Thirty-Nine
The briefing is short, considering the magnitude of the offensive they've planned, and Lupin keeps it to the point. Voldemort and his American allies are currently in residence at the mansion, as confirmed by careful reconnaissance, and given the circumstances, MACUSA are willing to launch a joint attack. They'll be committing twenty skilled Aurors to the fight. It's not really enough to satisfy the Order, but they have to take what they can get. They're not in a position to negotiate. The attack will take place at 10 pm. Non-combatants will relocate to the Order's estate, to help the Healers.
It will probably be raining, according to both Muggle meteorologists and weather wizards; a front is moving down across Britain, and much of the country will be exposed to deluges, and potentially thunderstorms. It is a tumultuous spring, apparently. So that will be fun. Draco hates fighting in the rain.
Lupin goes over the floor plans of the mansion that Draco has provided, and the patrol movements observed, and maps out a hopeful plan of attack. Although they all know how quickly the situation can change once you're on the ground and in the thick of it. Things change fast, and they need to be able to adapt to those shifts and work with them, not be locked into any expectations. Draco is fairly used to working like that; Death Eaters rarely planned things out. They played fast and loose; the strong survived, and the weak died.
Say your goodbyes, Lupin says finally, and rest up.
Draco stays behind a few minutes longer than the others, talking to Lupin about his father, in case he's still alive, and fighting on the other side. It's not a comforting conversation. Unless Lucius surrenders, Lupin can't guarantee his safety. If he surrenders, then Order members will take his wand and bind him, as they would anyone who surrenders – if it's safe to do so. But it's not always safe to do so. And sometimes, people die in war who shouldn't. Draco knows that all too well. So if his father is there tonight, he'll probably be killed. It's a thought that makes him feel sick and sad, but it's no less than what he was expecting. His father is probably already dead anyway. Because of Draco.
It's coming up on 2.30 pm when he walks out into the spring afternoon, and the wind is chill and brisk, the horizon lined with towering blue-grey thunderheads, swollen with rain. The gravel of the estate's long drive crunches under his boots and he shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, thinking of tonight. Turning it over and over in his mind like a sickle. Knowing Hermione will be here at the estate helps a little. If they fail and fall, and Voldemort wins, whoever survives will be able to warn everyone by coming here. On the other hand, it makes the estate a target. One person being captured could give it away, and then everyone here would be in danger. Draco frowns and looks back at the impressive old manor house as he reaches the disapparition point.
He'll tell Hermione to be ready to run. And he's not a coward, but if the Order falls and he's still alive, he'll run with her. They need to arrange a meeting place, he thinks, jaw tight as he runs through worst-case scenarios in his head. Somewhere they can meet if it all goes sideways. He slides his wand down into his hand, thinks of the safe house, and lands in the garden shed, feeling slightly sick. Thunder rumbles and booms in the distance as he arrives, like an ill omen. When he steps out into the cloud-darkened garden, Hermione is sitting there. At the top of the porch stairs, in an old knitted jersey and leggings, striped socks on, her chin cradled in her hands. She watches him as he walks down the path toward her, her eyes big and dark in her face, colour whipped into her cheeks by the wind.
She manages a faint smile as he stops in front of her, memorising her features. They are in the calm before the storm. "You're late."
"I stayed to speak to Lupin about my father," he says. No hellos. No fuss. No social norms. Just them. They never got to play the game of flirtation and banter. They have never had the opportunity to be anything other than stripped-back bones and brutal honesty, papered occasionally by silence that hides omissions, or the kind of despair that rips the guts out of a person. Sometimes they talk frivolously or tease – in blissful moments of sweetness – but usually they speak in the language of touches, and looks, and half-said phrases, unless it's something important. And then all bets are off.
"Oh," Hermione says as he sits to the left of her, and she leans against him by degrees as the silence stretches out. It's a slow slide, until her cheek is pillowed on his upper arm, and then he pulls it out from between them and curls it around her. Pulling her into the sparse warmth he can provide, in his dark canvas work trousers and his light jacket, the wind cutting through him. His feet are warm at least, in thick woollen socks and heavy steel-capped boots. "What did Lupin say?" she asks at last, and Draco thinks about what he said, and sighs.
"Oh," she says again, small and understanding, as though he's already answered her. Her left hand has crept over his right knee, her forearm lying along his thigh, her thumb rubbing in little soothing moments.
"If he's alive and still in Voldemort's service, instead of locked in a dungeon, he'll probably die tonight," Draco says, and to his disgust, his throat is tight, his chest constricted with the effort to keep down the tears that prick at his eyes. Stupid. Weak. He needs to focus and worrying about his father – and mother, at least she won't be there tonight, but oh Merlin, what Rodolphus said – He takes a deep breath, cutting off his thoughts. They're both already dead, he tells himself because that's easier to bear right now than the alternative. The uncertainty of not knowing, and the sick fear it aroused. "They're probably both already dead," he says, harsh and forceful, more even than he had meant it to be. He feels her stiffen slightly and rubs his hand up and down her side reassuringly.
"I'm sorry," she says after a long pause, her fingers splayed warm over his knee. He's glad she doesn't argue – doesn't try to tell him they might still survive. She just offers her empathy, undemanding and quiet. He doesn't respond yet. Just sits, as he presses his feelings for his parents into a small, tight ball and shoves it down. Perhaps he should be sleeping, or they should be talking and making plans, but he knows sleep won't come for him before the mission, so they have plenty of time to make plans later.
Right now, he will live in this moment. With electricity in the air, and the indescribable smell of ozone, the promise of rain in the chill dampness of the wind. Hermione nestles closer as that wind picks up and gusts, whistling through the eaves and making the trees shiver and rustle. She's so warm and so alive, and Draco wonders if he'll come home to her tomorrow. He wants to. He wants to live.
"There will be time to grieve later," he says at last, numbly. She glances up at the darkened sky as vague thunder grumbles very far off – it's closer to twilight than what must be near on 3 pm. He looks up, too, his arm tightening around her.
They see the first lightning strike split across the storm-ridden sky together. It's forked, not sheet, and it cuts jagged and beautiful across the sky, lighting everything up for one split second. Hermione starts inexplicably counting hippopotamuses. "One hippopotamus, two hippopotamus, three –"
Thunder crashes overhead and then growls, a long, drawn-out rumble, and she stops counting. It must be like counting hippogriffs to measure the distance of the strikes, Draco realises belatedly.
"It's five times hotter than the surface of the sun, you know," Hermione says conversationally but quietly, and Draco looks down at her. She's still looking up, leaning against his chest a little now, and he leans back on one hand to make it more comfortable for her. From this angle she's all askew, but just as pretty. Her fingers draw idle patterns on his thigh, and her breathing is slow and even.
"What, the lightning?" he asks, simultaneously not particularly interested and astounded.
"Mmhm." Hermione nods. "Air doesn't conduct electricity well, so it superheats."
"I'll make sure not to get hit by lightning then," he says, bewildered by the idea that it could be that hot. Wizards are struck by lightning during Quidditch matches infrequently but not rarely, and they almost always survive.
"Good idea." This time when the lightning strikes, he is looking at her and not the sky. She is lit up in the glow of a force more powerful than the sun, and she looks beautiful. It suits her.
She notices him looking and smiles, bemused, perhaps by the intensity of his gaze. And then, face upturned, Hermione presents her mouth – unmistakably for a kiss – and Draco complies obediently. Thunder comes again as his tongue searches the inner swell of her lower lip, and her small moan is lost to the noise of the sky. Her mouth is hot and sweet, her tongue fleetingly teasing. And then she pulls away and looks at the sky as the lightning slashes across the backdrop of rain-heavy clouds that the wind has swept atop them, followed by more thunder. And the heavens open up.
Rain falls in fat droplets – a scatter splatting on the stairs, and they both scoot back together, the porch roof protecting them from the worst of it. Neither of them moves to go in yet, or cast an Impervius Charm. And then it turns into a downpour of the sort that will leave you soaked to the skin within the minute if you're caught out in it without a wand. Hermione tucks her sock-clad feet back out of reach as the rain washes the dust off the toes of Draco's boots, the noise of the torrential rainfall loud on the corrugated plastic of the porch roof, beating a pattering rhythm.
She watches the lightning with something like wonder on her face as the thunder booms and rumbles again, close enough now that it's nearly deafening and growling on and on even after the main thunderclap ends, and he watches her.
If he dies tonight, he wants it to be with her clear in his mind. Just like this.
The unburdened expression she has right now, absorbed in the wonder of the moment, nothing else existing except the lightning, and the rain, and the warmth of their bodies. Her head is pressed against the juncture of his shoulder and chest, her hand attempting to span his thigh, and when she looks up at him, just as a bolt of lightning cuts jagged through the sky, her lips are parted, eyes reflecting the light.
And then the wind shifts, the rain blowing in, and she gasps and scrambles up with a breathless, startled laugh. He twists away from the rain, shoving to his feet with slightly less speed and more grace, feeling it falling fat and heavy on his jacket and trousers, and damp in his hair, sliding cold down his neck and making him shiver. She's standing there, clothes wet-blotched and face damp with rain instead of tears, a scatter of tiny droplets suspended in the fans of her lashes, and glimmering caught in her hair. He bends his head and kisses her again, catching her full lower lip between his two, and sucking it into his mouth as his hands slide to cradle her jaw. She makes a soft, melting sound and sways into him.
The kiss is heady and needy, and Draco finds he wants her with a sudden intensity that rocks him. He thinks of what Lupin had said. Say your goodbyes.
"Upstairs?" he asks when he pulls away, and Hermione nods, her lips flushed and her pupils blown wide, making her look dazed. She doesn't smile, her expression solemn, but he can see the want in her eyes.
"Yes," she whispers, and he wonders if she's thinking the same things he is as she takes his hand. The rattle of the door banging shut behind them is covered by a boom of thunder.
Hermione feels poised on the edge. Toes curled over the cliff. If she tilts forward just another half inch, she'll fall. The grief is so close. So heavy. And she hates it. There's no reason to feel this grieving. Fear she could understand, but this is something else entirely. It makes her feel like Draco's doomed. Like he's dead already and just hasn't lain down yet. It's irrational, and it's awful. And she feels the fear too, underneath, a river running through her. She pushes the door closed with one foot, and pushes forward and kisses him, her hands conforming to the sides of his neck. Pushes down the fear, and the grief. Rejects them.
Draco's hands slide to her waist, and his fingers are warm and gentle, and so, so careful as they curl around her, his fringe tickling against her forehead as they kiss. His mouth is filled with desperation and need, and he's hard, his cock brushing against her abdomen even as he holds her as though she's made of glass. Fragile. And she hates that too. He's going out to fight, and he might not come back.
Hermione wants him bruised into her flesh.
She wants Draco to let go. For once. For what might be the only, last time. To stop holding back. She can feel it now – the tension in his muscles, and the tremble in his fingers. The way he pushes into the kiss, and the way his breath comes in little panting gasps. He is a drawn bow, a taut rubber band, and she wants to cut him loose.
They stand on the floor at the end of the bed, and she is on tiptoes with her arms over his shoulders and her fingers clutching at the short hair at the back of his head. Pulling him down to her. He is still here for now. Still safe. Grief is a stone in her chest, creating dissonance as arousal streaks through her like lightning. So hot, her skin is burning with it, electricity in the air. The broken almost-groan that catches in his throat as she tips her pelvis out and traps his cock firmly between them makes her whimper in return, a burgeoning need thrumming between her legs. Her vulva feels so sensitive. So needy. His hands shift, one moving to find its way under the back of her waistband, fingers sliding down to caress the soft flesh there.
"So perfect," he murmurs against her lips and licks into her mouth, pleasure rolling through her, striking straight to her core and lighting her up. There's a leaden, cold lump of fear and grief behind her sternum, and yet her vulva is slick, flesh wanton and liquid hot. Her breath is a shallow gasp now too as she curls her tongue over his, and tingles ricochet down her spine and through her belly. Her clit is aching for his mouth, and her cunt is greedy for the hard, consuming press of his cock – she wants him inside her so badly it feels like she'll die if he doesn't just fuck her soon. Immediately. And yet she feels like weeping.
The rain beats down on the roof, and the thunder is rolling, swelling and quieting and sometimes breaking in a crash, but nearly constant. Spring storms.
"Please." Her chest is heaving as she pulls back and looks him in the eyes. True grey rings around pupils that have eaten his irises, shining as lightning flashes outside. The love in his face hurts. Awe. Adoration. The willingness to die for her. Everything. His expression holds multitudes. Universes, as he drags his thumb across her lower lip, his own mouth reddened and damp, his hair falling over his forehead. She can't untangle everything in his face – fear, determination. A grief of his own. A sadness that is driven through the core of him. That is entwined with the very soul of what he is now, who he is. And then there is the love that underpins everything. And the desire that makes his eyes into inkblot pools, and lends a predatory edge to him as he sways forward half an inch toward her.
"You're in control," he says very softly, his hand cradling her jaw, strong and warm. Their mantra. He licks his lips, and his own breath is coming hard, his shoulders rising and falling sharply.
Hermione's eyes drop to his crotch, his cock straining against the heavy canvas trousers he wears, and she doesn't want control. And she doesn't want him to have it either – not if it's the self-control that makes him keep himself in check. She wants the very concept of control to be suspended, for a time. Banished from this room. She swallows hard. "No," she says very softly. "No, I don't want to be." She puts her hands to his belt and begins undoing it. "I want you to do whatever you want. However you want." She meets his eyes again as his buckle clanks free. "Please."
"But –" His brow furrows, and she can read all his poised arguments. His unspoken protests. What about flashbacks? What about triggering her? Hurting her? They stay unspoken. He breaks off, and his eyes search her face, his expression set in an attempt at careful neutrality. She waits, blindly fumbling with his trouser button. He should know she wouldn't ask for this if she wasn't sure.
"I want you," she says, in a small voice, as his button pops free, zipper sliding open of its own accord as she pushes her hand inside his trousers and grips his cock through his boxers. "So badly. I'm not afraid, Draco. I know it's you. Please." His expression comes apart entirely then. The neutrality crumples into a nearly frantic want, so consuming that it sends a jolt through her. Like closing your hand around an electric fence. The sharp, shocking crack followed by the oddly dull thud that pulses through every muscle from hand outward. Except instead of pain, it's pleasure, and her stomach flips and twists.
His control is broken. She has shredded it. It lies in pieces on the floor as he kisses her again, hard and fierce, and the sheer force of need in the press of their mouths makes her moan unbidden. And then he pulls back as he yanks her jersey clumsily up over her head, flinging it down without thought. Kissing her again, brief and open-mouthed, before her shirt comes off too, with the same clumsy urgency, and she's in her vest and leggings as he shrugs off his jacket.
"Should I?" she asks, pulling at the hem of her vest, meaning should she undress. Words seem wrong right now. And Draco shakes his head as he looks up from peeling his socks off, his boots kicked aside already, his wand holster and wand tossed on the dresser.
"No," he says, breathless and urgent, an order. "No, don't. I will." There's a sweet possessiveness to both the words and his tone that makes Hermione shiver as she stands there in the stormy gloom, and the thunder crashes, the rain beating in against the window pane. And then he's shucked his trousers, and ripped his shirt off over his head, and his hands are on her waist, pushing her back. She hits the bed and falls, and catches sight of his grin, his tongue curling behind his teeth. And then, his head bowed, he drags her leggings and knickers down at once, sliding them down her legs, which, once freed, dangle over the side of the bed.
She tries to sit up, and he plants a hand on her stomach and pushes her back down. "Shh. Stay," he says, and his eyes are very focused and dizzy at the same time.
Her breath is a messy cascade, her breasts heaving under her vest, the air cold on her vulva. He peels her socks off her feet one at a time, lifting them up to do so. He kisses her right ankle. He bites the arch of her left foot. And then, he kneels before her, between her spread legs at the end of the bed. Like he's paying supplication. Like he's praying for absolution. And his hands go to her hips and he pulls her closer to the bed edge, and for a heartbeat, he stares at her with wide, glazed eyes – as though he really is worshipping her – before he leans in abruptly and his tongue sweeps hot over her clit.
She moans and shudders as pleasure blazes hot and consuming from her clit right through her. Her vulva thrumming with awakened sensation and her cunt twitching, her limbs melting with the heat as he keeps licking. Licking and swirling. An onslaught. Every nerve is alight. Radiating. Beautiful. Her mouth makes a breathy, wailing moan that she barely even recognises as coming from her, and her hands dig into the bed covers. And then his mouth fixes hot over her clit and sucks, and the hnnngh that warbles out of her is so loud she blushes beneath the hot flush that is already breaking out all over her.
"Oh fuck," she exhales as he slides his mouth down. Kissing her vulva. Licking and sucking, his tongue dipping into her, and oh god, her nerves are a series of fireworks popping off into showers of sparks. Everything about this moment has primed her. Everything feels more. Because this could be the last time. They could all be dead tomorrow. Or worse, he could be dead, and she still alive, walking around emptied out and broken. Adrift. Tears prick her eyes, but then his hands tighten on her hips nearly hard enough to hurt, his fingers indenting deep as he holds her, his tongue plying her with bliss, a humming, satisfied growl escaping him, and for a while, she forgets again.
He becomes the universe. The pleasure he gives her is life, and she squirms under his hands, gasping and moaning, loving the way he holds her still this time. No gentleness. No careful handling. Draco holds her hard and firm, and when she opens her eyes, she sees white-blond hair and the glint of his eyes as he looks up. The slick, flushed curve of his lips as he lifts his head and smiles, wicked and dazed, his shoulders flexing as he slides one hand to lie splayed flat over her abdomen, holding her like a butterfly pinned to a card as he licks her while holding her gaze.
Hermione whimpers and lets her eyes slide shut again, one hand pressing to her mouth and the other burying in his hair. Soft and silky, her fingers curl in the short locks hard. The pleasure is a building storm in the core of her as he swirls his tongue around her swollen clit and then slides it down between her labia. Buries it inside her, a delicious obscenity, feeling his tongue lick her from the inside before sliding back up to her clit. A multitude of repetitions that tease and edge and tease again, pushing her higher and higher toward a teetering peak. Time becomes meaningless. Her muscles wind to a shivering tension as the climax approaches with the inevitability of the tide coming in. Except it's a tsunami. A perfect devastation.
"Nngh…" His fingers sliding easily into her slick cunt is the last straw. The breaking point. The unexpected, unwarned invasion, filling her, her body twitching and clenching as he pumps his fingers in and out and twists them. Curls them, as he keeps licking her clit quickly and lightly.
Hermione comes with a groan and feels herself clamp down around his suddenly motionless fingers in a rippling series of perfect, blissful spasms, and he makes a choked little groan. The sound of him like that, raw and wrenched apart, is so arousing. Her whole body shudders and clenches, and he makes another little huffing groan as he works her through the aftershocks. When she opens her eyes, he's watching her. His eyes are so pupil-swamped they're dark as he slowly pulls his fingers out of her. She whimpers. His two fingers are slickly wet, shining in the storm-dark light. And then he puts them in his mouth and sucks them clean as their eyes lock, and she whimpers again.
She feels drunk on orgasm. On him. Drunk, and stupid, and melting in a sea of bliss, every muscle liquid.
"Up," he says, one word. Sharp and sweet at once. An order that's all run through with a plea. And then, still on his knees, he takes her waist and gently draws her upright so she sits, swaying and wobbly on the edge of the bed. One arm slides around her waist to steady her as he drags her vest off over her head with the other hand. He kisses her jaw as she sways against him and she looks at him, her lips parted as she gasps for air, feeling glassy-eyed and breathless. His mouth presses to hers as if it's a beacon, a magnet dragging him in. His tongue slicks into her mouth, and his lips are wet with her juices and she can taste herself. Arousal shivers over her skin like St. Elmo's fire, buzzing and humming, the air feeling tight.
She's lax in his arms, dazed, and he holds her close and safe, her bare breasts brushing against his skin, her nipples tightening. Naked, with wetness streaking the insides of her thighs; his saliva and her own slickness. She feels mindless – deliciously ravished as he kisses her. He's urgent, and needy, a single-minded focus to him as he says, "back down now," and yet there's an exquisite gentleness to his touch that makes her heart feel too full. He pushes her gently back down onto the bed, and she goes with her heart in her throat, her blood thrumming hot, her skin alight. Lying back looking up at him feeling dizzy and glazed, her breath dragging in and out, hard and short, her legs dangling over the edge still.
He looks at her as he kneels there between her thighs, and his lips part like he's about to speak. There's awe in his expression as the mood shifts. "I don't deserve this," he says very softly, after a pause. "I don't deserve you."
"That's not –" She pushes up on her elbows, frowning. "Draco, that's not true. Not even a little." He inclines his head in a non-committal gesture – maybe so, maybe no – just as lightning illuminates the room. She licks her lips, counting automatically in her head, and gets to two hippopotamuses. The thunder booms, and it seems as though the window panes rattle, although that could just be the rain. She doesn't know how to impress upon him the gravity of what she feels for him. It's love, but it's more, too. So much more.
Draco's the only reason she's still here – the only reason she's capable of laughter. He's the reason she's a person – with desires, hopes, and dreams of a future – instead of being dead in a dungeon or worse; a hollowed out, catatonic ruin. For her, he has sacrificed the last few things that he had left to him. His parents. His own body. Being forced to brutalise her while she wept and pleaded, and struggled to escape. He has been through hell and back with her, holding her hand the entire way and guiding her when she couldn't see the path.
"You deserve so much more than I can give you," she says, her heart in her throat, meaning it. She is a paltry prize to receive, for everything that he's gone through.
But he looks at her as though she is the answer, to everything. As though she is the lightning rod and he is the bolt; bright and beautiful, and lethal. Dangerous, and inexorably focused entirely on her. She flushes under that look. His pupils blown wide and his lips parted, expression vulnerable. "All I want is you," he tells her.
"You have me," she says, a whisper, meeting his eyes even though the intensity of that quicksilver gaze makes goosebumps shiver over her flesh. "Always."
Draco's hands settle at her hips then – tentative at first, smoothing a path sweet and gentle up her sides. Swooping up gently, brushing the outsides of her breasts up and over to her shoulders, palming over the balls of her shoulders and then tracing them over her upper arms, his fingertips light and tingling. He leans forward and presses his mouth against the inside of her upper thigh. Murmuring something into her skin. She thinks it might be love. His hands tremble slightly as they curve over her breasts and then glide down over her ribs and stomach, finally sweeping out to grip her hips for a moment. It's like he's imprinting the feel of her into his mind. His hands memorising her, his lips placing kisses on every part of her bare skin he can reach.
These are their last moments together during the war. After this, they will either never be together again, or the war will be over. This is a moment in time they will never be able to get back. Hermione treasures it. The fleeting peace of his hands. The heat of his mouth. The throb of desire that persists between her legs.
She wants him.
"Please," she murmurs and reaches out, grabbing at his hair, dragging him up to meet her.
They end up on the bed together, he above her, his eyes gleaming darkly as he fits his body against hers. They've done it like this before, but somehow this time feels different. Like an exorcism. An echo of the past as he settles over her, his body hard and warm as he slots between her legs. Like the revel, part of her mind registers. His mouth is at her breasts – licking and sucking instead of biting and bruising, igniting pleasure instead of pain. There is no space for the darkness of old memories between them. There's only them, and now. This fragile, almost broken moment. Ephemeral and fleeting and gone all too soon.
The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there, Hermione thinks, fragmented, a memory stirring as she pulls his head up and kisses him. Hot and slick, a shivering, taut need strung through her body. The past is dead and gone, and now she needs to bury it, before the end. "Please," she says again kissing him sweetly as she meets his eyes, and he takes a short little breath. He is tender and urgent at once. Hermione doesn't know how much he's really let go because she can feel the careful worry that threads beneath his every needy, almost desperate touch, but maybe this is as much as he can let go right now.
Then his right hand reaches down between them, fingers sliding over her vulva and dipping between wet folds, checking that she's ready. He's breathing hard and ragged, his eyes filled with wonder. Desire. Need. He does something, and there's the strangely wonderful feeling of the head of his cock, pressing up against her cunt. He bites his lower lip and his eyes flutter halfway shut. And then his cock pushes into her suddenly, without a spoken warning. Sliding all the way to the hilt in one smooth, hard push of his hips and he groans, the sound nearly lost beneath her own discordant moan.
"Oh fuck," he gasps on an inhale after the groan, and he sounds broken. Shattered.
"Oh – oh –" His cock fills her, her tender, orgasm-sensitised flesh stretching, pleasure flooding her in bright, hot waves. A heartbeat's pause and he slides halfway out, and she gulps for air, drowning, before he drives in again and her breath caves out of her on a juddering, "hhhngh."
Her mind is a blur, her eyes have fallen shut now, and all she can feel is him. His mouth at the hinge of her jaw, his breath on her skin. His body pressed to hers. His cock, plunging into her so deep and so hard that it hurts inside, just a little. A sweet, blooming pain, honey dark and deliciously tender, just driving the pleasure higher. As if he's reshaping her body to fit him. He strokes ecstasy into her, his thrusts hard and fast, and just a little bit ragged, and his breath is hot at her throat, her temple, her ear; little gusts of air as he huffs a breath, or hisses at a shift of angle, or moans at the feel of her around him.
"Oh, fuck," he breathes, as his hips slam against her, and a moan is driven from her lungs as her fingers slide through his hair. "Hermione." Her name is a prayer, and she wishes in the haze of pleasure that she was a goddess who could assure his safety tonight. And with that stray thought, their moment shivers, the bubble nearly broken, a knot of grief and fear entangling with the bliss that arcs through every muscle. And then his pace quickens, and he makes a stifled whimper that sounds like it came through bitten lips and gritted teeth, his fingers flexing against her.
Everything hurts. Everything is perfect. He is everything.
She won't let him go alone, she thinks as she looks at him when they lie together afterwards, sprawled across the bed beside each other as he catches his breath, and she puts her brain back together. Hermione rolls onto her side, facing him. And he's flushed and wrecked, his love written in every line of him as she traces the scar cutting across his face with trembling fingertips. He's raw and uninhibited as he rolls to face her and his hand slides over the contours of her body.
"I love you," he tells her as though he's saying goodbye.
She's going on the mission tonight, she thinks, fear an electric current running through her veins. One way or another, she'll be there. If this is the end, then they'll face it together. They'll live or die together. If Draco falls on the field, then she probably will too, and that might be for the best.
"I love you too," she tells him, and then she kisses him, shifting her naked body closer to his. She wants more before it has to end.
When they finally disentangle from each other at 9 pm, the storm has long since eased to a gentle, steady rain. Hermione watches as Draco carefully puts away his emotions as best he can while he dresses for the battle. As he pulls his t-shirt and dark canvas trousers on, his self-control returns, and that raw vulnerability fades from his features, his eyes becoming steel; sharp, and hard. His mouth firms as he straps on his wand holster and checks his wand's fit before yanking on his dull khaki jacket. His jaw ticks as he buckles his belt.
Hermione can see he's thinking of saying something as she drags herself off the bed, sweaty and sticky, feeling his cum trickle down the insides of her thighs, but he doesn't speak at first. His eyes are both unfocused and tight, and it seems as though he's shoving his emotions down before he risks speaking. She's finished scourgifying herself and cast a contraceptive charm, and he's tugging his socks on when he finally does speak.
"You're to go to the estate tonight. Non-combatants are standing by with the Healers," he says, and his words are short and clipped. Hermione wriggles on knickers and socks, and – unusual for her – a sports bra with a vest over top. She hopes he doesn't notice. "It means it'll be easier to get word to everyone, whether we win or lose." Hermione presses her lips together hard. She hates hearing him say it.
"If we fail, the word might not get to you before the enemy does. In fact, at any point, a captured Order member could be tortured into giving away the estate's location, or side-along apparating one of the enemy. It's unlikely, but it's a possibility," he says, voice hard and sure now, a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he shoves his feet into his boots. "So you need to be prepared. If more than one or two Death Eaters turn up, then you run." He jerks the double-knotted bow on his right boot tight as he emphasises the last word. His eyes flick to her, sharp as knives. "Do you understand?" The question cuts through her, harsh and demanding.
She nods, flinching from his tone. "Yes," she says as she pulls on a long-sleeved t-shirt and then grabs for jeans. Hopefully, he'll think her sturdier clothing choices are in case she needs to run. "But I'm not leaving people behind."
"Fuck," he mutters, the other boot already laced, and buries his face in his hands for a second. "Of course you won't," he says, muffled. And then he looks up, and his eyes are stricken again. "Please. Hermione. If something happens, get out safely. You can't save everyone. If they have any sense, they'll run too."
Hermione frowns as she sits and pulls on her trainers. It's all moot anyway; she won't be there at the estate. She'll be at the mansion, in the battle. But he can't know that. And if she agrees to his terms too easily, he won't believe she's telling the truth. She sighs. This is a hard balance to strike. Lying to Draco Malfoy isn't easy. At least he'll think her current vocally unhappy indecision is related to whether she'll run or not – it'll add sincerity when she caves. "Fine," she says at last. "Once I know Teddy and Ginny are safe, I'll leave."
"Fuck," he mutters again, and their eyes meet. She stares back, thinking about the battle and the decision she's made – I will be there. I will be with him – and a strange, steady calm comes with the thoughts. It feels so right. Hermione hopes her calm seems like an honest determination to him. He frowns, corners of his mouth dragging down. "Fine. Teddy and Ginevra. And then you fucking run."
"Agreed." It's like a negotiation, except it's all a falsehood. "Where am I going if I have to run, then?" She yanks up her sleeve to strap on her wand holster.
"Have you been to Hull?" he asks.
"Hull? You want me to go to fucking Hull?" Hermione stares at him in disbelief. A more unexpected choice she couldn't have imagined.
"Have you been?"
"Well, yes, actually, I –"
"Do you know where the Minster is?" he asks abruptly.
"I guess, yes. I mean, I couldn't disapparate directly to it, but I know it."
"Good. If anything happens, go there. If I'm not there by midday tomorrow, then leave."
She blinks at him, bewildered. It's not going to play out the way Draco wants, but she's curious anyway. And he'd expect her to ask. To protest. "Leave?"
"Yes. Leave. The country, if you can, using disapparition. Otherwise, go undercover. Lay low. And then get out, somehow."
"But –"
"If you go somewhere like…like Vietnam, or South Africa, or Australia, he might never find you." Draco's eyes sharpen. He stands as Hermione yanks her jacket out of the dresser. "In fact, yes. Your parents are in Australia, right? Go there." He obviously thinks he's struck on a persuasive idea. Hermione bites her lip, recoiling from even thinking about it. She pauses for a long moment. "Then I'll know where to find you if I'm alive," he says, urgently, crossing the two steps to her, his hands going to her jacket, adjusting it, his knuckles running along her jaw. She hates the thought, and she lets that show clear on her face.
"Fine," she allows, her fingers hooking through his belt loops. "Fine. But it won't come to that anyway. That's not going to happen." She clenches her jaw, trying not to let herself tear up as she thinks about it. "You're going to be fine. Whatever else happens."
"That's the plan." His tone is light, his mouth curving up at one corner. "I'm good at surviving." And that's true, even if only barely. He's had too many close calls lately. But Hermione nods, blinking back prickling tears and biting the inside of her cheek. She doesn't want to cry. Not right now. Not with everything looming so close. And she's about to go alone into a terrifying, chaotic situation, against Draco's wishes. She needs to be at her best tonight, not distressed and edging into panic, or she'll get herself killed before she can find him. But her chest feels tight, and her heartbeat a stampede, and she's so afraid, really. She tries not to think about how angry he'll be when she turns up.
The idea is to wait ten minutes – long enough for them to get into the mansion, so when he does see her, he can't just drag her straight back out. Then she'll apparate into the woods to the exact spot they escaped from, and run the short distance to the estate. And then she'll find him in the chaos. And she'll pull herself together and fight. She was never a fighter at heart, but she was a decent duellist. Precise and fast, favouring the clean deadliness of diffindo. As long as she hadn't overthought things and had kept her panic in check – her problem had always been getting caught up in her head and not existing in the moment. She'll have to do better tonight. She'll have to be at her very best.
She hopes she's doing the right thing – a shiver of uncertainty suddenly runs through her. Doubt lurches up. What if she is just a liability? What if she's what gets him killed? What if she can't find him? What if she just freezes? But she can't let him go in without her. He's still stiff from his injury, not moving with his usual fluid grace, and no one will watch his back the way she will. Hermione tells herself she's doing the right thing. She has to believe that. They should be together, now, at the end.
She can do this.
"We might as well go down together," she says, nodding to the door as his eyes search over her. Worry flickers in the depths. "Wait in Lupin's office. I have things to organise."
"Hermione." He shoots her a fond, exasperated look out of his worry. "Organising the office hardly matters now."
"It makes me feel better," she says, not lying, and he sighs.
"Fine. But first – I need you to promise me you'll stay at the estate," he says, those grey eyes still glued to hers, his lashes catching the lamplight, gilded and shining, his irises burnished. "That you'll stay safe and won't try anything. I need to know that you're safe. Please."
"I'll stay at the estate," she says, her eyes on him without guile. Clear and blameless, or so she hopes. She feels nervous and shaky, and her adrenaline is pumping. Fear sweat has broken out under her arms, and she wants to keep chewing the inside of her cheek. He'll probably just think that's nerves. She keeps her gaze steady on him, and thinks, I love you.
"Promise me," Draco says, and she nods.
"I promise," she tells him, lying through her teeth and hoping she doesn't live to regret it.
He kisses her chastely when he leaves her at the estate, abandoning her at the disapparition point like some sailor's bride, to pace the widow's walk and wait for word. His lips are soft, and there are people around but no one is watching them, and that press of lips lingers. It's as sweet and perfect a goodbye kiss as she could want, even if it is breaking her heart.
And then he can't just tell her he loves her, and that he'll see her soon, the bastard. No, he has to be realistic. Coldly pragmatic.
"If I don't come back," he says, his eyes grave on hers, "then I'm sorry."
"But you will be back," she says viciously, suddenly crying and furious as he backs up a handful of paces, because why couldn't he just say I love you and go, like everyone else? But that wasn't him. He had never shied away from the ugly truth. He'd had that softness burnt out of him. She chokes on a miserable sob as he smiles faintly.
"I'll try," he promises. "Here or Hull." It's not reassuring. And then he disapparates, and Hermione balls her fists up and bites down on a snarling scream before it can properly escape. She kicks at the gravel, uncaring of anyone else, and storms back to the mansion – furious and terrified, her heart ripping in two.