Twenty-Seven

Hermione looks up from her perch on the porch stairs, automatically clutching her wand tighter as a noise comes from the apparition point in the garden shed. She'd slipped outside to sit with her thoughts after her depressing talk with Tonks, figuring Draco had probably gone up to their room, if he hadn't gone and taken refuge in the spare room again. She just wants ten minutes or so alone to sit and think, and pull herself together before she faces him. But it seems being alone isn't something Hermione will get today; it's Harry who appears from the door of the garden shed. He shuts the door behind him and lifts a hand in greeting.

Hermione's still annoyed with him for picking that fight with Draco, but only slightly now. She figures Draco was probably just as happy to fight as Harry and Ron because all three of them are stupid, testosterone-riddled idiots when it comes right down to it. She plasters on a smile, waving back. "Harry. Where've you been?"

"Hi 'Mione." He looks tired as he comes down the garden path, his hair sticking up every which way and his glasses askew, as they always seem to be. He's in a heavy coat, and there's a smudge of what Hermione thinks is soot on his forehead and nose. He holds up a folder. "I was just picking over a Death Eater house we took yesterday. Got all the papers that survived the fire. You'll be kept busy for days." She smiles faintly as he sits beside her, a weight to him that slumps his shoulders as he scrubs a hand through his hair, folder on his lap. "I'm only allowed in once the battle's over. Lucky me," he says bitterly, and Hermione makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat.

"You're as bad as Draco," she mutters, shooting him a glare. "You two are so similar sometimes."

"You take that back, 'Mione," he protests, weariness making it less vehement than usual. "I'm nothing like Malfoy!"

"If you say so, Harry," Hermione says calmly, smiling to herself, a streak of pain in her expression because they are. Most notable in regards to the stupid, noble sense of self-sacrifice that Draco seems to have developed, and that Harry had always had. It is infuriating for the people who care about them. Trying to keep them alive, while they just want to fling themselves into the thick of it and damn their own safety. She supposes Ron is a little like that too, but there is something different about Ron's attitude, which she'd noticed when she'd been on missions with both him and Harry before her capture.

Ron fights because he has to, not because he wants to. Hermione has no doubt that under Voldemort's command, Draco had been the same. Tactical, ruthless, careful, and pragmatic – never risking too much or going too far. Controlled. Because he hadn't really wanted to be there – he hadn't wanted to kill. He'd just wanted to keep his head down and stay alive. But now, it's different. He wants to be there. He wants to kill the enemy. He wants to fucking atone. Hermione doesn't know why he's so fixated on that. He's only one man. And he can't undo what he's done by killing Death Eaters. What difference will it make, really?

"I just want to be part of it," Harry says miserably.

"So does Draco," Hermione answers tartly and sighs, straightening and pulling her parka tighter around her. "I don't know why you two are so insistent on getting yourselves killed."

"Well, for one, I'm sick of Ron looking at me like I'm shirking. I keep expecting him to give me a white feather," Harry complains, and Hermione chews on her lip. She has noticed that, and it doesn't seem to be going away. Even though they're obviously still best friends, the lingering resentment grows heavier each day; an infected splinter lodged under the skin. It's driving them apart. Harry hunches over his folder of papers, elbows on his knees, frowning at nothing.

"He knows it's not your fault."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't seem to be making a difference, so..." Harry shoots back, clearly miserable. "Sorry, 'Mione. I shouldn't complain."

"It's fine," Hermione says and sways toward Harry, nudging him affectionately. "Feel free to complain. It's nice to think of someone else's problems for once." She smiles at him, close-lipped and sympathetic. "It can't be fun, though. I've noticed some...awkward moments. I feel like it's not my place to get in the middle, though. Have you tried talking to him about it?"

Harry stares at her for a second and then laughs humourlessly. "Me and Ron, talk about our problems? You're kidding, right?" He's clearly trying to joke, but it hits her all wrong.

"You two are so stupid." A pall falls over Hermione. She's exhausted, angry and utterly miserable, and here's Harry trying to make a joke out of falling out with Ron. It irks her, betting under her skin in a way she hadn't expected. "You know, he could die out there, and how would you feel then?" Her words cut the air, and they're far crueller than she means them to be, but suddenly, all her anger has been transferred into this – this rift between friends, and she's not wrong. Harry stares at her open-mouthed and shocked for a moment, green eyes wide and wounded.

"God, Hermione. That's a shitty thing to say."

"It's the fucking truth, Harry." Hermione shoves herself to her feet, snatching the folder off Harry's lap and glaring down at him. She's not sure if she's talking to herself or to him. "If you don't like it, that's just too damn bad. It doesn't make it any less true. So think about that."

Draco grunts as he pushes his body past the point where he should stop, his back stinging and pulling, his thighs burning, his arms straining, his abdomen tight. He's filled with a furious, overwhelming frustration, and he has no way to exorcise it save mindless, repetitive exercise. It's productive – it stops the scar tissue on his back from stiffening his movements up any further – and should he fight eventually, fitness can be essential in battle. Magic does the heavy lifting in a duel, but in a pitched battle, being able to move through the battlefield with ease gives one a definite advantage over standing still and needing to fling up shield after shield.

Besides, sometimes it becomes necessary to disable opponents with one's bare hands; Draco has done it several times over the past few years thanks to being disarmed in the heat of battle, and strength makes that situation much more survivable.

It's a shame he can't really work on cardio the way he wants to – at the mansion, before Hermione's capture, he'd run circuits around the outside of the hedge maze. A wizard who can't run fast dies quicker than one who can, in his experience. There's no space here to run, though, so he makes do with what he can do, and at times like this, it helps. He feels a sharp, hot pain as if something in his back is tearing; adhesions, probably. He ignores it.

Everything in Draco is focused on pushing his body through the next move, keeping count, jaw tight as he draws breath slowly and steadily. His anger, his frustration, and his infernal fucking guilt – it all fades away, nothing left but his body and the struggle to push himself further and further.

After she's taken the folder into Lupin's office and had a look at it – stalling for as long as possible – Hermione ascends the stairs to face Draco.

She opens the bedroom door to Draco halfway through a push-up, stretched out on the scant floorspace of their bedroom. He's in nothing but joggers slung low on his hips, and his pale skin is flushed with the exertion. His back makes Hermione want to cringe with sympathetic pain, with the way the scars are pulling and puckered, all livid ridges and valleys that streak from shoulder to waist. But the rest of him is glorious. She slips in and shuts the door behind her, still holding the door knob awkwardly behind her back as she stands there pressed against the door, staring. Her breath feels a little short. Well. This is not what she expected to walk in on. He's breathing hard, and his arms are trembling slightly.

"Sorry, I was just –" he begins, dropping to one knee, and a drop of sweat slides down his shoulder, cutting a rivulet over the dense muscle that's taut and defined with strain. Hermione swallows dryly. He looks so long and lean like this, his shoulders broad and his hips narrow, skin all reddened and shining with sweat, and hair falling forward to hide his face. But he's on his knees in front of her now, shoving his hair back with both hands, and it's damp and like cornsilk, raked back as he licks his lips, panting. His eyes are moon grey and his cheeks are ruddy, and she watches, transfixed. Jesus Christ, does he have any idea how hot he looks?

"It's, um – it's fine. I –" she stammers as Draco pushes to his feet, tall and shirtless, and Hermione finds herself staring at his chest. She wants to press herself against him. To plaster herself against the hot, sweat-damp of him and feel his arms come up around her. Holding her close, so that she knows everything will be okay. She bites her lip and makes an abortive move forward, just as he steps back. He doesn't seem to notice that she has to quickly pull her hand back to her side and stutter her foot to a halt – he's busy scooping up his t-shirt and sinking to the edge of the bed. His forearms are pale and stark, the Dark Mark standing out ugly and vivid as he pushes his hair back again and then sighs and looks up at her.

"I told Lupin no," he says, at the same time as she says:

"I'm sorry."

What he says is a lot more meaningful than what she does. She clasps her hands together in front of her and then fiddles nervously with the cuffs of her chambray shirt. So he won't. Hermione isn't sure if she's more relieved or more guilty. It's a close race; a photo finish. Draco meets her gaze, and his eyes are colourless and blank. She shivers.

"I'm guessing that 'I'm sorry' doesn't mean you've changed your feelings on the matter?" he asks very carefully, and she sees his fist clench, and a thread of tension pulls taut in his voice, thrumming beneath the surface. Hermione looks away, staring at the worn rug.

"No. No, I'm sorry, but I haven't." Her voice is definitely trembling, and her heart has kicked off into high gear, racing like a stampede of thestrals; unseen but thundering. "I can't be okay with it. If that's what you want to do, I can't stop you, but I wish you wouldn't. The thought of you out there while you're like this terrifies me, and –"

"Like what?" he interrupts sharply, and the anger that flares up in his face – his eyes cold and narrowed and his mouth tense – makes Hermione lose her train of thought entirely. He suddenly looks like a Death Eater. His stare is cold and hard, absent of any human feeling. She feels like prey beneath it, a shudder running through her.

"What?" she asks helplessly, fingers twining together again. Oh god, she hates this. It feels like an interrogation. Like a judgement, and he's the judge. She's standing there and answering him shakily, scrabbling, while he sits there cool and angry, his eyes steely now, and cutting.

"The thought of me out there while I'm like what?" he repeats with fraying patience, and Hermione bites the inside of her cheek before she answers.

"We've been over this, Draco. While you don't value your life. While you half think you should've just stayed at the mansion. While you have some stupid concept of atonement and penance in your head."

"It's not fucking stupid." He snarls the words, leaning forward with his hands braced on the bed at his sides as though he's ready to shove himself upright, and Hermione's heart is suddenly rabbit quick and beating so hard that she feels like her chest is reverberating. She starts to sweat; palms, armpits, the nape of her neck. Beneath her breasts. Fear sweat is springing up all over her as adrenaline floods her system in the face of his anger. It makes her remember. She clenches her jaw and lifts her chin. She can be fucking angry too.

"You can't un-torture anyone, Draco! You can't bring people back to life! I don't know what you did exactly, but you can't undo it! You'll always have done it. Always and for-fucking-ever! It doesn't matter if you tear you-know-who apart yourself with your bare bloody hands!" She's shouting and she hasn't cast a muffliato. Everyone on this floor and the next one will hear – she doesn't care. She's too furious, gesticulating as she yells, tears blurring her eyes and her breath whooping in unevenly. "You will always have done those things! Killing yourself isn't going to change a fucking thing! It's not going to magically absolve you! Everyone you killed and hurt will still be... that."

Silence falls briefly as she snaps her mouth shut, shaking like she's palsied, her heart a thundering avalanche, her palms clammy, and her stomach nauseated. She's breathing so hard she's nearly hyperventilating. "And you don't have to atone anyway," she gasps, smearing her tears away with her shirt sleeve, desperate for him to understand. "Everything you did, you did because the fucking Order told you to stay there! You didn't have a choice! You were a spy! It was your job!"

He's silent. His head is bowed, and Hermione feels so, so sick. She immediately regrets everything she said and wants to take it all back. Shit. She keeps saying these things and then wanting to sink into the floor, ashamed and mortified. The silence hangs in the air, thick and awful, stretching out until she fears it will snap, violently. His shoulders are tense, his fingers curled in the blanket. Hermione heaves in a juddering breath. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm just so scared. The idea of you going out there when half of you thinks you deserve to die?" His head jerks up and his mouth opens, and Hermione holds up a finger. "Don't. Don't deny it." His lips press together, but he doesn't say anything. "That's just asking for something to go wrong – I mean, I can't be okay with that. It's dangerous. Going out there unfocused and conflicted is the best way to get yourself killed. So no. I'm not giving my fucking blessing." She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

"But I can't stop you, either."

He shakes his head, small and miserable. "No. No. I can't do that to you." His jaw tightens, his face darkening with anger. "I wish I could, but I can't." He looks down, a ripple of tension rolling through him. Anger. "I won't fight, Hermione. Not without your permission."

She feels helpless. Because she doesn't want to stop him, but she can't tell him she's okay with it either when she isn't. So they're stuck in some horrible limbo where both of them are miserable now. "Oh," is all she says, small and sorry, and Draco sighs. She can almost feel the way he stitches his self-control back together and sets his anger toward her aside, letting it go on that long, sad exhale. He stands then.

"I'm going to have a shower," he says calmly, as if they'd never had this conversation, as if she hadn't just screamed at him until she was gasping. His hands settle on her shoulders as he kisses her lightly on the forehead. His lips are brand hot, and so are his hands as he gently turns her, moving her out of the way, before dragging on his shirt and pulling some fresh clothes out of the dresser, heading out of the room without another word. Hermione sinks down onto the edge of the bed and buries her head in her hands. She has the feeling she's made a terrible mistake, and she's not sure she can undo it.

That night, after the lights go out, Hermione turns to Draco, sheets rustling, her breathing unsteady in the near dark as her fingers trace over his jaw, her lips finding his. She kisses him with a tentative uncertainty, and a sudden sharp anger rises up in him. He lies there very still, but his pulse picks up. So she's all sweetness now, is she? When he came back from his shower earlier, she'd been gone, and he hadn't gone in search of her. They'd been apart all day, until dinner when they'd sat awkwardly elbow to elbow at the table, shooting uncertain glances at each other. They'd both sat in the sitting room listening to the war news on the wireless this evening – him sitting on the floor by her feet – but that had been awkward too. Ever since their brief exchange in their room, he'd felt a building, sullen resentment.

He's trapped. Hermione's trapped him neatly, with no good options. She's told him he can go against her wishes but made it clear that she doesn't want him to. It's fucking infuriating.

She had kept looking at him over dinner with this miserable, apologetic expression, her lips pressed together and eyes sliding away every time he looked at her. And then, in the sitting room, when she'd reached down and begun to play with his hair, he'd found himself pulling away. Hermione hadn't tried again. She'd gotten up and left as soon as the headline news had been read out, a stiffness to her spine, and he hadn't followed after her.

And now she's decided she wants affection? She wants to fuck? Draco lets her kiss him, his lips soft and unresponsive, a sick anger in the pit of his stomach. There's something about her delicate, almost apologetic overture that makes him want to push her away. Or push her down and use her.

Fuck.

An image comes into his head unbidden, accompanied by a surge of visceral desire. Hermione on all fours, her knees braced apart and her back arched, moaning as he fucks her from behind, hard and rough – brutal – with no thought for anything but his own impending orgasm. Making her scream with pleasure that's run through with a hint of pain. Her cunt clenching and hot around his dick, dripping wet. The desire that rears up at that image is chased by unease because it feels so wrong to think about her like that, after what had happened. After what he'd done to her. Any kind of roughness makes him think of the revel, and he recoils from it.

Except he's angry. And right now, his dick is hard, and it's not from her uncertain kisses.

Hermione pulls away, perhaps discouraged by his lack of response. "Sorry," she mutters almost inaudibly, sounding miserable, and Draco slides his fingers into her hair and cups the back of her head, kissing her hard. She makes a surprised little sound and her lips part, and he slicks his tongue into her mouth, gratified when she moans. She tastes of mint, and she grips his shoulder as she melts to his kiss. He's the dominant one; leading it, curling his tongue into her mouth and taking it, as though he's taking ownership, forgetting to be careful, and the sounds that come out of her throat are like the whimpers of some small animal, as she presses into the kiss and her body bows out against his.

She's in a t-shirt and sensible cotton knickers, and Draco's hand finds its way from her hair, down the notches of her spine, dragging on her shirt, down to her waistband. His fingertips shove beneath, over the curve of her arse, and she takes a shaky breath. He sucks on the tip of her tongue and refuses to stop to ask permission to go further. Hermione has the control. Clearly. She has all the fucking control. Sometimes it feels as though he exists to do her bidding, and while usually Draco doesn't consider that a negative, Salazar's sake, he has his limits. He wants things for himself. Like atonement, even if it doesn't make fucking sense. Like the opportunity to perhaps not hate himself, one day. Like being able to contribute to the fucking war effort, in fact. Because if Voldemort wins, they'll be on the run for the rest of their lives, if they aren't captured.

His hand cups her arse cheek, squeezing, and she pants into his mouth, two unsteady breaths before she's turning her face away, and he swears inwardly, expecting her to pull away and say 'no', but instead, she bestows a wet kiss on the corner of his mouth and then starts tugging at his shirt. Huh. After today, he would've thought she was too angry with him – Merlin knows why, he's obeying her like a good dog after all – to allow that. And the word dog sticks in his head, irritating him as he gives her arse one last squeeze and then sits up, wrenching his shirt over his head. He doesn't know why she'd want to see his ruined torso, but – his train of thought is derailed as her mouth latches over his nipple. Her tongue swiping over it and swirling in circles, palming her hands over his sides, her fingers digging in firm.

"Nngh..." He can't hold in the exhaled groan as she licks at his other nipple and then bites it lightly. Fuck, that feels weird. It sends tingles down his spine, and he can't decide if it's good or bad. Pansy never bothered doing anything like that, so it's all new to him. It's less fun than what he wants to do, though. "Come here," he tells her and sits her up, and then starts pulling her shirt off over her head. He doesn't ask, just says almost sarcastically, "You're in control, here," and there's a terrible bitterness in his voice that even he flinches from. She stares at him wide-eyed, and her lower lip trembles. She looks like a small child who's just been spanked, and he hates it.

Ever since they've gotten out, she's been in total control of him.

"You are, you know," he says conversationally as he puts his arm behind her and pushes her back slightly with the other one. His head dips to her nipples. Dark, rosy tips on breasts that make a good handful – neither big, nor small, they're firm and soft at once, and she whimpers and gasps when he plays with them. Like he does now, as her hands pull at his hair. He sucks her nipple and the surrounding flesh into his mouth, tongue laving over her, and she wriggles and makes an "mmph", her knees drawing up and her hands on his head as though she isn't sure if she wants to pull him closer or shove him away. He sucks hard, slicking her skin with saliva, and when he finally releases her breast, his scalp stings from her yanking fingers, and her skin is glistening and reddened, her face scrunched up as though she's concentrating.

"You're always the one in fucking control. Always. I gave you that, always. Whenever I could. You had the control. Not me. Never me." Her eyes snap open, wide and clear on his. He can see an understanding dawn in the dark amber rings surrounding her blown pupils, and somehow, he hates that too. The way she's seeing through him. Fuck. Draco dips his gaze, eyes on her untouched breast. He gently pinches her nipple, and she makes a stifled sound. He hears her swallow.

"Okay," she whispers, and her voice is thick. Her chest is lifting and falling hard with her breaths. "You have the control then." He doesn't understand for a moment. "You're in control," she adds, as though she understands he needs the clarification. "Do – do whatever you want with me." He's frozen for a moment, processing that.

"Oh fuck," he murmurs almost viciously. And then he fixes his mouth to her other breast as he lowers her to the bed, giving it the same treatment as the first one, but harder, and less careful. She mewls as she arches her back, pushing her breast further into his mouth, and he hums with satisfaction and sucks. He lavishes her breasts with attention and as he does, he slides his hand slowly down the front of her knickers, and oh yes, Hermione's slick and wet. Sensitive too, from the way she whimpers and squirms as he glides his fingers down between her folds and then drags the slickness back up to her clit, rubbing in light circles.

"Oh god," she whimpers, and he keeps going – small, careful movements as he props himself up on one elbow, watching her in the near dark. Her eyes are shut, and her cheeks are flushed, the colour creeping down her throat to her chest, her lower lip caught between her teeth, and her hands holding fistfuls of the sheets. She looks beautiful. And he's in control. Some small, fierce thing burns in his chest at that thought. He keeps touching her, hand beneath her knickers, watching her get closer and closer, a rapt, focused expression on her face.

And then he stops.

A plaintive moan whines from Hermione's throat, and she grabs for his hand as though she wants to shove it back down her knickers. When she misses in her flail for his hand, she pushes her own down her knickers and lets out a little sigh of satisfaction as she begins rubbing. Draco is frozen watching her for a second – so pretty, so needy – and then his fingers close over her wrist. "No," he tells her firmly, and she looks at him, her eyes glazed with arousal and filled with a wretched displeasure.

"But –"

"No. You don't come yet," he tells her – he's in control, damnit – and she makes a heartbroken sound. Draco ignores it, kneeling and dragging down her knickers altogether as she lifts her hips to allow it, trembling. She seems half out of her head with need as he slides off the edge of the bed and stands, shoving down his own boxers to his knees, dick springing free. "Get on all fours. Hands and knees, now, on the edge of the bed." Hermione makes another wordless, wavering sound but moves obediently to do as he says, clumsy and shy as he helps and guides her, his hands on her naked back, and her hips, sliding over her arse and thighs. She's all cream and soft curves, and her pussy is pink and wet, and so fucking sexy.

He drags his thumb down between the slick folds, and she jolts a little as if startled and draws away. "Stay," he tells her and grips her hip, holding her in place as he drops to his knees. And then she jerks and makes a half-horrified sound as he buries his face against her cunt from behind, tongue finding her clit and stroking.

"What –" she starts, and then makes a throaty groan, her arms wobbling suddenly as Draco pushes his tongue inside her, his hands clutching her hips. "Oh god, Draco. Fuck." Hermione sounds mortified but she's moaning, and after a moment, she starts grinding back against him, her head hanging down before she drops to her elbows, her arms trembling too much. He keeps licking. Sucking. Probing her with his tongue. She makes sounds he's never heard from her, and when she finally comes, he can feel her cunt twitching and taste her juices on his tongue. His dick is stupidly hard and weeping precum, and he's desperate to shove it inside her.

So once she's finished trembling and moaning, and lies there limp and slack, on her knees with her arse in the air, her cheek pressed against the bed, he does. He stands and then pushes his dick into the slick, hot grip of her cunt with one smooth stroke. She wails.

"Fuuuck," he groans, drawn out and throaty, as her body twitches and grips around him, and then he loses himself in fucking her. Everything in him narrows down to his dick in her cunt – all his feeling, all his awareness, fixated on the wet silk slide in and out of her as she lies there folded over her knees, pliable and vocal, rocking back against him with each thrust. The pressure builds, and builds, eventually blossoming into a hot, tight ecstasy that bursts through him. He comes inside her – a rush of bliss and bone-deep satisfaction rolling through him – and when he withdraws his dick from her sweet, tender cunt, he can see it seeping out of her. Fuck. It makes a primal reaction rise in him, sharp and fierce.

"Come here," he says softly as she struggles to push herself up, and his hands move over her gently, lifting her and guiding her to lie back against the pillows, careful with her now. His anger is utterly absent. Vanished as though it was never there. He feels drained. Light, as he pulls on his boxers. Hermione looks up at him, her hair strewn over the pillow and eyes heavy-lidded, and for a moment in the silence, Draco's worried he just did everything wrong, until she smiles. Slow and lazy, and deeply satisfied.

"That was good," she says quietly, and her cheeks flush again.

"Better than good," he tells her as he climbs in bed next to her, and she nestles up to him stark naked, all clinging limpet limbs and warmth after the cold, awful distance of the day, and Merlin, it's such a fucking relief. He tugs her close, holding her as tightly as she's holding him, her head tucked under his chin, her breath hot against his chest. It doesn't seem as though she's angry with him anymore, and it's clear that holding onto his resentment and anger is only going to make them both miserable. Besides, he doesn't feel very resentful or angry right now. He kisses the top of her head, and she hums happily and then yawns.

"I love you," she says, and the nervousness in her voice kills him, as if she's afraid he won't say it back.

"I love you too," he tells her, quietly into her hair. "Of course I do."

"Good," she says, still in a very small voice, but she sighs as if contented by that. Her fingers play over his back, and the sensation of them keeps appearing and disappearing as she bumps over numb patches. It feels like a fragile truce has settled between them; she's still upset by the idea that he wants to fight, and he's still unhappy about the restrictions her distress has placed on him, but neither of them wishes a repeat of today. Today was a misery for both of them. He shuts his eyes, Hermione warm in his arms. Nothing is more important than her – than the two of them together. If they could survive the mansion, they can survive a disagreement.