Twenty-Six

As he enters Lupin's office, his limp nearly absent, Hermione looks up from the table that's become her desk with a quill in her hand. There's a smudge of ink on her cheek, and a smile that spreads over her face. Guilt twists in Draco's gut. She's so pleased to see him. So happy. They'd had a blissful morning, and now here he is to ruin it all. He knows what this will probably do to her, but he's very much hoping that she may have silently changed her mind, since then. Maybe. That she'll understand. It's probably a vain hope. Draco doesn't know what he'll do if she falls to pieces. He sets his jaw.

"Come to help?" she asks, indicating the chaos on the tabletop. A clutter of scrolls and papers is spread everywhere. "It's time to reassign the strike teams, and Remus has me 'helping', which seems to mean doing most of the work," she teases, grinning at Lupin, who's currently frowning at a large map of Scotland. It's so covered in strings, pins, little scraps of parchment, and magical glowing dots and marks that Draco isn't sure how Lupin makes sense of it all. Nymphadora stands beside her husband and glances up at Hermione's words, shooting a smile at her cousin. He nods at her in response as he takes a step into the room.

"No, actually," he says in an almost apologetic tone, and that's enough to suck all the happiness out of the air and make the mood plummet. Hermione's breath sucks in and her fingers tighten on the quill she's holding, the colour draining from her cheeks as she looks down quickly.

"Oh," she says in a very small voice, and Draco winces. Lupin turns to face them, eyes darting between Draco and Hermione as if afraid of an explosion. Well, it won't be coming from Draco, should it happen. Tension hovers in the air as Nymphadora keeps doing whatever she was doing before, moving things around on the map, except Draco's pretty sure she's no longer paying proper attention to what she's doing.

"Draco," Lupin greets him with a tight smile. "What brings you down here today, then?"

"I want my wand back," he says bluntly. There's no point in sugar-coating it. They all know exactly why he's there if it's not to keep Hermione company and help out with menial tasks. "You said you'd talk to me about it, Lupin, and you haven't. I've waited patiently, but it's been nearly a week. I haven't brought it up until now because with my knee still healing, there hasn't been much point, but my limp has been almost gone for two days now. I can fight. So," he pins the older wizard with a hard look. "Will you let me?" Lupin's gaze slides back to Hermione, and the man grimaces, and there's an apology in his eyes aimed at her.

"Wait." Draco starts to put two and two together, and maybe he's jumping to conclusions, but it seems a reasonable assumption. "Did Hermione tell you not to say anything to me?"

Lupin doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to. The way he glances down at his feet as he shoves his hands in his pockets and refrains from responding at all is enough. A weary disappointment settles over Draco as he looks at Hermione, who's also looking down, misery printed all over her. Stupidly, it feels like a betrayal. It shouldn't – what else could he have expected from her? Just because they've been avoiding the topic altogether, it doesn't mean she's any happier about him fighting. And clearly, she isn't. She's gone behind his back and told Lupin not to keep his word. Annoyance rises in him, and it takes an effort to try to let it go; a slow inhale and exhale. He's angry.

"Shit." He sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw, the room silent except for him and tension hanging thick in the air. "So now what? Because Hermione says so, I'm not allowed to fight? Is that it?" He glares at Lupin, who shakes his head.

"No, Draco. You can have your wand back. Hermione merely asked me to wait for you to ask, rather than offer –"

"Remus!" she snaps, furious, hand smacking against the tabletop. As if Draco hadn't already figured it was something like that. In fact, that was slightly better than Draco had assumed.

"Hermione," Lupin says tiredly, and she fixes him with a tearful gaze but falls silent as he goes on, her expression mutinous. "And I agreed. Now that you're asking, you can have your wand. As to missions, yes. That can be arranged as well. In fact, it's good timing, with the teams being reassigned."

"Remus!" Hermione snaps again, and the betrayal on her face is horrible as she stares at the older wizard, face ashen and eyes wet. Draco hates it.

"He's well enough, Hermione," Lupin says wearily. "And we do desperately need fighters. We've lost too many in recent months."

"Which is exactly why I don't want him out there!"

"It's not up to you, Hermione. He gets to decide for himself. Just as you do." Lupin sighs, sympathy in his eyes as he gestures at the parchment in front of Hermione. "Put him on the list."

Draco winces as Hermione reacts in much the way he expected. "This is shit. I never get to decide anything. For half a Merlin-damned year, I haven't been able to make one single fucking decision for myself. Not anything that mattered, anyway. I'm so sick of it. I'm not fucking putting him on the list," Hermione snaps and shoves herself to her feet, chair skidding backwards. "You can do it, Remus, but I won't. I won't."

"That's fine, Hermione," Lupin immediately retracts, hands up, placating her. "You don't have to." The lycanthrope is sympathetic and gentle, and Draco can tell Hermione hates it. There's nothing worse than useless pity.

"And you." She levels a furious glare at Draco as she stands there leaning over the desk, her thick, messy braid falling forward over her shoulder, the smudge of ink still dark on her ashen cheek. Her hands are planted and she's breathing harshly, her chest heaving, panic seething in her eyes, and fuck, how can he do this to her? She's terrified for him, and he can stop it all just by not fighting. How can he justify this? "Don't you give a shit? Don't you care?" she begins, and her voice is thrumming with a tight, frightened anger. Draco slides his eyes over to the other two occupants of the room, both radiating an awkward discomfort. "Are you so desperate to die, that –"

"In the hall," Draco says shortly, cutting her off, a sick, guilty frustration welling up in him. "I think Lupin and Nymphadora would prefer it if we talk in the hall." Besides, he's not about to get into another argument in front of the older wizard; he still has some pride left to him. He doesn't want to have this kind of conversation in front of an audience. He has a feeling it could get messy. Emotional. Shit. He just wants to fight. It's not like he wants to do anything unreasonable.

"Fine," she agrees and then stalks past him, fury radiating off her, stiffening her spine and making her jaw tense. She'd be beautiful if it wasn't him that she was angry at – as it is, he can't entirely enjoy the fierce elegance of her as she strides out of the room. He's too busy feeling guilty for making her feel this way. He nods weakly to Lupin, who offers him a wry half-smile before turning to his wife, who's purple-haired as she fidgets with a piece of parchment at the map, obviously curious. He shuts the office door behind him as he leaves. And then there's Hermione standing there, arms crossed over her chest, angry.

"How could you, Draco?" she asks him with quiet anger, staring up at him with her back to the wall, her eyes wounded, as they stand in the little nook outside of Lupin's office. Annoyance bubbles up. They shouldn't even have to talk about this – Hermione knows the situation. And yet here he is, feeling like he's doing something wrong by wanting to fight. He keeps his voice down as he stands in front of her, hands in his pockets, trying desperately for calm.

"How can I not? You heard him. The Order needs people, and here I am." He shrugs helplessly. "I'm a good fighter. A good duellist. I'd be an asset to the Order, and instead, I'm sitting around here doing nothing. It's a fucking waste."

"You're going to go out there and die," Hermione says miserably, as if it's some foregone conclusion. Draco wants to shake some sense into her, pushing his hair impatiently off his face and holding in the frustration that wants to froth out of him. He tries for rationality.

"I've stayed alive this long, haven't I? I was working for the Dark Lord, fighting on his side, and I kept myself alive. Why are you so convinced I'm suicidal?" he snaps out in a low voice as he hears movement from the kitchen. She flinches at the last word. Draco doesn't get it. Her fixation on this is becoming infuriating.

Yes, he thinks he's a monster – but after what he's done in the service of the Order under Voldemort's command, it would be stranger if he didn't despise himself. The things he'd had to do were unspeakable. Unforgivable. Abhorrent. And for all that she's said that he shouldn't hate himself for it, she doesn't want to know the details of what he's done – and to be fair, he doesn't want her to know, either. Draco doesn't want Hermione to envision him doing the things that he did. She might never want to touch him again. That's a can of worms that never needs to be opened. Some things are just better left buried. But buried or not, he feels the guilt. The shame. The self-disgust that lies coiled in the back of his head, stirring lazily from time to time, and rearing up in nightmares.

"I don't think you're suicidal, exactly," Hermione admits, lacing her hands together in front of her, fidgeting with her fingers, nervous, her voice tight. "I just don't think you want to live badly enough." She lifts her chin, her eyes skittering away from his. "You were willing to die back at the mansion, for no reason. No reason at all, Draco. It wasn't going to help me get away, and it wasn't going to provide the Order with more information – you'd just decided to die." She falls silent, looking at him.

Shit. What's he supposed to say to that? She keeps pulling it out, like exhuming a body that should be left to rot in peace. And he has no good answer. Not any that he thinks she'll accept. He tries anyway. "Things have changed. I thought –" He trails off helplessly. What is he supposed to say? At the time, he was half out of his head with the pressure of it all, the strain, and the guilt, and he'd thought it would be best for her, and for him, and for the world at large if he died – except he no longer thinks that. Not entirely, at least. It's the truth, but he doubts it will reassure Hermione.

"Yes?" She all but snarls, and oh, she's in fine form. Eyes snapping, voice shaking with fury, and Draco finds himself suddenly very glad she can still do this. Her ordeal at the mansion hasn't crushed her spirit. Draco hasn't crushed her spirit. He may have broken her, but it seems she's mending, thank Merlin. "You thought what? What exactly has changed?" she demands.

"I thought that I couldn't go on. I thought that I couldn't live with the guilt. And I thought that I was bad for you. That it would be better if you left and forgot me. Moved on." From the way her eyes narrow as Draco says the last, he instantly regrets adding it. He shouldn't have mentioned her at all. Well, fuck. His pulse is too quick, and his breathing is coming raggedly now, tension a band around his skull, his eye sockets aching with the threat of a headache. He finds himself clenching and relaxing his fists rhythmically. He wishes he could hit Potter and Weasley again. Or hell, be hit by them. Either would provide him with some sort of release.

"Oh my god. That is so unfair, Draco." Her voice goes up, and the noises in the kitchen pause briefly before starting again. "You're trying to pin part of your decision to die on me? Make it my fault? Say that it would be what was best for me? For you to die?"

"For fuck's sake, Hermione, no! No. That was one very small part of it. But you asked me, and I answered. Don't get furious with me just because you don't like the answer!" It actually hurts that she has so entirely glossed over what he said about guilt, and how he couldn't face it going on. Instead, she's zeroed in on the least important part because it involves her. Well, more fool him for adding it, he supposes bitterly. "I thought I was irredeemable. I thought that there was no way I could ever atone. And I'm still not sure I can. But I want to try." He runs his hand through his hair again, and it's shaking. Shit. "I need to do something. I can't just sit here and do nothing. It's driving me insane."

Hermione just looks at him, misery in her eyes, hands clasped together very tightly. "Haven't you done enough?" she asks, and her small, pleading voice stabs right through him. Fuck.

"No," he says simply, and she looks away, jaw clenching.

"Fine. Fine. I can't stop you." There's a wobble in her voice as she drags her sleeve over her eyes. She dodges him when he tries to reach out for her, and he sees wetness smeared on her cheeks.

"Hermione," he says pleadingly – exhausted – but she ducks into Lupin's office and shuts the door firmly behind her. "Fuck," he snarls quietly and slumps back against the wall, head dropping back as he drags his hands down his face. He breathes for a long moment, wondering what the hell he's going to do. How can he justify doing this to her? The office door clicks open again and he rolls his head to look. Unsurprisingly, it's not Hermione. Pulling the door quietly closed behind him is Lupin, his expression rueful as he runs an assessing gaze over Draco.

There's a familiar pale wand in Lupin's hand; Draco's. His eyes fix on the polished yew, but he doesn't mention it.

"Are you alright?" the lycanthrope asks, and Draco shrugs, huffing a weak laugh.

"Not really." He's flippant, but there's a deep pit of dread in his stomach. There's no good solution to this problem. Either he loses, she loses, or one of them changes their mind – and considering how stubborn they both are, the last option is unlikely. Lupin steps within arm's reach and holds out Draco's wand, butt first. He takes it, and a feeling of rightness snaps through him as it settles in his hand, fitting perfectly. The connection to his magic, muted and dulled without a wand to focus it, soars. Bright, and shining. Energy soaks through him, and a sense of security comes with it. Merlin, he's missed that.

"You may as well have your wand back, whatever you decide to do," Lupin says. "It's not doing much good locked away, and I'm sure you'd rather have it."

"Thank you. Although I have a feeling my decision has been made for me, if I don't want Hermione to never speak to me again." He grimaces, looking toward Lupin's office, fidgeting with his wand, as if reacquainting himself with an old friend.

"She'll calm down." Lupin shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, awkward and sympathetic. "You know, it's probably a good sign she feels safe enough to get angry with you, after everything. It's healthy. And it's normal to disagree." He rubs the back of his head, grimacing. "I should know. Just...give her some time to process it."

"I'm not sure time is going to help, honestly. Unless I wait until after the damned war is over."

Lupin chuckles. "Maybe Tonks will help her see things differently," he offers, and Draco makes a hollow laugh as he pushes off the wall.

"I don't see Nymphadora helping in that regard. She's hardly cheering me on, is she?" He's a little bitter.

"You might be surprised." Lupin smiles placidly. "We're not all against you, Draco. Especially not now we've been able to see your relationship with Hermione. The day-to-day. The ordinary. You're good for her." The wizard says the words easily, as if he's stating a simple truth. The sky is blue, water is wet, Draco is good for Hermione. He bites the inside of his cheek as Lupin finishes, pale eyes steady on Draco. His quiet trust is discomforting. "Truly good."

Draco looks down at his feet. He doesn't know what to do with that compliment. "I appreciate the vote of confidence," he says stiffly. And he does.

"I can see about arranging your placement on a strike team if you like," Lupin offers after an awkward moment of silence passes. Draco shakes his head, raking his fingers through his hair again – it's getting far too long.

"No. No, don't." He makes a harsh, frustrated sound under his breath. He hates this. Every fibre of him wants to be out there. Doing something good. And yet here he is, saying these damn words. "I – I'll wait and talk to Hermione first. I want to fight, but I'd rather not do it if it's going to make her feel like – like that." He wiggles his wand toward the door of Lupin's office, irritation in the gesture. Lupin nods.

"I thought you might say that." He sighs and offers up some annoyingly useless sage advice. "Just remember that you won't be any good to her if you're eating yourself up inside with guilt, Draco."

"Yeah." He jerks a nod, tone short, a hint of sarcasm creeping in. "I'll remember that." For all the fucking good it'll do him.

Hermione sits down and glares at the lists in front of her as she picks up her quill, a sick misery churning in her gut. She wants to cry. This feeling of impotent, frustrated anger toward Draco is making her feel ill. It's so wrong. Feeling angry at him feels anathema – so damn wrong it hurts. He understands her when no one else can, and he somehow soothes her when she's inconsolable, and he supports her when she's shaky. They aren't supposed to be at odds like this. It feels as though the world has shifted on its axis.

Because he wants to fight, and he expects her to support that.

There's the metallic sound of clasps sliding open, and Hermione looks up to see Lupin opening the box of spare wands. Fury leaps up in her. He's going to give it to Draco, and then he'll assign him to a strike team, and Hermione won't be able to do a damn thing about it. He looks a little shamefaced, avoiding Hermione's glare as he leaves the room with Draco's wand in his hand, and she grits her teeth in impotent anger. It's just her and Tonks now. She can hear the faint murmur of voices in the hallway. She stares down at her lists again, frowning, feeling like she should just focus on work, but it's hard to concentrate.

She feels eyes on her, and when she looks up, Tonks quickly slides her gaze away and focuses on the map of Scotland again. She's marking out locations they believe are Snatcher encampments. The Snatchers have stepped up their game lately; they're grabbing unwary Muggle women for Death Eater purposes. Hermione deciphered a note found at one encampment the other day about experiments using Muggle women for breeding purposes. They were feeding them what appeared to be a variation of Exstimulo Potion – which increased spell power in wizards and witches – throughout the pregnancy. They want to find out what that does to the developing baby. Voldemort appears to be taking notes from Mengele.

It's horrendous. Utterly sickening – Hermione can hardly bear to think of it because it makes her imagine herself in that position, and it so easily could've been her. Maybe that had been why Voldemort had decided he wanted her, at the end.

And yet, Hermione is currently trying not to cry over something as trite as Draco being angry at her. It isn't the horrific torture being inflicted on Muggle women, or the torture and death so many people were suffering, or even the torture she'd suffered. It's because she's having boy problems – fighting with her boyfriend. How pathetic, and petty. They're at war; surely, she should have bigger issues to worry about. And yet here she sits, fuming and tearful. She bites her lip hard enough to hurt and swipes at her cheeks, aware of Tonks's sneaky sideways glances. The older witch's hair is blue; the colour of a peacock feather and just as glossy.

"I know you're judging me."

"I'm not judging you, Hermione," Tonks says with faint amusement, pushing a pin into place over Montrose and then stepping back with a satisfied sigh, hands on her hips as she eyes the map.

"I sound like a hysterical idiot." Hermione's self-aware enough to know that. To know that she probably appears to be irrational. Certainly, to the outside eye. But they weren't there that night in the woods. When her stomach had plummeted like a stone and horror spread treacle-slow and cold through her veins as she realised he planned to die, even though there was absolutely no need. Because he wanted to die. He wanted it to end. He'd valued his own death over being with her. That stings.

"You don't," Tonks says. "Not at all. It's simply that Draco seems well enough to fight, he wants to, and we do need him." Hermione meets Tonks's eyes as the older witch sits down in Lupin's usual seat, elbows on the table and chin resting on her clasped hands as she gives Hermione her whole attention. "So tell me. Why don't you want him to? Because if it's just fear he'll be hurt, or killed..." Tonks sighs. "I understand it, but Hermione – that's war."

"Hasn't he done enough?" Anger simmers in her, and her tears are hot. She rubs them away roughly. "He's ruined himself for the Order, Tonks. You know that. He's going to live with what he had to do forever. And yet you think it's fine to send him straight back out there?"

Tonks's expression is open and pragmatic. "I do, considering he wants to. We'd never make anyone fight who didn't want to, or wasn't fit to. That just gets you dead people. Better that people who can't fight for whatever reason – like you – are used in non-combat roles, of which there are plenty. So if he wanted to brew potions, assist Healers, be a messenger, run a safe house, or any other duty like that, we'd be in favour of it," the witch says, hair turning bottle green as she ticks roles off on her fingers. "But he doesn't want to, Hermione."

"But he's not fit," Hermione argues, wanting to bury her face in her hands and scream. "He's not. He's walking dead, Tonks." The other woman sits back in her chair, arms folded, listening, and unlike Siobhan, Hermione feels like she's actually listening to what Hermione has to say. "You know what I mean? You've seen it. When people just give up. They go out there on missions again and again for months and months, and you can see the fight in them – the determination that they will make it through. And then one day, it's like a spark just goes out. And they still go out on missions, but they've lost that fight to survive. They're upright and moving, but they're just going through the motions –"

Tonks nods, mouth tight and eyes distant, and Hermione knows she's thinking of examples of that. Of people who had that light extinguished. Who had let go. Hermione goes on, speaking fast and passionately, jamming her finger against the table for emphasis, her heart beating quickly.

"And they make mistakes. And they're reckless. They're not careful, they're not by the book, they do things they know they shouldn't, take risks that are too high because they don't care anymore. They've already accepted that they're going to die eventually, and they're okay with that. They accept it. They're walking fucking dead. They're not desperately scrabbling to live anymore. And then, usually sooner rather than later, that kills them."

"And you think he feels that way?"

"Worse. Don't you dare mention this to anyone but Remus, but I think part of him actively wants to die, Tonks. I think he thinks it would be a relief. If it all just ended. If he could die in the service of something good. And then he wouldn't have to live with the guilt anymore." She sighs, heartsick and angry, and feeling so selfish as the words spill out of her, cadence quickening as her distress builds and flows, a torrent that carves a ravine straight through her chest. "Because me wanting him isn't enough. Me needing him isn't enough. He saved me. He took care of me and held me together when I was utterly broken, and yet he still wants to fucking leave me. God! You know, I hate him sometimes."

Tonks stares at her quietly for a moment, waiting for Hermione to get a handle on herself before she speaks. "You don't think that things are a little different now? I mean –"

"No! That's what he said. He said things have changed, but what's changed? Really? He's still done all the things he hates himself for. He's still just as fucking guilty. He's lying." Hermione swears under her breath, hands full of tension, heels of her palms patting aimlessly down against the table when really she wants to hit it as hard as she can. "He's lying. He does that. The bastard. Slytherin, right? Fucking typical." She's bitter, breathing hard, incoherence creeping in as her emotions get the better of her and tears start to streak her cheeks. But Tonks brings her back down to earth with a bump.

"Merlin's sake, Hermione," she says crisply, and she does smack her hand on the table, sharp and loud. Hermione jumps at the shocking sound and gulps down a sob. "Pull yourself together. Deep breath and calm down. Nothing's happening right now, yeah?" Hermione nods and heaves in a breath, holding it and trying to let it out slowly. "You know, ultimately, it's not your decision," Tonks says, a cruel kindness to her voice. Gentle, as she says such a horrible thing.

"I know," Hermione whispers, clasping her hands in her lap now, fingers interlocked and clenching so tightly that her bones grind together, and it hurts. "I wish it was. It should be. It's not fair."

"Yeah, well, life isn't fair, is it? You know that," Tonks says briskly. "I want to be living in a nice little house with my husband and child, and instead, I get to see Teddy a few times a week if I'm lucky because he's off with my parents for safety. I'm missing out on all his firsts because of this damned war. He started calling my mother 'mama' instead of me, for a while there. But there's no point crying about it." And then Tonks shoots Hermione a wry smile. "I do, though. Every time Teddy has to go back with my mum. I'm not sure Remus knows, but I take a long shower and bawl my eyes out," the witch confides, and there's a tightness to her voice, her eyes wet. "But then it's back to work. And I'm sure each time I go out on a mission, Remus is sick with worry for me. And probably thinking he should be out there assuming the risk instead of me, his wife, whom he feels he should protect. But he swallows it down and gets on with things."

Tonks's gaze is steady, filled with sympathy, but no compromise. "You're not the only one who's scared, Hermione."

Hermione swallows hard, a knot of emotion in her throat. "It's different though, Tonks. You desperately want to live. Remus knows you'll do anything to get home to him and Teddy," she says softly. Wretchedly. "I'm not sure Draco would do anything to get home to me."

"Don't be stupid. You're clearly his whole bloody world."

"I'm not being stupid, Tonks. Draco hides it well, most of the time – it's easy for even me to forget," Hermione says, although perhaps it would be more honest to say she engages in active denial. Sticking her head in the sand because she can't relieve his pain, so it's easier not to see it. She comforts him at night, and she distracts him from his thoughts – she does her very best to make it easier for him – but she doesn't like to think about why he needs her comfort, or what it is that's consuming his thoughts. She forces herself to meet Tonks's eyes. "But the truth is, I think he hates himself, more than he even cares about me. He's living with the memory of doing things I don't even want to imagine. I honestly think that he'd see death as – as penance. As a relief."

The words taste like ashes on her tongue.

"Well, not letting him fight is hardly going to help him ease his burden, is it?" Tonks says finally, after a long, thoughtful silence. The words are like a slap in the face, and Hermione physically recoils. "He's sitting here, safe and sound, with nothing to do but think about all the atrocities he had to commit, while others go out and fight and die for him. While the friends and family of people he tortured and killed, or just watched be exterminated, risk their lives instead of him."

"That's –"

"That's hardly going to help him, is it, Hermione?"

"I –"

"You need to think about this, Hermione." Tonks levels a hard stare on her, and Hermione drops her gaze. She feels sick. "Really think. Because if he feels as bad as you say, it's not going to get any easier for him. And whether it should be your choice or not – from what Remus has told me since you two got back, I have a feeling Draco would rather die than make you unhappy. That's not a good place to be in, Hermione. It doesn't work out well."

Hermione says nothing. Tonks's words echo in her head like a death knell.

"Just think about it, yeah?"

"Yeah. I will," she manages a hoarse whisper. Then: "Thanks. I guess."

Tonks laughs, short and somehow apologetic. "Oh, please don't thank me, Hermione. You look like I just stomped on your pygmy puff."

"I kind of feel like that too," Hermione admits, with a huff of teary laughter. "But – I will think about it." And she knows she will. She imagines she'll think of nothing else for some time. She's not sure Tonks is right about what decision Draco will make – maybe he's told Lupin he wants to fight, and damn what Hermione thinks. Right now, she almost hopes he has. Because then she can be angry, and worried, and she won't have to agonise over whether she's doing the right thing or not, preventing him from fighting. Whether she's saving his life only to doom him. Fuck.