Thirty-Eight

Hermione finds herself slowly relaxing throughout the evening. The shocked, shaky terror that had seized her earlier while he was laid out on the dining room table slowly melts away.

Draco is safe, and well, and sleeps through most of the evening, as she stays close. For all that he'd said he was fine, he was clearly exhausted – his newly healed body needing rest, and to replenish its resources. She wakes him and forces him to eat and drink something at 9 pm – insisting he takes a pain potion just in case – before crawling into bed herself and nestling up close to him. He's already slipping back into sleep, but he draws her to him anyway, arm sliding over her, face buried against her hair so that his breath is hot on her scalp.

She has nightmares; a veritable plague of them. Some are clearly her fear for Draco written into warped dreams. Being stalked by panthers in a humid jungle, or his slow, hideous death at Voldemort's hands, or him being struck down in battle. And some seem to be because she got carried away sucking his cock, earlier. She'd been so glad he was alive and healed that she had done something that had, in retrospect, been too much, too fast. She'd been impulsive and gone too far. And she pays the price.

Nightmares of the dinner, twisted and terrible, turning what had already been a horrific ordeal into endless torture to the brink of death, half of it with Draco's assistance. Hermione wakes at least every hour or so, like clockwork, every sleep cycle bringing fresh nightmares. Sometimes she has one and resurfaces just enough to shake it off, before sinking straight back into another. She tries not to wake Draco; he needs his sleep, Siobhan had said when Hermione had been downstairs earlier, the Healer having stayed for dinner. His body has been through a great deal of strain. So she wakes alone, plastered in sweat and keeping her sobs back behind pressed-tight lips, telling herself they're only nightmares. They're not real.

He does wake, at points. Groggy – perhaps in part from the potion – and worried, smoothing her sweat-damp hair off her face and murmuring reassurances. His arms are cool around her overheated skin as he draws her against him, and she melts into him with relief. She tells him she's okay, and it was just the mission. Lying, or at least omitting, but she doesn't want him to know what the blowjob triggered. He'd never let her do it again, and she wants to. This is a price worth paying for the experience of having him in her mouth and watching him fall apart with pleasure beneath it. Vulnerable and laid bare, all taut muscles and moans, and that pleading, molten look he gives her.

So she tells him it's the mission and his near-death, and he believes her, in the moment at least. Half asleep, she doesn't think he's questioning anything. Maybe tomorrow he'll at least suspect the blowjob she gave him contributed. She hopes not. Either way, the times that he wakes and soothes her, Hermione goes to sleep faster, sleeps heavier, and it staves off the nightmares a little longer. She's grateful.

What must be the ninth or tenth time she wakes, it's thanks to an external source, not her own nightmares. Draco has already jerked bolt upright and flicked on the lamp at the wall with a wave of his wand by the time Hermione has registered the knock at the door. A pause, and the knock repeats, and Lupin's voice calls, "Hermione?" She struggles out from beneath the covers, feeling like death warmed up, looking over to the small clock they have and seeing it's nearly 4 am. But Lupin doesn't sound panicked. And if it were really important, he'd just barge in.

"Hang on," she calls, sitting up, and leans over to kiss Draco's naked shoulder. God, he's beautiful. Hair dishevelled, most of it sticking up in tufts from sleeping, his skin catching the light, his body all lean, wiry muscle, and his expression somehow both sharp and sleepy as he looks at her. She hides a smile. "Relax. It's just Remus." She pulls on a pair of joggers and one of Draco's t-shirts once she climbs out of bed and scrapes her hair back as she crosses the room, Draco watching her, alert. Her hair refuses to be defeated, a wave of it wanting to flop right back over her face, and she drags it back into a messy bun, snagging a hair band off the dresser to tie it as she goes past.

Lupin is standing in the doorway when she opens the door, looking as tired as she feels. Like a limp rag that's been wrung out and then left to dry in a crumpled heap. "Hermione. I'm so sorry to disturb you –" His eyes glance over her, and she's fairly certain he can see how exhausted she feels "– but since Nagini's death, there has been a flurry of owls sent by you-know-who's people, and we've finally managed to intercept some." He pauses as Hermione rubs at her eyes and stifles a yawn. "You don't have to, but you'd be useful in deciphering them. And I thought you might like to be involved."

"I would, Remus. Thank you," she says, suppressing another yawn. Quite aside from the fact that she likes doing her job and being useful, she had been involved in locating Nagini, and it would be nice to continue her involvement. To see it through, to the end. Besides, tired or not, Hermione is curious to know what the Death Eater chatter is right now. Nagini's death would've had massive consequences – she imagines they'll be panicking, and potentially in chaos. Voldemort would have felt it as soon as it happened, but he's in America, and while he could apparate back, he undoubtedly has business there that needs to be completed. Besides, what can he do about Nagini's death now? Nothing, Hermione thinks viciously. Her mind races.

"I'll be downstairs in a minute," she tells Lupin and hurries back across the room to kiss Draco. His face is upturned and his hand is large and warm, cradling her neck as she presses her mouth to his, her lips parting. His tongue is a slick whisper and she shivers with sensation.

"Do you want me to come down?" he asks, his voice gravelly with sleep as he rubs at his eyes.

"No. Go back to sleep. You need your rest."

"So do you," he says, eyes moon-grey and sleepily worried as he takes in the state of her. "You look like hell."

"Oh. Thanks," Hermione retorts flippantly, smiling at him as she pushes her fingers through his rumpled hair.

"You know what I mean." He frowns, displeased by her glibness. She grimaces.

"I know. I had a restless sleep. But I'm fine. And you being tired as well won't help. Go back to sleep. Bring me some coffee in the morning," she says, feeling a moment of pleasure at their almost normal exchange, before she kisses him one last, fleeting time and hurries out. She hears him flop back down onto the pillows with a groan as she shuts the door, and she can't erase the small smile from her lips as she hurries quietly down the stairs. The ordinary moments they find in the madness are so precious. They give her a glimpse into a possible future, after the war. All the little things.

When he passes her a book he's just finished because he knows she'll like it from the way she kept trying to read it over his shoulder – they both like murder mysteries, wizarding or Muggle. The way he knows how she likes to take her hot drinks and is always bringing her one, until she thinks she'll spend all day peeing tea and coffee. How she turns the application of scar liniment into a massage that unwinds all the muscles he carries his tension in, until he's a puddle under her hands. The conversations they have about silly little things, like what they'd take on a desert island, or what they'd do first if they had the powers of a god. Sitting and enjoying the sunset on the porch together.

Despite everything, they could have a good future, Hermione knows it. If they can just both survive to see it.

When she gets into Lupin's office with a freshly made cup of strong tea in hand, all thoughts of sweet and peaceful moments fly from Hermione's mind. She focuses on the task at hand, and the office table is strewn with parchment again. Tonks and Harry are both in there already, Harry sitting in a chair and hunching over a piece of parchment as he clutches a mug in both hands, his hair more of a disaster than Hermione's, and his eyes owl-like behind his glasses. "Morning 'Mione," he mumbles, lifting one hand to flap it limply in her direction as she takes her usual seat and sets her tea down.

"Morning, Harry. Tonks." She smiles at the metamorphmagus, who looks like her usual self this morning, although her hair seems slightly darker.

Tonks yawns. "Wotcha, 'Mione." She turns away from the wall map and shoots Hermione a piercing glance. "You look awful."

"So I've been told," Hermione says drily and then turns her attention to the bits of scroll and flattened parchment that half cover what she thinks of as her table now, more than Lupin's. Since she's taken over a lot of the admin here, he's begun working more and more at the Order's estate, which makes sense. While this office is handy, being under the same roof as him, the estate is where all mission briefings and debriefs take place. It also holds many of the Order's prisoners, their potions laboratory, and their tiny permanent hospital, which is usually understaffed and over-filled. It also houses many of the useful non-combatants, particularly those who work in potions and healing. It's understandable that Lupin's base of operations has shifted nearly entirely there, and Hermione doesn't mind. She likes having her own space.

"So, what's happening here?" she asks, hoping there's some order to the chaos. Lupin steps in and begins explaining, pointing out which notes came from which owls, in which areas – marked with chicken-scratch messy abbreviations on the backs – as Harry leans over his bit of parchment. He appears to be reading reports from those out in the field observing Death Eater movements while Tonks is marking major changes on the map. Hermione half listens to Lupin as she notes that it appears many outposts and encampments that were staffed by Voldemort's lesser minions and Snatchers appear to be emptying out. The enemy are on the move. But where? It makes Hermione nervous.

"Thanks, Remus," she says as she gains some idea of what he wants to look at first, and he nods and murmurs his own thanks before taking his leave.

"I'm heading off to the estate," he says. "There are a few missions coming back shortly, and I want to be at the debriefs. Just apparate over if you need me. Otherwise, I should be back in a few hours." And then he's gone with an enthusiastic kiss to his wife, whose hair flares bright pink at the affection, grinning away to herself as she turns back to the map. Hermione settles in to work on the coded messages, sipping her scalding tea carefully as she does.

There's a lot to work through, and deciphering the codes takes time, often. Especially when she's tired. Luckily, many of Voldemort's lower minions are lazy, or not too bright, and they often re-use old ciphers, as though they think the Order will have forgotten how to decode them. Hermione's careful records come in handy as she pulls out her thick file of old, broken codes and ciphers – many of them from long before her capture and kept mostly up to date by Order members while she was gone – and manages to find several matches very quickly, transcribing them neatly into plain English.

Some of them are useless and boring – notes that seem unrelated to Nagini or anything valuable, like requests for resupply or complaints about their assignments. Even if they're a code within a code, using substitute terms or double-meanings, Hermione can't figure out what they could be. So those she sets aside, in her aptly named 'Probably Nothing' file drawer, in a folder with the date. There are several she manages to decode that are something, however. Not always useful, however.

I had a tete-a-tete with my dear nephew today. Tell his mother he's looking well, but still as rude as ever. R Lestrange.

Hermione bites her lip when she comes across this one. No one told her that Draco had encountered Rodolphus. Although to be fair, no one had told her anything at all, other than that the mission had been a success, and Nagini was dead, and that they'd lost Oliver Wood. She'd been too preoccupied with Draco to care about anything else. And he hadn't told her anything either – he'd been sleeping. She wonders how awful it was to confront his mad uncle. It can't have been pleasant, and she grimaces in sympathy as she sets the paper aside to go into the 'Personal Comms.' drawer.

And then she keeps decoding, and reading.

I'm running. I'm not going to be at the mansion when the Dark Lord returns. He'll kill me for not protecting that damned snake. Come with me, V. I'll be at the place until midnight. I love you. K.

We cannot retrieve Nagini's body. They have either taken it, or destroyed it. My deepest apologies.

Eventually, on her second cup of tea, Hermione finally deciphers a particularly difficult missive that reads:

The Dark Lord will be returning as soon as his business is concluded.

It's not exactly a surprise, but it's more relevant to the Order than the other messages so far. With a pleased expression, Hermione flags it up with Tonks and Harry. And then she moves straight on to the next one with a sigh. There's no time to pause – most of these owls will be time-sensitive, and Hermione has no doubt that Lupin has sent copies of the missives to other Order members who are decent at code-breaking. She hopes so, at least. The idea of it all resting on her shoulders alone is too daunting. She tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear and frowns down at the parchment in front of her, sucking absent-mindedly on the end of her quill as she works.

Draco brings her in a coffee at 8 am, kissing her temple with a tenderness that makes her melt before sitting down with his own mug in hand, idly looking at the field reports. He doesn't talk to her aside from a murmured 'good morning' because he knows she's in the zone, lost in her work, although she does notice he seems to be moving easily enough, a fact that fills her with relief. His quiet presence – occasionally talking with Harry about the contents of the reports – is lovely, and when he gets up stiffly with a little grunt of discomfort, Hermione is disappointed.

"I'll bring you in another coffee, and then I'm going to go work out," he says quietly as he stoops to kiss the top of her head. She looks up abruptly at that, checking how he looks. Tired, but not injured or unwell – more like someone who's just recovered from an illness, with shadows bruised under his eyes and his skin lacking colour.

"Don't strain yourself," she tells him, worry curdling in her stomach, and he hooks his lips into a faint, brief smile.

"I won't," he tells her, and then kisses her cheek, sweeps up her coffee cup, and disappears.

She spends the rest of the morning in a continued frenzy of work, resorting to a Pepper Up potion to stay alert. More and more messages are brought in to be decoded, copies of already-deciphered messages come in from other people working on them – as she'd suspected – delivered by a breathless Ginny, and more field reports come in. And eventually, they build up a picture. Voldemort has returned to the UK. Potentially, he may have gone to Mould-on-the-Wold. Either way, he is in Britain. And he appears to have brought his American allies back with him.

Hermione's skin crawls at that thought. When she decodes the message that mentions the Americans, she feels it all come rushing back, again, and she runs to the small downstairs toilet, hanging onto the cistern with one hand as she leans over the toilet bowl, quietly gagging and wondering if she's going to vomit. She doesn't, in the end. But she still feels sick. Adrenaline, Pepper Up, and an iron will shall drive her on though. This is too important to let herself spiral. She has to hold it together. And for now, she does.

They think he's back at the mansion. Voldemort and the American wizards. They send word to Lupin, Tonks apparating over and coming back bright-eyed and nervy. There's a meeting with everyone at the estate at 1 pm, she tells them. She thinks they may be making a move, as early as tonight. The final confrontation. Harry is energised. Ecstatic. He heads off to tell Ron, filled with a vibrating, nervous excitement.

Hermione buries her face in her hands as she sits at the desk, processing that momentous news. She doesn't know what to feel, but a strange shock rockets through her. It could all be over, so soon. And then she thinks: Draco will want to fight, and fear rises up in her, thick and choking. Oh god.

There's a knock at the door and Draco looks up from his book, confused. No one comes up to the bedroom when Hermione's in Lupin's office; they never want to see him, only her. And he's fine with that. He doesn't want to be friends with Order members. Civil coexistence is plenty for him. He sets his book aside – another Nilus Nilsson murder mystery – and runs his hand through his hair before he opens the door. It's Weasley, with Potter lurking behind him. Draco raises a brow, surprise and worry running through him. They look more excited than anything, and Draco knows Hermione's just downstairs in Lupin's office, and yet the words that come out first, inevitably, are – "Is Hermione alright?"

It's instinct. He can't help himself. His first thought is always her. He's helpless in the wake of his constant concern. Especially after last night. Everything is unsettled, and she doesn't deal well with that. Neither does he. Hermione had nightmares, he knows, and when he'd woken at their usual time this morning, it had been to an empty bed, her side cold. It had taken him a moment to remember her going downstairs in the early hours, and the irrational fear he'd felt at her absence in the second between waking and realisation had been suffocating.

His hand is tight on the door handle as he looks at the two in front of him, both of them jittery and filled with what he thinks is nervous energy. Weasley smirks at Draco's question. "She's fine."

"Well, then what –"

"We all need to head over to the Order estate for a meeting," Potter interrupts. "We got new intel. You-know-who is at his mansion, with the American wizards. We're probably going in tonight."

Draco's breath stutters in his chest. His lungs feel tight. He feels as though he doesn't understand for a moment as he stares at Potter's bespectacled face, trying to comprehend. "What?"

"We're going in," Potter repeats, a vicious eagerness in the set of his features as he fidgets with his wand. His voice is tight with emotion. He looks like a dog straining against a leash, desperate to be let off. "To face you-know-who." The finally is not said aloud, but Draco hears it all the same.

"There's a meeting at the estate in twenty minutes. Lupin's briefing us all. I thought Hermione would've popped up and told you, until you didn't turn up downstairs," Weasley says, scratching at his stupid attempt at a beard. "I figured we better let you know."

"I haven't seen her in hours." Draco's worry spikes again. "When did you last see her?"

"She's just down in Lupin's office," Potter says dismissively, "with her nose in some owls." He smiles, as if to say, typical Hermione. Some of the tension immediately drains from Draco's shoulders. Some. She's obviously safe, but the fact that she hasn't told him this rather massive fucking development that could end the war one way or another is a sign she's definitely not coping well. He'll need to see her before the meeting. But first, he'll have to get rid of Potter and Weasley. He eyes them.

"Thanks," he says stiffly. Cautiously. He's oddly comfortable with Weasley when they're out in the field now, but that doesn't cross over to their off time at the safe house. Here is an entirely different context, where he avoids speaking to Weasley – or anyone in fact – except about missions. He doesn't make polite conversation with anyone, ever. He knows his place. His role. Draco is the ex-Death Eater – the spy. The necessary monster. But he's not part of the Order, and he never will be. He has done things they can't imagine, things that even Lupin never pried out of him. Things he has buried down so deep that even to him, they are just vague, ominous shapes, moving in the dark – except in nightmares. And those things have ruined him in a way he can never fully come back from.

But he has his atonement in fighting, and he has Hermione, and he thinks that these days, he can live with the guilt. Not easily, but he can.

"I appreciate the heads up," he says. "I'd better go see her." He's about to take his leave when Weasley clears his throat.

"If we're all going in tonight, Malfoy," the redhead begins, "and any one of us could die, Harry and I thought you should know – if you don't die – that we don't think you're an entirely terrible person."

"How magnanimous of you," Draco says automatically, bristling slightly. Recoiling from their tentative acceptance.

"Christ, Malfoy, you don't have to be a git about it," Potter mutters, and Draco shrugs.

"I don't need your approval. I need hers," he says, stark and simple. Hermione is all he needs. All he values. The rest of the world can – will – damn him just as he himself does, but as long as she loves him, it'll be enough to get by on. He'll always feel guilty; there's no getting past that, ever, but it's her opinion he values. Except…there's a part of him that feels something at their words. They're like a small, sharp shard of absolution, held out for him to take if only he will. If only he'll let himself be vulnerable enough to take it. So he does, with gritted teeth. He swallows and looks the pair of them in the eye, one after the other.

"But, thanks, anyway. You two aren't so bad either, I suppose." They're loyal friends to Hermione. And Potter wants to fight just as badly as Draco had, and Weasley's good fun out in the field and dependable too, so yeah. They aren't so bad.

"I'll take it," Weasley says with another easy grin. "Now we're BFFs."

"Fuck off," he says mildly, although the hint of a smile tugs at his lips despite himself. "Really, though," he adds, features schooled to a cool neutrality again. "I have to see Hermione before we go."

"Good luck," Weasley says with a wince of understanding as they step back out of the way, and then he's hurrying down the stairs, taking them two at a time. A strange tension fills him as he descends the stairs. He feels nearly dizzy. He thinks of Voldemort, and of the mansion, and of it all coming to an end, and he feels like crying. So, instead, he shuts down. He compartmentalises. He pauses in the tiny corridor and stands very still for a moment, unobserved by anyone, just breathing, slow and deep. This is it. This is the endgame. And Draco needs to be at his best for this. He needs to be focused, and undistracted, and hard.

He's not sure he can manage it anymore. She has blunted him. Hopefully not fatally.

The office door is half open and Hermione is alone, head resting on one hand as she stares down at a piece of parchment blankly with her quill lax in her fingers, her hair in a loose braid. She looks up when he pushes the door open, and her eyes are reddened and puffy. She's been crying. And there's a smudge of ink just below her lip, Draco sees, and somehow, the sight of it makes tenderness rise up in him. His compartmentalisation sucks. She sighs and lets her quill drop, rubbing her hand over her face and leaving another smudge of ink on her cheekbone. Clearly, she knows why he's here.

"You didn't tell me," he says as he crosses the room. Not an accusation – more a question. He leans against the table beside her, right hand braced on the table.

"I meant to," she says, and her eyes are dark and bottomless. And for all that she opens her heart to him, and has fallen to pieces in his arms, there are so many things he doesn't know. So many things she hasn't told him. She is still an enigma. An unknown quantity. There are things in her eyes that he doesn't think she has the words for. "I did." Her voice is small. "I just couldn't get up." A tear wells over and slides, very slowly, down the curve of her cheek. "I don't want you to fight, but I know you have to." It's a whisper from lungs that aren't getting enough breath, choked by fear, and Draco wishes he could stay with her.

"I'm sorry." And as always, he means it. It just doesn't mean he won't go out there. He doesn't feel that he has a choice. If he was the Draco Malfoy of a few years ago and yet somehow loved Hermione, he'd be suggesting they run right now. That they leave everyone to their fates and flee across the world, and come back when it's safe, or never. But he's not that person anymore. That Draco Malfoy died in the war, on some nameless battlefield, or in some torture chamber. An unacknowledged victim of Voldemort's madness.

"I wish I could fight," she says miserably, looking down at the parchment in front of her, rubbing away her few tears and sniffing. Sighing again. "If I wasn't so utterly useless. I should be with you."

"Don't be stupid. You're not useless. You've been down here all day being very useful," he says, sweeping away a tear she missed with the side of his thumb as she looks up at him. "Not everyone has to fight."

"I should be with you," she says again, stubbornly. "The last time you went out there, you nearly died. And you're still recovering from your injury, and – I should be there. To watch your back. What if you need me?"

"You'll freeze up," he tells her, not unkindly. "You'll be a distraction. I know you want to help, but you won't."

"You don't know that. Maybe I'll be fine." She looks a little wild-eyed. "And – and what if it all goes wrong?"

"It won't."

"That's what you said yesterday! And look what happened then."

"Hermione." His voice is sharp and hard. "You're not fucking going, alright?"

She glares at him. "I can't sit here, just waiting, not knowing if you're d-dead or alive. Only to find out that we lost. Or that we won, but I lost, because you're dead." The last word comes out in a near sob, her eyes wet and her fists clenched on the desk as she stares up at him, chin set, determined. But her nostrils flare, and he can see the shift of her shoulders as her breaths become uneven and the press of her lips as she holds back tears.

"Don't. Don't spiral, Hermione," he tells her calmly, an order, as he struggles to focus. It's shades of how he treated her at the mansion, when he was cool and controlled, and unmistakably the author of her fate no matter how much he told her she was in control. It was him who set the boundaries for her when she lost sight of them in her misery. Him who protected her from herself. From her hunger strikes, and her despair, and her confused attempts to seduce him at a time when it would've only hurt her. Draco eyes her steadily.

"I have to be at the estate for the briefing in about ten minutes. And I'm not missing it." He pauses, and then offers her a compromise. "We'll talk about this later, alright? You going, I mean," he says. And he means that – they can. But his answer will still be no. He understands her wanting to be there after what happened to him yesterday. He understands she wants to be there at the end. But he won't have it. This is one situation where she does not have all the control. He will break her heart if he has to, to keep her safe. He smiles faintly, rubbing at the smudge of ink beneath her lip. "But right now, you need to keep it together."

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and nods. "I know. I know. I'm fine, honestly. I just…"

"Am not fine?" he fills in, and she laughs and nods, burying her face in her hands.

"Yeah. But I know you have to go." Hermione's resigned and miserable, but it seems like her wobble toward a meltdown has been averted.

"Do you want to come?" he offers cautiously and isn't surprised when she shakes her head quickly.

"Tonks already told me most of it," she says, which does surprise him a little. "And you can tell me about it when you get back."

"Okay," he says without fuss, and stoops to kiss her. Her lips are dry and cool and soft beneath his, passive at first. And then she lifts a hand, pressing her fingers small and thin against his face, and her lips part. She kisses him hard and fierce, and then lets him go just as abruptly, with a gasp. She looks up at him, flushed, ink-smudged, her amber eyes wet with tears that she blinks back. He will die to keep her safe, Draco thinks. But for her sake, he hopes he doesn't have to. "I'll be back soon."