Forty-Three

Draco feels like a fucking Inferius as he lurches along through the maze at a half-run, right leg stuck out stiffly, every muscle burning with pain, occasional spasms causing him to stumble. He stays close to the hedge so he can use it for support; if he falls, he's not sure he'll be able to get up again. He's a wreck, anger and purpose about all that's keeping him upright and moving forward. Jones is in here somewhere, probably. And if he is, Draco is going to find him, and kill him. And then it'll be three down and nine to go – unless some of the others are already dead, which he knows they might well be. He bites back a groan of pain with every step, raking his wet hair back as the rain keeps pouring down, and the lightning and thunder won't let up.

And then he turns a corner to see Jones there, standing in an intersection, clearly trying to figure out which way to go. Tall and solid, his dark blonde hair turned dull brown by the dark and the rain. Draco silently lashes off an incarcerous, but Jones must see it out of the corner of his eye and raises a shield with a fluid flick of his wand, the spell bouncing off harmlessly. "Jones!" Draco roars, lurching closer, anger a physical force ripping out of his chest. He sends off a volley of incapacitating spells, but Jones blocks them all, and instead of running, he turns to face Draco this time and hurls his own curses. Draco deflects them all as he limps forward, his breath coming hard through gritted teeth, his jaw tight and his eyes locked to the other man.

"Do you –"

"Recognise you? Yes," Jones says, an almost Canadian slant to his accent. "You were Voldemort's protege. Malfoy. With the little mudblood pet that you ran off with."

Draco spits coagulated blood on the path; his tongue seems to have stopped its sluggish bleeding. He refuses to let Jones get a rise out of him – the other wizard is grinning, confident and uninjured, and it's clear he thinks he has the upper hand and wants to take the time to taunt Draco. And he probably does have the advantage. In fact, he almost definitely does. But Draco will win. He always has. Like a cat with nine lives, he survives where he shouldn't. He shields as Jones flings a curse at him and returns two of his own, which are also blocked.

"You're going to die for what you did to her," he tells Jones, trying for a conversational tone, although his voice is a little too tight as he calls the words over the rain.

"What I did? You're the one who allowed it, Malfoy," Jones calls back, and Draco feels his rage churn. His chest hurts, an actual ache, throbbing behind his sternum. His lungs feel as though they can't draw enough air. He'd tried so hard to protect Hermione. He'd tried to ban them from pushing their disgusting fingers into her or having their filthy genitals anywhere near her, but Voldemort had over-ridden him with a sharp word and a meaningful look. Her mouth was a free-for-all, and – and only fingers elsewhere. Fuck. He wants to tear the memories raw and bloody out of his head. He hates himself so much. So much.

He still doesn't understand why Hermione wants him, after that. How. She says it's because they didn't have a choice, and he knows that's true, but it doesn't fix anything. It doesn't mean it didn't happen.

It takes an effort to stop himself from rising to Jones's bait. He bites back the denials he wants to spew. The pathetic excuses. He deserves Jones's accusations. Draco will kill the man, slow and bloody, but what he said then was merited. What he says next isn't.

"She was sweet, though. I can see why you ran off with her. She lasted so long before she broke," he begins, and Draco twitches and lashes off a series of curses, trying to cling on to some sense of calm. Some kind of control. But Jones was the one who'd caused the…the damage there that Draco had had to heal later on in his room, stumbling inadequate apologies while she sat there dead and numb, like a pliable doll. Draco is suddenly not sure he'll be able to hold it together. He's breathing hard and shallow, the rain sheeting over him and blurring his vision as he lurches another step toward Jones. Only a few metres separate them now. He thinks he's crying.

Jones returns his own handful of curses, and Draco holds a shield, shimmering in the spell-broken dark. Colours flying and fading. It takes an effort. He's slipping. He can't stop thinking about what they did, and the crucio has made everything harder. Thinking. Moving. Duelling.

"And then when she broke, oh, she was magnificent," Jones went on, teeth gleaming white as he grins. "Some of them are just animals, you know? Ugly things. They scream and wail, and then they go blank, like a light's gone out. And then there's nothing there anymore. Like damned cows. But her…she lasted so long. Screaming, and weeping, and –" Draco knows where Jones is going before he says it "– begging you to help her."

He chokes on a sob and bites his tongue automatically, only for agony to sear through his mouth as he reopens the freshly coagulated wounds, blood flowing again. Fuck. He spits blood and slices a diffindo at Jones's legs, followed by a stupefy. He supposes bitterly that it makes sense both Hill and Jones have brought it up; his failure to protect her. It's the thing that hurts him the most. The wound that still hasn't healed. He's not sure it ever will, and if that's the case, he'll live with it, but Merlin, having them grind it in his face like this is agony.

"– at you with those pretty golden-brown eyes, all swimming with tears, begging you to save her. 'Please, master'," Jones mimics, mocking Hermione, and Draco has never wanted to kill anyone more in his entire life, his chest heaving as he slashes off curses. "But you served her to us on a platter. You watched while we took the little bitch apart. And she kept begging. And begging. And you didn't help her. You told her to be a good little mudblood and only use her mouth as she was instructed." He pauses. Thinks, remembering. "You used a silencio on her."

Because Voldemort had threatened to cut out her tongue if she kept screaming, Draco thinks numbly. He'd had to. He doesn't know what's rain and what's tears anymore.

"Crucio!" It spills from his lips in a hiss and snarl, blood spraying from his lips, and oh, he means it – but Jones deflects it, the bastard. But Draco follows up the Cruciatus with a diffindo, lightning fast, and Jones doesn't deflect that one. Jones makes a startled, oddly indignant sound as a gaping wound opens up the man's abdomen. He looks shocked. Draco feels like he can see the glint of organs through one end of the gash, and a hollow satisfaction burns through him. He grins and spits blood.

"Avada Kedavra!" Jones snarls, and they're standing too close now – Draco barely avoids the streak of light, and then, while he's off balance, Jones hits him with a depulso. Well, fuck. The other man used Draco's own trick against him. Distract and strike.

He feels like he's fallen off his broom and struck the ground at high speed, ribs creaking and cracking as he goes flying back and crashes into the hedge, hard, his wand knocked from his hand on impact. Everything hurts even more than it already did. He thinks some branches may have impaled him, he's bleeding from scratches and scrapes, and he can't breathe at all – entirely winded, his diaphragm frozen. Panic rises in his mind as he whoops for air and gets nothing, choking on his own blood instead.

"Incendio!" Jones rasps as he staggers closer, and sheer desperation gives Draco the strength to hurl himself out of the hedge at Jones, tackling him hard. The incendio hits his left arm and shoulder, and the agony is immediate and consuming, competing with the pain of his ribs and his knee. And then they hit the wet gravel together in a tangle, and in the ugly, sloppy struggle, the flames are extinguished.

Jones seems to have lost his wand too, and they're wrestling for the upper hand on the ground. Jones claws at Draco's eyes and then at his burned shoulder, dragging deep runnels in the blistering flesh. He still hasn't been able to get a proper breath, dizzy, the world spinning, and he groans soundlessly with the agony of Jones's fingers shredding his charred flesh. And then Draco gets his hand between their two bodies, forcing it into Jones's abdominal wound, shuddering with disgust as he tries to tear his way into the man's body while he screams, dragging at soft, slippery flesh.

Jones punches him in the side of the ribs, hard and fast, desperation and agony driving him on. Pain explodes through Draco's chest, and he whips his head forward, meeting Jones's nose and breaking it thoroughly. There's a brief struggle and then Draco is on top of Jones, his burned left forearm shoved down across the man's throat, strangling him even as Draco himself drags desperately for air, pain erupting with every breath. And then Jones flips them, and he's on top now, Draco pinned underneath him.

Jones's nose is pouring blood onto Draco's cheek, and his stomach wound has to be agony, but he wraps both hands firmly around Draco's throat, and oh shit. Jones is cutting off his blood supply. He can feel it – the way his head already feels too full and thick, thoughts swimming, dizzy. He only has about fifteen seconds of consciousness left, at best. He's going to die unless he does something – now. Gasping for air, his vision darkening around the edges, he remembers the dagger and gropes for it on his belt with his free right hand.

His fingers wrap around the handle and he yanks it free clumsily, his head pounding and vision filled with dancing black spots. And Jones knocks it out of his hand. The dagger skitters away across the gravel, blade gleaming in the flare of a lightning strike, and Draco feels himself start to go, world warping and falling away, crumpling in at the edges. The last thing he sees is Jones's bloodied grin, but he thinks he hears Hermione's voice as he sinks. A strange, suffocating calm falls over him, and he thinks – impossibly – that he hears her calling out to him. I'm sorry, he thinks for the second time that night. Hermione.

Hermione hurtles around yet another corner, her wand up and ready. And then she skids to a stop as she takes in the tableau before her, her trainers slipping on the gravel and her arms flailing for balance. Oh god. "Draco!" He's lying beneath another man, his hand wavering in the air, his arm bare and terribly burnt. From this angle, she can only see the top of his white-blond head, but she knows it's him. And then his arm flops limply to the path and she sees the Mark, and she really knows. A stifled moan of horror escapes her, and she's about to hurl a stupefy at the man over him, when he looks up.

"You," he says as if surprised, and a slow grin spreads over his face as he recognises her, and she can't breathe. The breath slams out of her, a terrible numbness seizing her as she looks into the man's dark eyes. Filled with pain now and wild, but she remembers them. She remembers that grin. It's the same one he had when he – when he – when he hurt her, she thinks, filled with a gasping, mindless panic that drags her under. If she had thought seeing Goyle Sr. was difficult, then this is hell.

"We were just talking about you," he says, glancing down at Draco. His eyes flick to her wand as she points it out toward him, her hand shaking. Her mind is a seething mass of horror. A nest of scorpions, every thought stinging her, poisoning her. She feels rooted to the spot, a frozen statue.

"Get away from him," she tries to say – to shout – and it comes out in a pathetic croak. His hands are around Draco's throat. He's killing him. Her hand is shaking so hard she can barely hold her wand as she tries to hold back an avalanche of memories that threaten to crush her. She tries to cast a stupefy and it fizzles. The man smiles.

"I know what it feels like from the inside, when you scream," he says slowly, still smiling that vicious, intimate smile. "Who else can say that, mudblood?" And that's all it takes. A tiny wheezing gasp escapes her, and her whole body goes numb. Hermione shuts down as memories she didn't even know she had surge up with a vengeance, raging through her head and laying waste to every meagre fragment of herself that she's clawed back.

Hermione remembers.

She thinks she's competent? Capable? Worthwhile? She's not. It's an illusion. It's all been an illusion and that man – Jones, she remembers from the dossiers – has shattered it.

She's nothing but a creature, screaming her agony for his pleasure.

He was one of the men who stripped her down to a catatonic wreck devoid of any humanity and personhood. A nothing. Screamed hoarse and broken, just flesh for their amusement. She begged. She screamed. Until someone had silenced her. And then finally, she had been good. Pliable and accepting, a doll to be played with – to flinch, silently scream, weep, and obey, as the conscious part of her curled in a ball in the corner of her mind, screaming, and screaming, trying to hide from what they made her into. Trying to pretend it wasn't happening.

That will always be in her. She will always have been that. It's inescapable. At the end of everything, she is what they made her. A thing. Worthless and broken.

It all rips through her mind in one brutal rush.

And then she sees Draco's fingers twitch on the gravel. Pale where they aren't bloodied.

And in the space of a heartbeat, she remembers. She remembers it all. Every part of it.

The way he'd sobbed, "I can't…" hidden against the swell of her breast at the revel, broken and wrecked.

How he'd sunk to his knees for her to use the Cruciatus on him. And when he could speak again, he'd said, "Granger? Are you – you okay?"

What he'd told her right before the dinner. "You don't deserve any of this, Granger," he'd said and kissed her forehead.

The way he'd sobbed in the bathroom afterwards when he thought she was sleeping.

She remembers the moment she'd realised she loved him. He'd stank of smoke and been bloodstained because he'd just come back from murdering innocent people so they wouldn't burn alive. And she'd clung to him, and thought, can this be love?

"You'll either get home, or we'll both be dead."

"It was worth it. I was glad. It – it kept you safe for a little longer."

"I'm so sorry. So fucking sorry."

"I love you, Hermione."

She looks at Jones. It doesn't matter what they did to her.

"You're not nothing, Granger. You're not. You're infinitely fucking better than anyone in this damn place, including me."

She raises her wand and it trembles, and Jones says, "Don't –"

"Diffindo!" she tries to shout, and it comes out cracked and hushed, but the intent is there, and when she slashes her arm, her wandwork is true. A lipless mouth opens in his throat, and then the blood pours out in gutters and pumps. He falls. Sideways and forward, his body slumped half over Draco's, and Hermione makes a weird, breathy whimper and runs forward, her legs feeling heavy and clumsy, her hands numb, and panic a monster that consumes her. She falls to her knees beside Draco and shoves at Jones, her breath a sobbing whine as she tries to push him off Draco's body, her skin crawling.

She can't tell if he's breathing. She can't…

Tears stream down her cheeks. Jones is so fucking heavy, and he's bled all over Draco. She hates Jones. She hates his stupid, dead body. "Get off. Get off. Get off!" she's panting and growling, and god, if Draco's – if he's – if he's dead because she had a flashback and couldn't control herself, then she doesn't know what she'll do. Oh god. Oh Merlin, please. Jones finally rolls off him, and she sobs with relief and puts her fingers to his reddened, bruising throat, feeling for his pulse under his jaw. If he doesn't have one, she'll have to start CPR and mouth-to-mouth. But he'll be okay. He has to be. Except she can't find a damned pulse with her shaking fingers, and she doesn't know if it's because of her, or because – his hand covers hers, stilling it as she probes and jabs at his throat, and a shock runs through her.

"Draco," she gasps, breathless and disbelieving.

"Ow-ouch, H'mione," he rasps haltingly as his eyes blink open. Bloodshot and beautiful. "That hurts."

She stares at him wildly for a split second and then dissolves into racking sobs. On her knees, pressing her face gently against his chest, her shoulders shaking, her hand still trapped in his.

"Oh hey. Hey, shh. It's okay," he says in a slurring, hoarse voice, letting her hand go as he tries to move, and she looks at him with her chin wobbling as he struggles to get his hands down and lever himself up. She grabs his t-shirt at the sides and tries to help even as she keeps crying wretchedly. His poor, burned arm is a ruin. It looks awful. The Healers should be able to fix it up fine, but Merlin, it must be agony.

"I almost killed you," she gasps, as he manages a sitting position with a groan, looking like he'll fall over at any second. He doesn't look like he's quite all there yet.

He hasn't even realised that she's here when she shouldn't be.

"No, you didn't. You saved me," he gets out dazedly, with a glance at Jones, and then winces and bites back a gasp as he tries to get up further and fails.

"Careful. Careful – just –" she starts. He ends up slumped back against Jones's body, which – as disgusting as it is – makes a good prop. And then he sits, gasping through his pain as Hermione unhooks the thankfully unbroken vial of essence of dittany from his belt. "Here – let me –"

And then she's stripping off her jacket and slinging it over his left shoulder, carefully sprinkling dittany over his burns, using her jacket to stop the rain from washing it away. He just sits there, stunned and clearly deep in pain, whimpering as she's forced to use her fingers to spread the dittany to conserve it, breathing short and shallow, his eyes glazed, like hazy moons. And then about halfway through, his breath judders to a halt, and she looks at him, concerned. And he's staring at her like he's only just seen her.

His eyes are suddenly cognisant again, and he's looking at her with horror and fury dawning in his eyes. She stutters to a halt in her work as he pins her with his gaze.

"What the fuck," he rasps dangerously, "are you doing here, Hermione?"

She looks terrified and beautiful as she kneels there beside him in the middle of a fucking war zone. Exactly where he'd told her not to be. She gulps in the face of his panicked, still half-dazed anger, and then firms her jaw and glares at him.

"Saving your life," she snaps tartly before she resumes her work on his arm – nerve endings screaming in agony. He sneaks a look at it and wishes he hadn't. It looks awful. Nothing fatal, but ugly and painful until he can see a proper Healer – episkeys don't work well with burns. The dittany is helping though – patches of third-degree burn are healing somewhat to scalded flesh.

"I told you to stay at the estate, " he says dumbly, staring at her, and flames lick up his throat as he speaks; it hurts a lot. Not as much as his arm. And his head. It's still hard to think straight, his thoughts shattered into fragmented pieces. "You promised me. You promised –"

"And if I had done as you'd told me, then you'd be dead," she says, and there's a quiver in her voice, her hands shaking a little, but he can sense the determination pouring off her. And while he's furious, anger at the way she lied and put herself in danger won't help anything right now. He tries his best to shove it down and focus. Besides, he can't exactly argue with what she said. If not for her killing Jones – whose corpse he rests against right now – then he would be dead. His luck strikes again. Except now Hermione's in danger. Fuck. She doesn't look wounded, at least, just wet and shaken.

"Get my wand, Hermione," he rasps as she keeps fussing over his arm, which is honestly fine for now. She's healed most of the charred flesh, and what's left is mostly just red and blistered. One of Voldemort's minions could stumble over them at any minute, and she seems too preoccupied and upset to react in time. He looks around blurrily and sees his wand lying on the gravel a few feet away. "Get my wand. Hermione." He snaps her name sharply, and she jolts and looks where he's pointing, scrambling on her knees to grab it without another word and pass it to him.

"My arm is fine," he says as she tries to fuss over it some more. "Put your jacket back on. You're getting soaked." She pauses in tucking the vial of dittany back on his belt and stares at him for a second, brows crinkling, her black t-shirt sticking to her skin, her thick braid a wet rope. She looks so beautiful, the lightning flaring behind her. Like a Greek goddess. His head spins suddenly, and he feels like throwing up.

"Who cares about the fucking rain?" she asks, even as she pulls her jacket back on, peering at his face. His eyes. She hisses with concern. "Are you concussed? Your eyes don't look right."

"I – I think that's the crucio," he says as he tries to push himself upright.

"Shit, careful!" She stands with a wince and tries to help him get upright again, providing a concerned, quiet commentary the entire time. With his leg the way it is, he has some difficulty and ends up shoving off Jones's corpse, staggering, and then clinging to Hermione's shoulders for a second as he nearly tips straight back over. "Colin told me about the crucio," she says then. "I met him on the path just outside the maze."

He looks at her, startled. "You ran into Creevey? I told him to go find Potter at least ten minutes ago. I thought he'd be in the thick of the battle by now."

"He was wandering around, lost," she says with a wheezing, teary laugh as Draco finds his balance, his leg a mass of pain. "I don't think he has the best sense of direction. But he told me where to find you."

He doesn't really believe in fate, but the sheer coincidence of that chance meeting makes him wonder, just a little. "And then you saved my life," he says aloud.

"Yeah." Hermione slides her arms around his waist, and he gives himself a moment to hold her. Arms around her tightly, never mind his ribs, and his lips pressed to the top of her head. She feels small, and cold. Everything hurts, and he is so afraid for her, but he can't deny that she's already proven she should be here. "God, it was so close." She hitches in a breath and shudders out a sob, sniffing hard. "You nearly died."

"But I didn't."

There's the sound of an explosion in the distance, and they draw apart and both look toward it, Draco stumbling a little as his boots scrape over the gravel, drawing in a breath that feels like hell. They both want to be there, and neither wants the other one to be. They look at each other. He speaks first, fear and love seething through him in a flood.

"If I shove you in a hedge to hide, you won't stay there, will you?" he asks her, mostly joking. Although the idea of stupefying her and stuffing her in a hedge for safety is somewhat appealing – if he could guarantee her safety, which he can't.

"Would you?" she asks, and he grins tiredly, dragging a hand down his face even as he shakes his head in the negative.

"No."

"Well, then." That settled, she looks down at his leg, and then at his chest, which is tight with his laboured breathing. She's in Healer mode; he remembers it vaguely from his flogging, and after she tortured him. All brusque and bossy, and it makes him want to kiss her rather a lot. He loves it when she's bossy; it means she isn't afraid. "What can I help with?"

He refrains from kissing her, his head feeling dizzy and weird, and he thinks the crucio is affecting him more than he initially thought. Everything feels disconnected and slippery. "Just my ribs right now. And maybe my leg." She heals his ribs, but her episkey doesn't help his leg. "It's fine. I've managed this long," he says, and she gives him a shrivelling look that is vintage Hermione Granger. Fuck, he loves her so much.

"You haven't managed!" she says shrilly. "You've nearly died at least twice! Draco, that –"

Draco can't help it. He finally kisses her. Quick and soft, and hardly more than a chaste press of lips, but it shuts her up aside from a soft whimper. And this is another reason why he wishes she wasn't here, beside the fact that she could die at any second – because he can't focus with her here. Bad enough that he's dizzy and stupid from the Cruciatus and his other injuries, but now there's no way he'll be able to compartmentalise and slide into the headspace he needs to be in. He's too busy worrying about her. And wanting to kiss her. Shit. Well, there's nothing he can do about it now except try to shut down as much as possible, and concentrate.

"Come on," he says, limping a step back from Hermione and looking around, figuring out which direction to take as pain thuds through him in sync with his pulse. Part of him wants to go the wrong way, away from the battle, which seems to have moved to the gardens well beyond the maze. Except she'll realise too quickly for him to bother – she'll have memorised the maze thoroughly, he's sure. "We have to go."

Draco says he's fine – he keeps insisting on it every time he stumbles, or wobbles, or makes an involuntary pained sound, all of which happen all too often as they hurry through the maze at a quick but ragged pace. They're heading for what seems to be the central battle, where Harry and Voldemort must surely be. There are a few pockets of fighting elsewhere if the occasional stray spells are any indication, but most of the fighting appears concentrated in one spot.

She hovers right beside him, ready to try to grab him, although if he properly collapses, she thinks only a quick charm will save him – because her own strength will not manage it.

He says he's fine after nearly falling over trying to scoop up Bellatrix's dagger, which she'd retrieved swiftly and passed to him, scolding him worriedly about not being careful. He shoves the dagger in his belt, coughs, spits blood on the ground, and grins at her. His teeth are pink with bloodied saliva. "I'm fine," he says, and she isn't so sure.

"I'm fine," he gasps, grabbing at the hedge, panting as he waves her off, and then shoves himself upright again. "I'm fine."

He's still fast; a Snatcher rounds a corner of the maze at a run, the man's eyes widening as he sees them there, and Draco slashes off a sectumsempra before the Snatcher even raises his wand. Hermione's diffindo hits a second later, as the Snatcher's wand is rising. Her hand is shaking, her heart in her throat, terror humming through her like an electric current.

"Shit," Draco says mildly in that hoarse, choked voice as he lurches dangerously around the dying man, eyeing his throat, which had taken a direct hit from Hermione's diffindo. "Good work. Fast."

"You were faster," Hermione says, sticking close, feeling reassured by his ability to react so quickly. He might not be able to run, but it seems he can still duel perfectly well. Better than the average person, even injured and dazed as he is.

But he won't stop saying he's fine. And that in itself worries her.

"I'm fine," he says as he wipes bloodied vomit from his lips, having just finished retching, and starts limping forward again at a pace that forces Hermione into a trot. And then, as they near one of the maze exits – she thinks – it happens again.

"I'm fine," he says as his knee buckles under him and she has to help support half of his body weight for a second, and Merlin, he's heavy. "Honestly, Hermione. Fine I'm," he says backwards, blinking and swiping trickles of rain from out of his eyes, and she stares at him, worried. He is clearly not fine. The Cruciatus has done something to his brain. Hermione can only hope it's temporary. She remembers when Bellatrix had tortured her at the Malfoy Manor so long ago now – for hours afterwards she'd had slightly muddled, vague moments. So swapping words around isn't unexpected. But worry churns.

If he does that during a duel, he could die. Fear is a vice, crushing her slowly as they navigate the pathways in the lessening rain, the storm finally easing. He throws himself forward single-mindedly, managing a fast, stiff-legged lurch that makes his boot drag on the gravel. She sticks close to him, her head throbbing and her breath coming loud in her ears, her bruised hip and shoulder still aching, worried he's going to collapse at any point and watching for any sign that the Cruciatus is affecting his mind.

And then they're stumbling out of the maze, and as though Hermione's thoughts summoned her, they see Bellatrix Lestrange. She had been running along the path past the maze entrance, but she sees them there and whirls on them, her wand raised. Fear crawls under Hermione's skin as she remembers revels, and the Manor. And then she sees, and horror overwhelms the fear. The witch is drenched in blood, her dark hair falling out of its complicated arrangement into lank, bloody strings, but worst of all, her abdomen bulges out horrendously under her gown. The witch is heavily pregnant; ashen and stick thin everywhere except her massive belly, and Hermione feels sick.

The witch bares her teeth at them in a grin that holds no humour, her blood-streaked face twisted with hatred. She looks like she wants to rip their throats out with her teeth. "Draco and the mudblood," she snarls. "Fancy running into you two lovebirds here." Hermione stares at the witch wide-eyed, her heart a slow lub-dub as though it's struggling to beat. Her eyes keep sliding to the witch's belly – her thin gown is plastered against her by the rain, and Hermione feels like she can see the bump move.

"You killed Rodolphus," she shrieks, features contorted, stamping a foot like a child in a rage. "I'll make you pay for that, Draco! I'll make her pay for that!"

"What do you care? You're Voldemort's whore, you mad bitch," Draco snarls back, and Hermione looks up at him, his lips flattened and his eyes narrowed – the left one twitching – his sharp jaw clenching. "Confri–" he starts and Hermione makes a gurgling sound of panic and grabs his wrist.

"No!" She wrenches at his hand before he can complete the motion, and he looks at her in bewildered anger, yanking his wrist away.

"What–" he starts to demand when Bellatrix laughs, loud and shrill, and sends an unknown curse flying at them, which Hermione raises a protego against.

"You can't use lethal spells! She's pregnant!" she cries automatically, her heart kicking into a racing stampede, her breath coming short and fast. Draco gives Hermione a brief, gobsmacked look as if he can't believe the words coming out of her mouth. But he can't just blow Bellatrix to pieces when she looks like she was due to give birth yesterday. They – they should incapacitate her. Surely. He flings up another shield, buying time while Bellatrix screams about peeling their flesh from their bones.

"I don't give a shit about her or her spawn," he snarls back and means it, although the wordless spells he's casting now seem to be non-lethal, from the colour of the bolts. Probably.

"Stupefy!" Hermione hisses as she spins her attention fully back on the witch. "Incarcerous!" They all exchange spellfire for a few long moments, too frantic to talk, and then he looses a barrage of depulsos that Bellatrix blocks and defects, but is pushed back by several feet, nearly falling. And then the witch flourishes her wand, screeching at them, "Avada Kedavra!"

"Fuck!" Draco shoves Hermione, sending her windmilling backwards and well out of the way, while he only stumbles back a step or two, and the bolt nearly hits him. Her heart almost stops, adrenaline flooding her. That was too fucking close, and Hermione yells that at Draco, the rain still falling, but the lightning and thunder quiescent for now.

"I can't fucking dodge, Hermione!" he yells as soon as he can, and a rising panic is beginning to boil over in his voice as Bellatrix keeps focusing on him, lashing off nasty curses one after the other. Thank Merlin, no more Killing Curses yet. But she looks at his lack of movement, and realises he's right. They can't afford to be merciful. Hermione's not risking Draco's life for Bellatrix's baby. She doesn't care if that makes her a terrible person. She grits her teeth.

"Do it, then!" Hermione doesn't think she can do it herself, with a Killing Curse. "Just kill her! Don't risk it!" She doesn't have the required focused hate for it. Focus is the key – her hate is messy and shapeless, so she keeps flinging curses at Bellatrix, trying to distract her – diffindos, confringos, and even an incendio. Trying to get her to drop her shield, or not deflect in time. Draco flicks his gaze toward Hermione, and his features are grim and set before he looks back to Bellatrix, at her stomach, his wand flashing.

"No. No –" he says, through gritted teeth. "Wait. Give me a second first. I can –" And now Hermione is panicking as she shifts closer to him, her heart racing so fast it feels like it's about to burst. This is her fault, and it's going to get him killed. She regrets ever saying anything. It had just been such a shock to see Bellatrix pregnant that she'd reacted instinctively.

"No! Just fucking kill her! Draco!" Hermione begs, gaze darting to him for a split second, and then she sees the dagger glinting there at his belt as his shield shimmers with the impact of a curse.

Distraction, Hermione thinks.

She has no idea what she's doing or how to do it properly, but she snatches the dagger and throws it as hard as she can, directly at the mad witch. It hurtles end over end, flashing in the light, and Bellatrix – busy deflecting Draco's stupefy – flinches as it flies at her, her eyes darting to it as she tries to dodge. But she's clumsy with pregnancy, and it hits her – hilt-first in the shoulder with a smack, falling harmlessly to the ground. And Hermione's silent stupefy is already almost at Bellatrix, and she's off guard and unable to shield. The red bolt takes her in the chest, and she tips forward.

"Wingardium leviosa!" Draco snaps and catches his aunt before she hits the ground without prompting or thought, lowering her body with efficient care. Hermione shoots him a look that he doesn't see. Draco still thinks he's a monster – she knows he does. But he's not. All the moments like this provide evidence to the contrary. Where he can, Draco avoids killing and harming the innocent. Even when he doesn't know them, or care about them. Even when they're contained inside an evil person. And even when it puts his life at risk – like now, and in Kenmare, with the girl. Those aren't the actions of a monster.

He's a good man. And she loves him, immeasurably.

"Incarcerous!" she says and directs the ropes to avoid the witch's gravid belly. And then Bellatrix is settled, bound and unconscious on the ground, and Draco adds a conjured blindfold and gag too as Hermione retrieves the dagger. They should get moving, fast – they're out in the open here, and they need to get to Harry – but Hermione finds her hand sliding into Draco's as they stare down at the witch, and they both watch as her belly shifts. A strange undulation and momentary protrusion.

"I wonder if what's in there is even human," he says quietly. Hermione swallows thickly. She feels slightly ill – she hadn't even thought of that possibility, thanks to the breeding experiments.

"Merlin. I don't know," she says, picturing terrible things. Then, shakily, trying to make a joke of it, but sincere: "The next time I tell you not to kill someone, please feel free to ignore me. I don't want my stupid squeamishness to get you…hurt."

"We managed," he says and squeezes her hand briefly before he drops it, his smile lopsided and a little twitchy thanks to the Cruciatus. "Come on," he adds as he looks down the path and starts moving, limping fast. "It's just up ahead."

And it is. At the end of the path, where it opens into yet another garden area – the gate blown off the hinges – Hermione can see small figures moving in thick clusters, silhouetted by the multicoloured light of spellfire. And she can see one small figure standing still, his back protected by a cluster of swarming fighters as he remains rooted to the spot, hurling curse after curse. Harry, she thinks, staring for too long a moment. She knows it has to be him. He must be fighting Voldemort. She hurries to catch up to Draco, her grip slippery and clammy on her wand and her blood thrumming hot in her veins, leaving Bellatrix behind, forgotten.

This is it, she thinks, her braid bouncing against her back as she jogs, her heart beating heavy and full, her whole body feeling strange as the words ring in her mind. This could be the moment the war ends. The moment they all live or die. She wants to hold Draco's hand, to feel his skin against hers – but they both need their wand hands free, as they head toward the fight. The moment for one last kiss has gone.

Hermione looks up at him, his blood-streaked fringe flopping over his forehead, so pale it's almost white where it isn't bloody, his skin lit up eerily by curses, his mouth shaped by pain. She hopes desperately that she will get the chance to kiss him again.