dine out, perhaps for a rainy walk in the last few hours of daylight. The burglar could have packed the expensive plasma TV in the living room in a sack and left quietly. For it was no ordinary burglar that the Order of the Phoenix members hiding inside were waiting for.

Hermione had been listening to nothing but her breathing for hours. She was beginning to find it infuriating. She no longer knew how to breathe normally. No matter what she did, it sounded strange to her ears. The house was absolutely silent. The sound of the rain was getting louder and louder, and she was almost grateful for it.

She was hidden inside the cupboard under the stairs, standing close to the door, peering outside through the tiny slits in the air vent that Uncle Vernon had put there years ago for Harry. Hermione didn't even want to think about what her friend had had to suffer in there, locked up day after day. It had been inhuman. And the Dursley family said that the wizards were the monsters...

Her right hand, clutching her wand tightly, was growing cold. Despite wearing a rather thick jumper, under her robes and her combat dress, as she was standing still, she was freezing. She scratched the back of her neck with her free hand, and it was then that she noticed the touch of her hair. She realised that she had forgotten to tie it up. She lifted her Phoenix Mask slightly, and clamped the wand between her teeth, keeping her eyes on the air vent. She brought her hands to the top of her head, wrapping her thick hair with the hair tie she had on her wrist. All comfort was too little.

The first crack startled her and made her let go of her hair with a jolt, not giving the hair tie a final twist. She retrieved her wand instantly and pressed herself against the door. Attentive. Adrenaline rushing through her veins.

There was another crack. And another. And four more. "Seven of them. And they've appeared in the garden."

She tightened her grip on the wand. She moved her shoulders in circles, warming up her joints a little. She stretched her neck, too, in various directions. And her ankles. She felt for the equipment hanging from her belt, under her cloak, placing them. Making sure she was ready for what was to come. But she did nothing yet. She wouldn't until she got the signal from her comrades. Until then, all she had to do was not reveal her position.

She didn't hear the front door open, but the sound of rain falling on the pavement grew louder. Hermione nibbled her lip. She didn't hear their footsteps either, but a moment later a hooded figure passed in front of her down the hall, like a spectre. Hermione forced herself to breathe very slowly. Inaudible.

Another Death Eater passed in front of her. She heard a door open in the distance. The stairs above her head creaked. They were inspecting the house.

A third person appeared in her field of vision, dim through the golden slits in the air vent. The hood concealing the Death Eater's head turned in her direction. Hermione felt her heart leap out of her mouth. She recoiled immediately into the darkness of the cupboard. She wondered if she had gasped in shock. She didn't remember hearing herself, but, still... Had they heard her? Even though she had stepped back a little, she could still see through the slits. The Death Eater was staring in her direction. The creepy silver mask and the shadow of the hood hid his features. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment and made sure her wand was securely clutched. She felt the wood creak between her fingers. Suddenly, what little light there had been in the cupboard disappeared. The Death Eater stood in front of the door, their body covering the light coming through the slits in the air vent.

And then a thunderous sound invaded the house to its foundations. A loud siren, piercing the eardrums mercilessly. The fire alarm.

The signal.

Hermione raised her wand decisively. The cupboard door opened outwards with a loud bang, bursting off its hinges. The body on the other side was thrown backwards, slamming into the doorframe leading to the kitchen and falling in a shambling heap on the floor. Hermione crossed the doorway of the cupboard, crouching low, stepping over the remains of the door, still surrounded by a great deal of dust. The hall was narrow, the stairs taking up much of the space. She looked both ways quickly, devising a strategy, placing the enemy in her field of vision. The one she had just knocked down was to her right. And there was another hooded Death Eater to her left, standing in front of the closed door that led to the street. Whose wand pointed at her. She saw them flick their wrist. And Hermione, forewarned, instantly created successive Shield Charms to protect herself from the flurry of curses that were cast at her.

She noticed out of the corner of her eye that the Death Eater to her right, still on the floor, was moving.

With her free hand, she reached for two of the Garrotting Gas bombs dangling from her belt by her left hip and threw them to her right, towards the Death Eater lying on the floor. A couple of blasts next to him, and a dense silver smoke surrounded him. She heard him cough, and saw him cast some spell, blindly, which hit the stair railing. Tearing off a piece of wood. But then he didn't move any more. And he wouldn't move for a good while.

Hermione could hear more blasts upstairs. And shouted spells in the living room.

She cast a Disarming Charm at the Death Eater hidden behind the cloud of smoke and dared to turn her back on him. Focusing on the masked one standing by the exit door. Lethal. In a duelling stance. The girl blocked two of the curses he cast aloud, and had to deflect the last one so that it hit the wall, opening an ashen gap.

"Silencio!" she shouted, pointing her wand at him. Trying to stop the Death Eater from uttering spells out loud, so that they would lose their potency.

But the Death Eater blocked the spell with a quick upward motion and then swung his arm from side to side, whipping his wand around. The girl felt as if a blunt axe struck her in the centre of her chest. It took her breath away, but she was able to continue. The combat dress had protected her.

"Levicorpus!" Hermione yelled, but missed her target. Her opponent pivoted on one of his feet and turned his body, dodging the spell and causing it to hit the wall behind him with a bang. Hermione waved her wand again and managed to throw him backwards, until he crashed hard into the doorway. He fell to the floor, managing to stay in a crouch, and immediately raised his wand again in the girl's direction.

"Lumos Maxima!" the hooded man shouted, generating a bright ball of light. Trying to blind her. Hermione didn't expect it but was able to react quickly. She shielded her eyes with her forearm and threw the Dursley family umbrella stand at the Death Eater without thinking. A metallic clang, a muffled exclamation, and the disappearance of the light told her that she had hit her target.

"Obscuro!" she shouted, trying to blind her adversary as well. But he blocked it at the last second. He had managed to get back on his feet. He continued to attack her. Efficiently, but unable to move forward. The girl kept him in place with continuous spells. Both at the limit of their abilities. Fighting to have more reflexes than their opponent. More wit. The light from the spells, the bursts that occurred when they hit their magic shields or counter-spells, blinded Hermione, making her blink frantically.

"Defodio!" the Death Eater shouted then, pointing at the floor at their feet.

The Gouging Spell slammed into the wooden slats and swept down the centre of the hall, as if a huge invisible blade was splitting it. The girl dodged to the side at the last instant, sticking to the staircase, causing the trench to shatter the floor beside her. Bits of wood flew up and hit her mask. But she didn't even blink. She pointed her wand at the front door of the house and the glass of the decorative side windows exploded with force. Huge shards of glass covered the Death Eater. He shrank in on himself, rolling to one side and generating a Shield Charm to avoid getting hurt.

Hermione allowed herself a quick glance back. The smoke from her first bomb had vanished. And the first Death Eater she had knocked out was on his feet, able to move again. She saw him retrieve his wand.

"Arresto Momentum!" she shouted, pointing at him. The hand he was raising, armed with his wand, slowed down. Moving now in slow motion. Taking a long time to point at her. Giving her several seconds more leeway.

Then she saw a flash of glass. The Death Eater in the doorway had thrown the sharp shards of glass in her direction, but the girl managed to block them in mid-air and throw them back at him. Her opponent batted them aside with swift flicks of his wand.

Hermione heard footsteps coming down from upstairs, jogging down the stairs. She saw the bottom of black robes. She reached a hand to her belt, grabbed two more bombs, from the back, and tossed them to the side over her head, hoping they would go through the bannister. The almost maniacal laughter she heard on the stairs confirmed that she had hit her target. Whoever it was, they wouldn't be able to fight for a while, as long as the effects of the Laughing Gas were lasting.

She knew there were too many things to take into account. She could not continue at that pace for much longer. And she was aware that she was neglecting the Death Eater in front of the entrance, attacking those coming from upstairs. Before she could do anything else, before she had time to execute the full move of the Shield Charm, she felt a sort of draught of air suddenly hurl her against the wall to her right. She slammed sideways into the hall furniture, hard, shattering it. Feeling the wood digging into her body. Hitting her head. She slid to the floor, landing in a heap of glass, splinters and broken china. She felt something soft fall on top of her head, and realised that her hair had come loose from the hair tie. Surrounding her. She tried to catch her breath, but only inhaled dust. She coughed, but she didn't hear herself. There was a ringing in her ears and the floor beneath her swayed. She knew she couldn't afford to stop. That every second counted. She tried to move urgently. But she couldn't react that fast. Everything around her was moving.

She raised her wand out of inertia and cast the Jelly-Fingers Curse in the direction of the Death Eater standing by the front door. Trying to disarm him, to make him drop his wand. She didn't know if she hit her target, and she didn't think about it either. She felt no Killing Curse. She saw no green light. She turned her head, dazed, trying to make out the other Death Eater, the one next to the kitchen. This one had managed to raise his wand fully, pointing it in her direction, but his mouth was probably still not moving fast enough to utter a full spell. He would be struggling to utter some curse, articulating slowly behind the mask. Nonverbal incantations didn't work in that state.

Hermione managed to sit up, remaining on her knees, leaning her back against the remains of the furniture to support herself. She noticed that one of the decorative plates that was still in place fell to the floor next to her, after inadvertently hitting it with her shoulder.

She was stunned. And at a disadvantage. But she had to act quickly. She couldn't duel two Death Eaters at once. And the one laughing on the stairs would soon come to their senses. She didn't know if the Order members upstairs would be able to deal with that one. She could hear detonations that indicated they were still fighting.

She raised her wand towards the hooded victim of the Slowing Charm. The light of a spell was already glowing on the tip of his wand. But Hermione didn't have time to catch her breath. She saw a spell fly over her head, from behind her. Cutting through the air. A crimson light. A splash of the same colour before her.

She could see the horizontal gash that had been created in the Death Eater's white throat. The blood gushing out. Spilling down his black robes. Red against black. The hooded man's fingers, limp, dropped the wand. He tried to bring his own hands to the gash, but the young woman's Slowing Charm was still working. The blood continued to gush out. He collapsed to his knees and then fell to his side. Agonising.

Hermione watched everything without being able to move. Forgetting to breathe. Forgetting to attack. Not needing to. Someone had attacked him for her. Had killed him for her.

She turned her face to the other side. Remembering the Death Eater at the front door. Finding him suddenly looming over her, darkness closing in around her.

She felt him give her a sharp forearm strike on her right wrist, causing her to drop her wand. Then she felt his hand wrap around her throat, tightly, pulling all the air out of her. He jerked her to her feet. The girl staggered, trying to support her weight on her feet. She was pushed back before she could manage it. Backing awkwardly without finding a balance. Through her half-closed eyelids, she saw herself crossing a doorway. She was plunged into the gloom.

She felt the inside wall of the wardrobe slam against her back. It made her gasp, choking with no air to exhale. The Death Eater had pulled her back into Harry's old room. He came in with her and pinned her against the wall with skill. Stepping on her feet. Pressing his thighs against hers. The girl kicked, reacting instinctively. Her opponent wasn't huge, but he was taller than her. He was a man. He looked young, but he outweighed her in strength. The skull mask in front of her took up her entire field of vision, surrounded by the black hood. Hermione clasped her hands around his forearm and tugged at it, desperate. Clawing at it mercilessly. She needed him to let go of her throat. She heard him hiss in pain, but he wouldn't let go. Then she saw his other hand, still clutching his wand, reach out for her. He reached for the side of her Phoenix Mask with his fingertips. Pulling until it was ripped away.

The air hit her bare skin. Hermione then found her face exposed. Her features were visible in the gloom of the cupboard. Her mouth half-open, panting, struggling to force air through her throat despite the fingers clamping down on her. Her anonymity disappearing. Why had he done that? Why not just murder her? Did he want to know if she was of value so he could kidnap her?

Hermione's mind was a whirlwind, made more so by the lack of oxygen. But then the fingers on her throat suddenly loosened. She inhaled with need and coughed weakly. Still clutching the Death Eater's raised forearm. She noticed that his body felt lighter. He was no longer pinning her against the wall with such force. He still had his hand on her neck, but he was no longer squeezing.

"Granger...?"

Hermione stopped breathing in the middle of an urgent inhalation. Her mouth fell open. Her eyes raised. Out of inertia. Hearing her name from behind a Death Eater's mask.

It need not have surprised her. Death Eaters could know who she was, despite the anonymity of the Order. To recognise her from the Department of Mysteries, so many years ago. To recognise her as Harry Potter's friend.

But it wasn't that. It was the voice. The way he pronounced her surname. The unexpected fluctuation she could sense in that simple word. How he slurred through the syllables, breathless. Faintly. Almost in disbelief. That voice. It was familiar.

She tried to see something behind the holes in the mask, despite the gloom. Almost desperately. Grateful for the closeness. He was just an inch away from her. She saw a flash of silver. She saw his pupils. His eyelashes. She saw the shape of his eyes. She could recognise him without difficulty by his eyes alone. She would recognise him in any darkness. His gaze.

And her nails dug into the hooded man's forearm. Very hard. Pressing it against her sternum, against herself. Her mouth opened and closed. No longer searching for air. She lost track of where she was. The rest of the house was gone. There was only them. That cupboard. The shadows. His eyes.

So real. So close.

The tip of her tongue rose to the roof of her mouth. Struggling to articulate. To enunciate something. His name.

"D-Dra —"

An explosion outside. She saw the dust take over the hall, over the hooded man's shoulder. He turned his head to look outside as well. Assessing the severity of the battle. Neither of them moved. He made no move to let her go. He continued to stay close to her, and she didn't try to push him away.

He looked at her again. Ignoring the outside. She could hear him breathing now. Or struggle to do so. His breathing sounded shaky behind the mask. He was trembling. She could feel his fingers vibrating against her throat.

"Draco..." Hermione managed to whisper. It had been years since she had spoken his name aloud.

She released one of the hands she was holding around his forearm and reached out. To his chest. Almost pressed against hers. Resting the hand there. Feeling its movement. His breathing. The hardness of his ribs under her palm. She noticed another fabric, tougher, like leather, under his soft robes. Probably some kind of combat dress, like her own.

Draco's fingers slid down her throat. His fingertips caressed down her exposed skin in a downward direction. His entire forearm trembled. She couldn't hear him breathing anymore, but she could feel that he could barely do so. His stuttering chest under her hand didn't lie. And she knew he was thinking what she was thinking.

They had attacked each other. They had fought. To the death. They could have killed each other.

'Here at Hogwarts, unfortunately, I have to put up with your presence; but when we leave, if I ever see you... I'll kill you, Mudblood.'

They were enemies to the death, facing each other on opposite sides.

She had to attack him. Catch him. Capture him. He was a Death Eater.

She had to kill him.

His hand released her throat completely and moved up to the side of her head. Running his fingers through her bushy hair. Tousling it. Clutching it. His palm against her cheekbone. His thumb caressing her temple. His hand. In her hair. On her face.

He had managed to recognise her. Perhaps at the sight of her thick, identifiable, loose hair. Despite the years that had passed, he recognised it. Or maybe he thought he did and had wanted to check. He murdered the Death Eater who was about to attack her. Murdered one of his own. He had taken her into the cupboard, with all the necessary precautions in case it was not who he expected, and removed her mask. And his suspicions were confirmed. And now what?

Hermione felt Draco move closer. He pressed his face against hers, or rather, the mask against her forehead. Skin against metal. The silver was icy cold. Hermione closed her eyes. Choking back a sob. They had almost...

A light flickered then inside the cupboard. Emitting a bluish illumination. The tip of Draco's wand had lit up. Reflecting glints off his mask. Intermittent blinks.

Hermione stared at the light. Wondering vaguely what it meant. Everything was going slowly inside her. She felt herself reacting slowly to everything around her. He pulled away from her skin, just enough to look at the light out of the corner of his eye as well. For a few moments, he didn't move. She waited, scrutinising him. She sensed he was hesitating. Perhaps he felt as dizzy, as out of his mind, as she did.

Draco turned his head in her direction again. And she felt him lean in until she was almost hidden under his hood. His mask brushed her right ear.

And his words changed everything.

"Blucher Street, Barnsley. Building seven. Tonight."

Hermione didn't blink during Draco's directions. When he finished, she did so quickly and unconsciously. And then he was no longer in front of her. The hand that had been resting on his chest fumbled in the air. Her body was free, though she still felt the remnants of his warmth before her. But the atmosphere had changed. The smell of magic returned to her nostrils. Draco had Disapparated. The light from his wand must have meant they were withdrawing.

The girl could no longer hear anything in the house. The spells had ceased. Only silence.

She was suddenly thrown back to reality. Her cruel mind not allowing her to do it bit by bit. She held on to the wall, trying not to fall to the floor. What had they done?

She covered her mouth with her palm. Breathing against it. Trying to pull herself together. She reached down gingerly and picked up her mask from the floor. She didn't even remember when Draco had dropped it. She put it on, keeping her mind sane enough to assimilate that she had to wear it. She forced her legs to move, not allowing herself to think, and darted down the hall. The change of lighting blinded her a little. Everything was shattered, and she was vaguely aware that she was responsible for most of it. Dust hung in the air. She scanned the floor of the hall, raised in a terrible ditch. She located her wand next to the remains of the piece of furniture filled with fragmented decorative plates. The Death Eater whose throat Draco had slit was still on the floor. He was no longer moving.

She almost ran through the house. Jumping over the rubble. Trying not to slip on the bricks that littered the place. She found the other members of the Order in the kitchen.

The room was a mess. The huge square table was overturned, as were the chairs around it. The large-screen television had also been knocked over, and was now lying at the far end of the room. Several of the plates that once rested on the countertop had been smashed to pieces on the floor. A Bombardment Spell had blown a hole in one wall, smashing the oven and an electric coffee maker. The immaculate black and white chequered floor was covered in debris and gravel. Hermione was sure that the living room and upstairs were in the same condition.

A quick glance was enough to see that almost everyone was there. Dishevelled, exhausted, but alive. Hestia was in the corner of the room, lying unconscious on the floor, her vitals being taken by Fleur, kneeling beside her. Generating diagnoses with her wand. George and Arthur were not there.

"Is everyone all right?" Hermione gasped, making her presence known. They all turned and took a breath, relieved to see her. She saw Ron's face relax immediately as she came into his focus. He was unmasked, sitting in the only chair standing, repositioning a thigh guard. Apparently, they had managed to break through it, tear it, and injure him. Blood was soaking his trousers.

Hermione walked over and knelt down in front of him, examining him. There was a deep gash on the side of his thigh, as if a curse had grazed him.

"I 'ave put some ointment on Ronald to stop l'hémorragie, don't touch 'im," Fleur ordered from the floor, still looking after Hestia. It was when she was upset that more French words slipped into her vocabulary. "Are you wounded?"

"No, don't worry, I'm fine," Hermione assured her, not wanting to distract her from her task. She didn't even know if she was hurt. She didn't feel anything except a bubbling adrenaline rush. Her mind was still in that cupboard. On two silver surfaces.

Ron gave her a relieved smile, then took another swig from a vial in his hand. It was probably a Wiggenweld Potion or Blood-Replenishing Potion that Fleur had given him as first aid.

"Everything all right, Hermione?" Remus asked, scrutinising her with his tired eyes. He reached over and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He couldn't see her face, but perhaps her voice, or her mannerisms, had made him suspect that she was a little out of sorts.

"Yes..." she managed to articulate. Without knowing how she could lie so believably. "I stayed in the hall. There were quite a few of them. I don't know if anyone else needed help, I was busy... Did everything go all right? Are we all right? And George and Mr Weasley?"

"We're all fine. My father and brother have already taken the Dursleys to the safe house," Fred reported, squatting on the floor with his back against the wall. He was also unmasked, so he could drink from a vial similar to Ron's. He was a little pale. "They're fine. And, luckily, so are the Dursleys. The Death Eaters haven't discovered they were in the house, hiding. It was a good idea to use the Disillusionment Charm. If the Death Eaters had noticed that we were taking them away from here, they would have suspected an ambush..."

"Is Hestia all right?" Hermione muttered, looking down at the unconscious woman. And Fleur working frantically around her.

"An Entrail-Expelling Curse," Remus reported, quietly and worriedly. "But badly done. The Death Eater was mute due to a Silencing Charm, and besides, Hestia managed to protect herself. It must have only caused internal damage..."

"Yes, but I 'ave to take 'er out of 'ere," Fleur protested, rising smoothly to her feet. Her beautiful face was serious, almost frightening. "I can't 'eal 'er 'ere. I need my equipment. And I need Bill and Ginny to examine 'er to rule out anozer curse..."

"Got it, come on," Remus offered efficiently, approaching her. "You too, Fred, you need to be examined as soon as possible..."

"Let's all go," Tonks agreed, stepping down from the dusty worktop she was sitting on. "We're not doing anything here anymore. We'll send a squad to clean up, the Muggle-Repelling Charms are already in place," she said, as Remus, Hestia, Fleur and Fred Disappeared. "Any enemy hostages?"

"Not a single one. And they didn't have time to take the bodies. They withdrew too quickly. Two dead upstairs and one in the living room," Kingsley reported in a serious tone. Looking somewhat disappointed. "That I counted..."

"Another one in the hall," Hermione whispered, staring at Ron's torn trousers.

Kingsley nodded without comment.

"Well, we'll have to take them all. Hermione, Tonks and I will take them. Ron, wait for me here, you'll Disapparate with me; you're weak. I'll meet you all at the Headquarters in less than ten minutes. If you need any help, let us know."

"We need to inform Harry as soon as possible... He must be chomping at the bit," Ron commented, cautiously getting to his feet. He did indeed look dizzy from the loss of blood, and Hermione held his arm, afraid he might collapse. "Part of me thought he'd sneak out of the Headquarters and show up here to fight, ruining everything..."

"He knew he was emotionally compromised by this mission. We've made it clear to him that he couldn't participate," Kingsley protested. But then he let out a grunt, heading for the hall. "But I had that possibility in mind too. That boy is uncontrollable..."

---

Hermione had been staring at the opposite wall of the room for almost twenty minutes, barely blinking. The soft, comfortable sofa in the drawing room at Grimmauld Place felt like stone beneath her backside. The air seemed thicker, too. She was alone.

The Black Family Tapestry spread out across the dark, bottle-green surface. Branches and branches, decorated with artistic leaves, intertwined with one another. Connecting the images. The faces. Generations and generations of blameless pure-bloods.

She could see the black stain, like a great burn, that corresponded to where Sirius's face had been spun. And another large stain between the faces of Bellatrix and Narcissa, corresponding to Andromeda, their sister. Married to Ted Tonks, a Muggle.

Narcissa's line of succession remained unblemished. The faces of Draco and Lucius glowed in the light of the chandelier on the ceiling.

Hermione had to restrain the unexpectedly dark desire to turn Draco's embroidered face into another dark stain. So that, at last, there would be some truth in the world.

It was almost two in the morning. It was night.

'Blucher Street, Barnsley. Building seven. Tonight.'

Hermione closed her eyes. The sound of her breathing driving her mad.

What was she supposed to do?

'Please, promise me one thing —'

'No. Stop it. Don't do this to me.' (…) 'I can't. So don't ask me. I'm not going to promise you that we'll see each other again. That we'll be together. That your situation, or mine, can be changed. I'm not going to lie to you about something like that just because we're saying goodbye.'

Hermione's hands were shaking. It had been two years. And they had been reunited in the worst possible scenario. A battle. Facing each other to the death on opposite sides, fighting for different beliefs. They could have killed each other. So much had changed since they had last seen each other. Hermione was now twenty-one and in the middle of a war, on the front line of battle. But the feeling of being by his side hadn't changed at all. She was still in love with him. Of course she was. She was in love with Draco Malfoy. With a Death Eater. An enemy.

She covered her face with her hands, resting her elbows on her knees.

She could end it all at once. She could take a weight off her life, the heaviest burden she carried in her heart. She just had to forget that she had seen him. Everything that had happened. Miss the appointment.

'Blucher Street, Barnsley. Building seven. Tonight.'

He was mad. Why had he told her? She was a member of the Order of the Phoenix now, and she had responsibilities. An allegiance to them. How could he have trusted her like that? How could he be sure she wouldn't show up there, accompanied by half the Order, to capture him?

'Blucher Street, Barnsley. Building seven. Tonight.'

She didn't know that place. And she did not understand why he had summoned her. What was his intention? How could they even consider seeing each other, in the circumstances they were in? They were no longer children. They never had been. But now they were on opposite sides. In a declared war. It was absolute madness. What had happened had been a tremendous risk. If anyone would have seen anything, in that cupboard...

It had been totally irresponsible. But she hadn't been able to restrain herself. It was... him. It was Draco. She knew him. What his presence instilled in her hadn't changed. Hiding in that cupboard, hidden from the world, defying everything, while a fierce battle raged on the other side of the door...

Hermione caught herself stretching her lips. She didn't want to, though. But it was the story of their life. Of their relationship. It had been like this their whole last year. Always seeing each other on the sly, in secret, sneaking kisses in the darkest corners of the castle, right under everyone's noses... That was the only way. And they had made it work.

She remembered the emptiness in her stomach when Filch found them in his broom cupboard, the adrenaline rush of being buried in the warmth of his mouth with the teachers on the other side of a wardrobe door, the thrill of breaking so many rules that had little or nothing to do with school...

The feeling of going against the world. Of being together against the world.

'Blucher Street, Barnsley. Building seven. Tonight.'

Would it still be raining? She wasn't going to risk it. She would take a cloak. She quietly opened the door to leave the living room and extinguished the chandelier light with a quick flick of her wand before stepping outside.

---

Hermione felt the downpour of rain pelting down on her all at once, deafening her ears and almost crushing her to the ground. This time it was deliberate not to create an instant Shield Charm when she Apparated. She didn't know what she would find. Maybe she would appear in front of a Muggle who would see her wave her wand and magically stop the rain. And that couldn't happen. But she did have her wand in her hand, hidden under her wide sleeve.

She tried to cover herself better with the hood of her robes, but the rain inevitably soaked her hair. The fabric was not impermeable. She scanned her surroundings, trying to get her bearings. Blinking away the raindrops that were blinding her despite the Phoenix Mask covering her eyes.

She was in a long, narrow, dark alley. And deserted. There were a couple of rubbish bins against one wall. At either end, the adjoining streets were visible, lit by lampposts. But there was no light in the alley. It was made up of two three-storey buildings, wide and discreet, made of brick, with iron balconies and boarded-up windows. They looked abandoned. She could barely make out a rusty plaque on one of the walls, almost on the corner.

Blucher Street.

After looking around for a few seconds, she saw it. A black, hooded figure was watching her a few feet away, standing against the brick wall, half-hidden in the shadows. Hermione's heart skipped a beat. And an unexpected thought jolted her. This wasn't a trap... was it?

She hadn't told anyone she was going there, for obvious reasons. If it was a trap, she was doomed.

But it wasn't. Of course it wasn't. It wasn't a trap. It was him. And he was alone.

Hermione pulled her robes tighter over herself and moved slowly towards the motionless figure, splashing on the waterlogged pavement. The rain surrounded her. When she came close to him, until she was barely two metres away, she stopped. She tried to observe him in the dim light of the distant lampposts. The wide hood hid his face completely. And he also wore his silver mask. Still, she knew it was him.

And then he moved. He turned on his heel and walked silently towards a concealed door near the plaque with the street name on it. Hermione hadn't seen it before. It looked like a secondary entrance to the building. She followed, catching the mute invitation.

The door opened of its own accord as they approached, and Hermione suspected that her companion also had his wand in his hand. They stepped into the darkness of the building and the door closed behind them. For two seconds, Hermione was unable to see anything at all, until a soft light illuminated the place. A Wand-Lighting Charm, coming from his wand. Aided by the dim light, they had to walk up a few narrow, worn stairs, holding on to an old, dusty handrail, to the landing above.

There were about four doors visible by the light of the wand. They moved forward, Hermione following him blindly, towards a door that seemed to lead to one of the abandoned homes in the building. It was open. They crossed the doorstep, and found themselves before a single, large room, consisting of a threadbare carpet, a thin, dirty mattress lying on the floor in one corner, and a narrow but high window, with the blinds torn down, and covered with several boards. The wooden floor was dusty, and even some slats had been torn up and left in one corner. There was no other door; there didn't seem to be a bathroom or kitchen. Hermione suspected that the building consisted only of rooms and there would be communal washing and cooking areas somewhere in the block.

The girl entered the room first, pulling her hood back from her head and examining the place with bewilderment and some fascination. Her wet hair began to drip silently to the floor. The rest of her robes were also soaked from top to bottom.

She heard the door close behind her. She turned, and saw that her companion was finally removing his hood, as she did. He also removed his silver mask.

Hermione's heart increased in size and took over her entire chest. It even made an almost successful attempt to jump out from behind her sternum.

He hadn't changed a bit. The minimum and indispensable due to age. His face looked the same as she remembered it. He still had the same pointed features, the same sleek blond hair, perhaps a little longer, at that moment darkened and stuck to his forehead by the rain. He hadn't even grown a beard. His eyes, reserved, sharp, feline, hadn't changed either.

He looked older. He had developed. But he was still him.

The girl was unable to take a single step. But she did remember that he hadn't seen her yet, gawking as she was, lost in the analysis of his physique. She raised a hand and removed her mask as well, revealing her face. He deserved to be sure it was her. His eyes roamed over every nook and cranny of her physiognomy, silently. Wandering all over her. Making the skin on her back burn every time he paused at her eyes. But he said nothing. His face looked serious. Prudent. He was completely stiff, still standing near the closed door.

Hermione wondered if he thought she looked the same way too. Or would he perceive her differently. Or if he would be checking with his insistent gaze that she was safe and sound after their confrontation hours ago.

She had to swallow before she spoke, realising that her throat was dry.

"What is this place?" she questioned, in a whisper. Breaking the dense silence. Cautiously. He returned to her eyes for a brief moment before averting his gaze and looking around.

"An abandoned Muggle building," Draco replied. His voice sounded the same as the one that had accompanied her in her memories for the past two years. Perhaps a little deeper? More adult? Or maybe it was just the serious tone he was using. He took a couple of steps, and left his wand lit on the old carpet to keep the room illuminated. "It is empty. I sense that, many years ago, it would have been some sort of orphanage or rooming house. But most of the furniture has been taken away. It's all rooms, and there's one bathroom for every two floors. I suppose there's a kitchen somewhere. We did some work near here, about two months ago. We needed a strategic shelter and we hid here."

Hermione looked around again. Lost in the sobriety of the dismantled room. He was right, everything around them needed a good refurbishment. It must have been abandoned for thirty years. It was falling apart.

Death Eaters had been hiding there. The opposite side to hers. The side he belonged to.

She looked at him again. He hadn't moved. But he couldn't seem to take his eyes off her.

"Your mission," Hermione muttered. Her voice was clear in the silence. "Today's. The one on Privet Drive. It... didn't go well."

Draco was silent for a few seconds. Perhaps wondering what she meant.

"No," he confirmed, his voice mild. Hermione hugged herself as she swallowed. Needing to get her arms under control, with him within arm's reach.

"Did you want to kidnap the Dursleys to get to Harry?" the girl questioned, her tone neutral. Somewhat hurt, she couldn't help it. Draco didn't bother to answer. He merely shifted his gaze between her eyes. And his silence was enough. "I see... And were there... consequences? For not succeeding."

Her voice trailed off in a whisper. Draco didn't blink. It had been a while since he had done so. He just sized the girl up persistently, from the metre of distance that separated them. Without getting any closer. He was probably noticing how she was scrutinising his face closely, and also his body, even over his clothes. Looking for any sign of torture.

"No," he repeated. Undaunted. And it was clear to Hermione that he was lying.

"You murdered a Death Eater," she whispered. Doubt flashed in her eyes. He remained unfazed. But he did blink that time.

"No one knows."

And that did sound sincere. Hermione forced herself to take a breath. She exhaled it tremulously, though. Relieved, though she didn't want to be. She felt the weight of what they were doing, of what they were defying, overcome her until she was almost hyperventilating. Earlier that morning she had seen her Boggart. Her greatest fear. Draco's corpse. And now they were there, betraying both sides. Putting their lives on the line. How had she been so foolish?

"We shouldn't be here," she stammered, putting a hand to her mouth, covering it with her palm. "This is — we've been —"

"No one knows we're here," Draco assured her, in a lower voice. "And they won't use this place again. It's safe."

"No, it's not. None of this is safe," she insisted, more emphatically, her eyes suddenly filling with unwelcome tears. She took a step back. "For God's sake, this is... This is a mistake. What do we intend by coming here? If your people find out... If they found out that you are doing this..."

He, on the other hand, moved forward for the first time. Until he stood in front of her. Without touching her. He had grown. The difference in height had become a few centimetres more evident. His grey eyes roamed over her face. As if he could never tire of doing it.

"They won't find out," he replied. Again in that almost harsh tone. "They don't control me to the extent that they know where I am at any given moment. They don't care where I go as long as I do my job when I have to."

"They'll kill you, Draco," she protested, taking another step back. As if a few strides away would make the risk any less. "If they find out you've met me here, if they search your mind..."

"They won't," Draco said, stepping forward again. The assurance in his voice quickened her heart. Making her, for an instant, believe it. "The Dark Lord has no need to enter my mind unless I betray him, unless I fail him personally in one way or another. And that will not happen," he asserted. And his tone was softer. A sober declaration of intent, which she had already imagined beforehand. He was not betraying his side. He was not going over to her side. That he had summoned her there did not mean he intended to defect, or conspire against Voldemort and be a spy for the Order. Or anything like that.

He was still fighting alongside the Death Eaters. But he was also there, with her. Of his own accord.

Hermione searched desperately for something to say. To protest. To emphasise how absurd and dangerous it was. It was stupid. But having him in front of her made all the arguments that came to mind sound superfluous. He was in front of her, looking at her. He was alive.

"You're enlisted in the Order."

Draco's voice was a harsh whisper. Hermione noticed the underlying fury. The way he slurred the words. Trying to control himself. She glared back at him, cautious. Knowing what he was thinking. Why he was angry.

'You'd better run away from all this or I swear I'll come back from hell just to get you out.'

He'd wanted to keep her safe. And she had turned a deaf ear.

"Yes, I am," she confirmed, quietly. No regrets. Sizing up his eyes. How his eyelids trembled. She could almost see the rage vibrating under his skin.

"Do they know anything about this?" he muttered then. A little less irritated. Standing right in front of her, taking an almost distracted step. Hermione didn't back away now. His proximity...

"Of course not," she assured him, calmly. Though a new wave of panic raised her skin. The Order. Harry and Ron. If they found out about such a thing... "No one will know about this, because... because this isn't happening. This can't happen."

"But you've come."

His voice was different. Softer. More like him. With an almost sly undertone.

"Of course I've come," she said in an upset voice. Almost angry. As if the contrary was inconceivable. "But this is not —" She closed her eyes for a moment. Trying to put words to her worries. "This is not some game. This is wrong," she pointed at them both, almost incredulously. Furious. "This is madness. It's irresponsible and reckless. We shouldn't be doing this. Now what? What's the point of this? What's going to happen? How could we — ?"

She resigned to the fact that she couldn't finish the sentence. Because he was on her. Because he had imprisoned her face with his hands. Crushing her cheeks. And he'd slammed his mouth against hers. Crushing her lips. Without care. Without moving. With all his might.

Hermione couldn't help but sob through her nose, exhaling shuddering air against his skin. Her wand fell to the floor with a clatter. She closed her eyes, squeezing her eyelids shut, and raised her own hands. Placing them over his. Feeling his cold skin, his slender fingers. His hands...

They separated their faces. Just enough not to press their mouths together. Inhaling at different times. Hermione could see that his lips had reddened from the pressure of the long kiss. Draco moved his hands within her grip. He brushed back her brown hair; though he didn't need to, for, heavy with rainwater, it didn't hide her features. But he committed himself to placing it behind her ears. Sliding his palms across the not very slippery surface of wet hair. Scratching, almost, her scalp and cheeks. The back of her neck. Touching her. Just touching her. Every part of her face. His eyes trying to scrutinise her features, as best they could, without leaving a single centimetre apart.

Neither of them seemed to be able to move their faces away again. Hermione could feel their breaths colliding, their mouths parted, barely separated. With her nose flattened against his, she brought her hands to his face. They were shaking, and wet; but he was wet too, so it didn't matter. She barely managed a fleeting run over his skin. She felt she was in a hurry. They were always in a hurry. She had to touch him quickly. As much as she could. She reached up to the nape of his neck, stroking the hair there, almost tugging the damp locks between her trembling fingers. It was him.

The girl managed to press a kiss against his lower lip. Stifling a moan against it. Her heart was beating very, very fast. So fast it was making her gasp. Draco's hands combing her hair again made her wake up. Continue. Remembering that she could do it. That he was there. She moved her lips to kiss the corner of his mouth. She moved further down to his pale cheek. She moved up to his hard cheekbone. His cold temple. His forehead, wetting her lips with his sodden fringe. A quick tour made of rough kisses. Between awkward inhalations. Taking advantage of the fact that she'd had to stand on tiptoe to reach his forehead, she stayed that way to wrap her arms around his neck, forcing him to let go of her face. Burying herself in the hollow of his shoulder, trying to breathe him in. Hugging him. Two years...

She felt Draco's arms wrap around her waist, pulling her to him with so much momentum that he held her up, barely touching the floor with her feet. He nestled against her neck as well, pressing two long kisses against her skin there, and another against her shoulder, over her wet robes. Trailing his lips down her body. She caressed the nape of his neck, clutching it. And she didn't let go despite feeling him loosen his grip around her, letting her feet touch the floor again. But she did notice him turn his face, seeking her lips.

The kiss was deeper this time. More vertiginous. More urgent. It wasn't just mouths pressed against each other. It was almost feverish. Electric. Clumsy in the rush, almost without coordination. Without needing it. Without caring in the slightest. It felt spectacular.

Hermione broke the kiss. To breathe. Without succeeding. She lowered her face. Lowered her hands. Until she reached for the front of his black robes. They were soaked, and slipped through her fingers. She tugged at them, trying imperiously to tear them off. To tear away everything that separated them. Draco, noticing her intentions, pushed her hands away. To unfasten himself the elegant clasp with which he had tied the robes around his neck. Then he took them off, sliding them quickly down his arms. Letting them slip to the floor. Revealing the expensive dark grey pegged trousers and the simple black jumper he wore underneath. As well as the thick, but pliable, breastplate made of dragon hide, fastened with buckles, that covered his torso, shoulders and upper arms. He wore a belt of the same material, with a holster for his wand.

Hermione ran through his combat dress at a quick glance. Not allowing herself to stop and think. Not wanting to understand reality. Forcing herself to forget that they were soldiers.

She reached up and grappled with the three buckles that held the harness fastened around his chest. Opening them with considerable ease. She saw the breastplate loosen and was able to remove it. He made an attempt to help her with the shoulder ones, but she only had to tug a little to slide them down his arms and remove them.

And Draco was left dressed like an ordinary man.

And Hermione continued to act on instinct. She reached her hands to the edge of his jumper, pulled it out of his trousers and tugged it upwards. Revealing patches of pale skin, which glowed in contrast to the dark garment. His clothes were also wet. His robes were not impermeable either. Draco, without a word, raised his arms and allowed her to remove it. Then he snatched the jumper from her hands and threw it to the floor himself in one impatient motion. Hermione unhesitatingly brought her hands forward to caress his naked torso with her palms. His white skin was covered in a film of rainwater that wet her lips as she began to kiss the area.

She was caressing him for the second time in her life. And it felt like yesterday.

She managed to work her way down his left pectoral, his collarbone, and the tendons of his throat, when he stopped her from continuing. It was his turn. He seized her lips, stopping them from moving down his body, and forcing her to close her eyes. He then brought his hands to her robes. Which landed on the floor in two blinks. And her clothes were exposed, along with her combat dress made of the Blast-Ended Skrewt armours. Draco wasted no time. His long fingers moved swiftly. Like a pianist. It didn't take him long to find, on her side, the ties that held the breastplate in place. He untangled them. In a hurry. Hermione's face began to feel very hot. Caught up in his desire. Her breathing was quickening. And it was mingling with his, every time he stole her a kiss.

Draco succeeded in removing her breastplate. But he had trouble with the bracers on her forearms. The ties were tied more tightly. And his fingers were numb with cold. And they were shivering. Soaking wet, with his upper body exposed, Hermione could see the skin on his torso standing on end.

"Damn it..." Draco exhaled, his mouth pressed to hers. An exhalation that couldn't hide a resigned chuckle, frustrated at his own impatience and clumsiness. Pulling at the strings of her bracers, unable to get it loose. Hermione let out a tearful laugh as well. Letting out some adrenaline. Caught up in the boy's urgency. The need revealed by his agitated breathing. With a more impatient growl, Draco yanked on the bracer roughly. Pulling it out by force, without loosening the ties. Hermione heard the sound of leather being unpicked. "You won't be needing them anymore..." he whispered in an outburst. Justifying the shredding. Hot air hitting her lips. He tugged at the second bracer, pulling it off as well. Along with another shocked chuckle from the young woman. "I will protect you," he said feverishly, between his teeth. Before pulling her jumper upwards, making her lift her arms so he could remove it. Hermione's mouth stretched into a touched smile, which he stopped with a hasty kiss.

When he had her with only her bra in front of him, Draco began to descend, not pausing for breath. He trailed his lips down her jaw, down her throat, from her ear to her collarbone. And beyond it. He moved down her cleavage, bending his knees slightly to reach it. Her skin was icy cold and glistened with moisture, just like his own. He kissed the area of her breasts that was exposed by the edge of her bra. He then dropped to his knees in front of her, resting his hands on her hips to support himself, and to keep her in front of him. He continued to descend steadily down a visibly rising and falling abdomen as she struggled for breath.

Hermione stammered as she saw him kneeling before her. She held onto his shoulders. Squeezing them. Moving on to caress his neck with trembling hands as he ran down her body. Feeling like she might burst into tears, overwhelmed by the sensation.

"Draco..." she whispered, her voice coming back. A voice that sounded strangled. Full of feeling.

She felt the boy stop his kisses, the journey across her skin. His hands twitched on her hips. His forehead pressed against her stomach and his eyes closed tightly. She felt the boy's breath against her cold skin as he exhaled shakily. As if he was struggling to compose himself. As if reality had suddenly hit him.

Hermione let out a broken sob, stroking the back of his neck with her hands. Pressing his face against her belly in an awkward embrace. She would have been ready to kneel with him, but his fingers on her hips urged her to stay on her feet.

The rain could still be heard outside, pouring down relentlessly. The roar of approaching thunder. The light of a bolt of lightning slipping through the cracks in the blinds.

The boy's hands moved away from her hips. Hermione loosened her grip on the back of his neck, allowing him to move if he wanted to. But he barely did. He merely brought his hands to her belly to unbutton her soaked jeans. Groping, his eyes still closed and his lips pressed against her stomach. Hermione watched him do so, unable to articulate a word. Her hands resumed their tour of his shoulders, bare and cold, his neck, his ears, and the back of his neck. And his soaked blond hair, allowing herself to stroke it with need, tangling her fingers in the locks.

Once the metal button was undone, the boy pulled his mouth away from her belly to get a better look at what he was doing. He loosened the guards on her legs more easily. Also, the wand holster buckled to her thigh. But he struggled for a long, impatient moment with the girl's trousers until he managed to get them down her wet legs. They were stuck to them. He removed her shoes, the waterlogged slippers she wore, and also her soaked socks. The girl helped him, raising first one leg and then the other, holding onto his shoulders. Draco, still on his knees, set everything aside, not looking at where anything landed, and moved closer to her bare legs again. He rested his hands on them, on the outside. Clinging to her flesh. Proving that, even though he was taking his time exploring her, the need was consuming him. Just as it was consuming her.

He moved his face closer until his lips were resting on the front of her thigh, beginning to work his way up her flesh. Hot, almost unreal breath, colliding against her icy skin.

"D-Draco..." Hermione stammered, again. Her voice almost overcome with desire. With the longing she felt for him. With the titillating sensation of his fingertips digging into both sides of her. "Please, just —"

He ignored her, of course. And he didn't pick up the pace. He went all the way up her thigh, all the way to her groin. Then he kissed the prominent bone of her pelvis over her underwear, her abdomen again, and rose to his feet.

Hermione didn't even think. She threw her arms around his neck as soon as he was upright to his full height, and tried to use him as a fulcrum to perch on. Draco seemed willing for her to do so, for the girl felt almost at the same time how his cool hands held the back of her thighs, lifting her up. She parted her legs and wrapped them around his waist, pressing her thighs against his hips for support. It wasn't necessary, though, as the strength of his arms had always been enough to hold her up.

The girl suddenly found herself curled up into his body, her weight in his hands, and their faces pressed together. Their eyes met. Cloudy on both sides. She couldn't help but gasp against his mouth, kissing him afterwards with so much momentum that her soaked, tangled hair moved and surrounded them both. Almost like a curtain of water that hid them from the world. She could feel the cold drops sliding down her naked body. And she was sure they were falling on him as well.

Hermione was freezing cold. Draco could feel her shivering against his body. Her icy, clammy skin against his. Like the first time they were together.

No. Not this time.

"Brace yourself," he hissed. Against her mouth, without breath, without thinking, "because I'm going to make you tremble for real."

She had to take a breath. Unable to contain a gasp that hid a choked laugh. Smiling. Yearning. Ready.

Draco, still with the young woman curled against his body, began to walk almost blindly in the direction of the old, faded mattress in the corner. They had left a trail of rainwater all over the room, obscuring the wooden slats of the floor. They managed to avoid tripping over the clothes and battle gears scattered on the floor.

Hermione willingly let herself go, and made sure Draco fell over her as he knelt on the mattress and dropped her backwards onto the dusty surface.

The rain could still be heard loudly outside, pounding the pavement and the gloomy houses that made up the Blucher Street neighbourhood.