Chapter 11

and i sound like an infant

Pain is like a baby crying. What it wants, it can't name.

- Philip Roth

Everything had spiralled further out of control in the whirlwind of days since she'd last seen Draco. Time seemed to blur into an endless stretch of chaos, and Hermione barely had a moment to catch her breath before the next disaster struck. Every plan, every step forward, seemed to unravel faster than she could patch things together again.

The mission to infiltrate the Ministry had been reckless—borderline suicidal—but they'd had no choice. The air inside the Ministry was thick with fear and paranoia, and the tension had clung to Hermione like a second skin. Every shadow felt like it was hiding an enemy, every face twisted in suspicion. Retrieving the locket horcrux from Umbridge had been more challenging than she'd expected, not because of the task itself, but because of what it symbolized. The rot within the Ministry ran deeper than ever, spreading its tendrils through every corner of the wizarding world.

When they'd finally escaped by the skin of their teeth, apparating into the wilderness with the locket tightly in hand, Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that they were only delaying the inevitable. They'd been hunted ever since. The Death Eaters had nearly caught them twice already, and each time, they'd narrowly escaped—just a breath away from being snared in Voldemort's ever-tightening grip.

Her eighteenth birthday had gone without much ceremony, celebrated under the veil of secrecy as they camped in a cold, lonely forest. There were no cakes, no presents, just the murmur of the wind and the cold press of reality settling heavier in her bones.

Harry had tried to make the day memorable, offering a small smile and a heartfelt "Happy Birthday," but it was apparent they were all stretched thin. Even she could barely muster a smile.

Her heart had been heavy that day, conflicted in ways she couldn't express herself. Despite being an adult, she felt overwhelmed by the world crumbling around her, powerless to prevent its destruction.

Draco hadn't sent an owl; no secret messages arrived at night. She understood why. It didn't stop the ache in her chest, though, that sharp sting of longing that twisted inside her every time she thought of him.

And then... Ron left.

Hermione couldn't even wrap her mind around it. It was like watching something snap in slow motion—the tension, the bitterness, the hopelessness of their mission finally breaking him. She should've seen it coming. There had been signs, of course: the restless pacing, the sharp words, the cold silences between him and Harry. The horcrux's nearness, she thought, was causing the effects. But in the storm of everything happening, she hadn't realized how close he was to the edge.

Everything culminated amidst a raging storm. As they argued, the rain had lashed against the tent, their voices rising above the sound of the downpour. Harry was furious, pacing and shouting, while Ron was drenched and seething. Hermione tried to mediate, to calm them both down, but her words had been brushed aside.

"I can't do this anymore!" Ron had yelled, his fists clenched, his face pale with frustration. "I'm tired of running, I'm tired of hiding—this isn't a plan, Harry, it's a bloody death sentence!"

Harry's anger had flared then, raw and biting. "You think I don't know that? You think I haven't done everything I can to keep us alive?"

"It's not enough! Our search is directionless. We're chasing after these damn horcruxes, and we don't have the slightest clue how to destroy them!"

"Then what do you suggest, Ron?" Harry snapped, his patience fraying at the edges. "Do you want just to give up? Go back and hide with your family while the rest of us fight?"

"Maybe I should!" he had shot back, his words cutting deeper than he realized. "I have a family to protect!"

The silence that followed had been deafening, punctuated only by the steady rhythm of the rain hammering against the tent. Hermione's heart clenched painfully in her chest, her breath catching as Ron's words echoed in her mind.

At least I have a family. He hadn't meant it, but it stung all the same.

Without another word, Ron turned and walked out into the storm, leaving only the sound of his footsteps. Hermione had stood there, rooted to the spot, the cold seeping into her bones as she stared at the tent's flap, half-expecting him to return.

But he hadn't.

The days that followed had been a blur of silence and unspoken grief. Harry had withdrawn into himself, his guilt weighing him down like an anchor, while Hermione struggled to keep moving, to keep them on course. She felt like she was holding everything together by sheer force of will, her heart splintering with every passing hour that Ron wasn't there.

She didn't blame him, not really.

Life on the run was hard, more challenging than any of them had anticipated, and Ron was right—they were flying blind, grasping at straws in a world rapidly closing in.

But it didn't make his departure any less painful.

They'd spotted the locket on Umbridge in a photo in the Prophet. It was blind, dumb luck. And though that luck had helped Harry in the past, Hermione was reluctant to keep relying on it.

Everyone's luck ran out at some point.

Now, sitting in the cold, cramped tent, Hermione stared blankly at the map spread out in front of her. The locket around her neck felt heavy, its dark presence like a stone pressing down on her chest. Each breath was a struggle, each thought burdened by their remaining tasks.

She missed Ron. She missed how he could make her laugh, even when everything felt hopeless. She missed how he would stand by her side, even when they argued. More than anything, she missed the sense of normalcy he provided. He made her feel like they would face them together, no matter how difficult things became.

"Do you think he'll come back?" Harry's voice broke through the silence, low and filled with uncertainty.

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat tight.

"I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I hope so."

But even as she said it, she wasn't sure if she believed it.

Hermione couldn't help but think she was already halfway to the executioner's block, as if their days were numbered.

And yet, knowing she carried an even heavier burden—her unplanned union—was like a constant ache under her ribs.

When the fear or sadness in their makeshift camp became unbearable, Hermione would slip away to the privacy of her tiny space in the tent. There, she'd find herself staring at the ring on her finger, the vine-covered band that felt heavier than it looked. She'd turn it repeatedly, its intricate design almost mocking her.

The books Draco left her were a constant companion, their pages well-thumbed as she delved deeper into the customs and legalities of the wizarding world.

And damn him—of course, he was right. She could almost hear the smugness in his voice as she read the binding terms, the absolute finality of the ancient magic that declared them husband and wife.

No loopholes. No easy way out.

She'd married a Malfoy. Draco was her husband.

What a ridiculous word for the situation they were in. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Mostly, it made her want to scream.

Ron's departure left a hollow ache inside her chest—a mix of betrayal, anger, and a gnawing sense of loneliness. Harry tried to keep them focused and keep her from slipping into despair, but every spare moment she wasn't researching or plotting their next move, she found herself back in that room, staring at the ring that now defined her fate.

The weight of being Hermione Malfoy was not one she'd ever prepared for, and yet, she was bound by magic older than she could comprehend to a boy who danced on the razor's edge between enemy and lover.

And every moment she spent thinking about it only made one thing clearer: they were utterly, irrevocably fucked.

The snow crunched underfoot as Harry and Hermione trudged through Godric's Hollow's quiet, ghostly streets. The Christmas lights twinkling from the surrounding houses seemed cruelly out of place, their cheerful glow stark against the grim purpose of their visit.

They had come to Godric's Hollow with more hope than certainty, following clues that felt tenuous at best. It had been Harry's idea first, the thought arising not long after Dumbledore's death. There was something about this place—the village where he had lived as a baby, where his parents had been murdered—that made him feel it held answers. His desire to come here had grown stronger with each passing day, a pull he couldn't quite explain but couldn't ignore. He'd hoped Dumbledore might have left something here for him, some hidden message or secret to guide him in this final, harrowing stretch of their mission.

Hermione had her reasons for agreeing. The symbol, the mysterious mark of Grindelwald that had appeared in The Tales of Beedle the Bard, had troubled her since the moment she'd first seen it. Dumbledore had left her that book, and Hermione felt certain the mark was more than decoration. When she connected it to Bathilda Bagshot—one of the last people to have known Dumbledore and his family well—she'd begun to suspect Bathilda might hold answers about the symbol and the Sword of Gryffindor.

They were almost sure the sword could destroy horcruxes, having once been imbued with basilisk venom during their second year. The basilisk fang had destroyed the diary, which they were certain was a Horcrux. Hermione's logic and Harry's instincts had pointed them to this quiet, forgotten corner of the wizarding world, hoping that Bathilda might have the sword—or at least know where it was.

It was a flimsy plan, and they both knew it. But in these dark times, even the faintest possibility felt worth pursuing.

Breath puffed white in the cold night air, and Hermione felt a chill more resounding than the winter cold settle in her bones. She'd been uneasy since they arrived, a gnawing sense of dread coiling tighter with each step.

"Are you sure about this, Harry?" she asked. "I have a bad feeling."

They had just come from the graveyard, where the cold stone of his parents' headstones still painted a stark contrast against the snowy night. Now, they stood before the old, dilapidated house of Bathilda Bagshot, its windows like dark, hollow eyes.

"I know, but it's the only lead we have," Harry replied, his breath misting as he spoke.

Hermione wanted to argue, to tell him how bad an idea this was, but the hopelessness in his eyes made her hesitate. Instead, she just nodded, and they stepped forward. The door creaked as it opened, and a smell hit them immediately—a thick, cloying stench of death and decay that made Hermione's stomach turn. She fought the urge to cover her nose, her eyes watering from the foul odour.

Bathilda, a frail older woman, led them inside, her movements slow and almost mechanical. Hermione's instincts screamed at her to leave, to pull Harry away, but he was already moving, following Bathilda up a rickety staircase.

"Harry, I don't think—" she began, her voice tight with anxiety.

"It's fine, Hermione," he cut her off, though his voice had a tremor. "She might want to give me the sword alone."

Hermione pressed her lips together, feeling the familiar helplessness that came when Harry made up his mind.

"Okay, but be careful," she muttered, her heart pounding as she watched him ascend the stairs.

As soon as he disappeared from view, she began pacing the musty sitting room, her fingers twisting the ring on her finger—a nervous habit that had developed in recent weeks. The silence was oppressive, her breath sounding too loud in the stillness, broken only by the distant creak of floorboards above.

Then came a muffled yell from upstairs—Harry's voice, sharp with alarm. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up, sprinting up the narrow staircase two steps at a time, her heart hammering in her chest.

She burst into the room and skidded to a halt, a gasp catching in her throat.

Nagini, Voldemort's enormous snake, was coiled around Harry, its massive jaws clamped around his arm. Hermione's instincts took over; she raised her wand and fired the first hex that came to mind. The spell ricocheted off the serpent's scales and shattered a window with a deafening crash.

The snake hissed furiously and released Harry, who dropped to the floor with a groan, scrambling behind a dusty bed for cover. Hermione barely had time to think before the snake's yellow eyes locked onto her, narrowing with malevolent intent.

"Oh fuck," she muttered, diving to the side as Nagini lunged.

Pain shot through her hip as she collided with a dresser, but she didn't have time to care. The snake's head whipped around, fangs bared, preparing to strike. Hermione's hand trembled around her wand, and she felt blood draining from her face. Her mind screamed at her to move, to do something, but she was frozen, paralyzed by the sight of those terrible jaws.

Just as Nagini was about to strike, a blinding flash of light erupted from her, a protective barrier bursting like a shockwave. The snake flew across the room, striking the wall with a sickening thud.

For a moment, Hermione stared wide-eyed and panting at the shimmering barrier that faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.

Holy shit.

She hadn't cast that spell. She turned her head, and Harry was still behind the bed, just beginning to pull himself up. He hadn't cast it either.

Had he seen it? Was it the power of the ring? The sheer force of it left her shaken, her mind spinning with questions she didn't have time to answer.

"Hermione!" Harry shouted, clutching his scar, his face pale with pain and fear. "He's—he's coming!"

Her heart lurched. There was only one he that could mean, and her blood ran cold. They were out of time.

Nagini recovered and coiled again, ready to lunge.

"Go!" Harry's voice was sharp with desperation.

He grabbed her by the waist and, in a swift, reckless move, launched them both through the shattered window. The cold night air whipped against her face as they fell, but she barely had time to register it before Harry twisted, and with a loud crack, they disapparated.

The world spun back into focus a few miles away. They hit the frozen ground hard, and Harry crumpled beside her, unconscious. Blood seeped from his wounds, soaking into the surrounding snow. Hermione's hands were trembling as she scrambled to check him over.

"Harry, wake up, please," she whispered, panic clawing at her throat. She needed to get him to safety. She gathered every bit of focus she had left and, with a wrenching pull, apparated them to the Forest of Dean, back to the safety of their camp.

It was bad. She could see that right away.

Harry was deathly pale, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. The gash on his arm from Nagini's bite was still bleeding heavily, dark and sluggish. Her mind flashed to Mr. Weasley. When Nagini attacked him, his wound had stubbornly refused to close. He had hovered between life and death for weeks.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she muttered, her voice breaking as she levitated Harry onto his cot.

She dug through her beaded bag with shaking hands. Half a bottle of Dittany. Some bandages. A few essential potions. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. She pressed on Harry's wound, watching the fresh bandages turn crimson.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.

She needed help. Real help. And fast.

Biting her lip so hard she tasted blood, Hermione's eyes fell on the mirror she'd taken from Malfoy's trunk. She snatched it up, her fingers slick with Harry's blood.

"I need help," she choked out, not realizing how close to tears she'd been. "He's hurt. I don't know what to do. It was... a snake bite. Help me. Please."

She slid down to the ground, clutching the mirror against her chest, her breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. She was unsure if anyone would hear her, but she had no choice. She squeezed her eyes shut, whispering desperate prayers into the darkness.

Hermione held out hope that, perhaps, Harry's mirrors weren't as one-of-a-kind as he thought.

Harry's laboured breathing filled the tent. Each inhale and exhale had a grating sound that gnawed at her nerves. She could see the blood pooling beneath him, the wound still leaking despite everything she'd done.

She felt the cold fingers of dread creeping up her spine, threatening to pull her under.

Was this it? Was this how it all ended, in a freezing tent in the middle of nowhere, with Harry bleeding out from a snake bite?

She shook her head, breaking herself out of her paralytic terror. She was the only one here. She was the only one who could help Harry.

Steadying herself, she started casting healing spells.

The shrill sound of alarms tore through the stillness of the camp, ripping Hermione from her frantic thoughts. Her heart leapt into her throat as she shot up, every nerve on edge. Someone was trying to break through their wards—persistently. Someone was there, aware of their presence, and not giving up.

She crouched low, her breaths shallow, her eyes darting to where Harry lay feverish and bleeding in the cot, his skin an ashen grey. She couldn't afford this now, especially with him teetering on the edge.

Steeling herself, Hermione inched toward the tent flap; her wand gripped so tightly her knuckles turned white. She peeked out, just enough to see without exposing herself. A tall figure worked quickly, methodically dismantling their protections with practiced ease.

Draco.

Her heart lurched—whether with relief or fear, she couldn't quite tell. His face was set in concentration, his wand moving in precise arcs as he undid the wards layer by layer.

"Hermione," he called out, his voice taut with urgency. "Let me in. We don't have much time."

She hesitated only a moment before flicking her wand to adjust the wards. Draco stepped through the barrier and pushed through the tent flap as soon as the protections lowered, his movements purposeful and quick. Hermione stumbled back to make room, her eyes never leaving his face.

Draco's jaw clenched as he took in the sight before him—Harry stretched out on the cot, his body shivering with fever, the dark stain of blood spreading ominously through the bandages. His expression darkened.

"Right," he muttered, dropping to his knees and dropping his bag. He began to rummage through it with sharp, precise movements, pulling out vials and gauze. "I brought what I could," he added, his tone clipped.

Hermione watched him, her breath hitching.

"Do you know what you're doing?" she asked, her voice tight.

Draco's eyes shot up, piercing her with a glare.

"Remove his dressings," he snapped, not wasting another second. "I've got a potion here that should counteract the venom."

Hermione didn't hesitate. She scrambled to Harry's side, her hands moving quickly as she unwrapped the soaked bandages. Harry groaned, his head tossing from side to side, and she felt a pang of guilt slice through her.

She was too late—what if Draco couldn't help him?

"How do you even have an anti-venom ready?"

Draco didn't look up as he uncorked a vial with a sharp twist.

"Do you honestly think my father would live in that house with a giant snake and not develop an anti-venom for it?" His voice was harsh, almost angry. "Can you stun him? This is going to hurt."

Hermione's heart twisted at the thought, but she knew he was right. She steadied her breath, her wand trembling slightly as she cast the spell. Harry went limp, his thrashing ceasing instantly. Draco wasted no time pouring the vial's contents over the open wound. The liquid hissed and bubbled on contact, the venom burning away like acid as a puss-like ooze dripped from the wound to the floor. The smell of singed flesh filled the air, and Hermione's stomach turned, but she couldn't look away.

"I didn't realize Lucius was a skilled potions maker," Hermione murmured, more to distract herself from the gruesome sight than anything.

"You didn't ask. It never came up," Draco replied curtly, pulling out more supplies from his kit. His face was drawn and focused, sweat beading at his temple despite the cold.

She shot him a sidelong glance. "What, no dirty joke or insinuation?"

"Wife, is now the time?" he shot back, his voice dripping with exasperation. He applied a healthy measure of Wiggenweld potion to the open wound. "Get your mind out of the gutter. A man is dying."

He motioned to Harry, who lay still, his breathing steadier, the colour slowly returning to his cheeks.

Hermione felt a strange mix of relief and annoyance bloom in her chest.

With a flick of his wand, Draco summoned bandages that securely affixed themselves to the wound. Draco continued, his movements efficient as he removed and lined up several vials on the table from his bag.

"Dittany to refill your stores," he said, pulling out about ten bottles. It was more than she'd ever seen in one place. "A salve to treat infections and most wounds. Clean dressings. Wiggenweld potion. Calming Draught. Sleeping draught. Blood replenishing potions—he should take one as soon as he wakes up and then at least one a day until he starts looking like himself again."

"Draco, this is too much," Hermione whispered, her eyes wide as she looked at the small fortune before her.

"It's not enough," he replied. "And it didn't even make a dent in our stores. Take it, Hermione. It's yours anyway."

She swallowed the automatic thank you, knowing he'd only scoff at her gratitude. Instead, she nodded, her throat tight.

Draco glanced at Harry, then at her, his eyes softening just a fraction. "He should be stable now." He jerked his head towards the tent entrance. "Let's step outside."

Hermione followed Draco out of the tent, the cold air biting her skin. She barely registered the chill; her mind was still spinning.

Draco turned, his arms opening without hesitation. "Come here."

Hermione collapsed into his arms, her body shaking as the tears she'd held back finally spilled over. She clung to him, her face buried in his chest, and let the sobs wrack her body, all the fear and the tension breaking free. His arms wrapped around her tightly, holding her close, grounding her.

After a few minutes, she managed to pull herself together. Draco pulled back slightly, his eyes scanning her face.

"Where's the Weasel?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

"He left. Months ago," she replied, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

"He left?" Draco sounded furious. "So, it's only been the two of you?"

Hermione nodded. "Unlike me and Harry, Ron has a family to protect. Somewhere to go."

"What do you mean?" Draco frowned. "You have a family. Your parents are muggles. You could lie low with them if you wanted to, yes? The dentists."

She shook her head, her eyes stinging once more. She let out a quick, breathy laugh as she remembered when she explained dentistry. His horrified expression was almost funny.

Draco looked at her like she was losing her mind. Maybe she was.

"I—I obliviated them and sent them away. To protect them."

His expression softened, and he swallowed hard, his eyes locked fiercely on hers. "Well, you still have me. And my family. Our family. We'll protect you as best as we can. Regrettably, the Manor isn't safe right now. But my mother is working on something. She always is."

Hermione frowned at the mention of the Manor. "Aren't you meant to be at Hogwarts? Didn't they mandate all students back? How did you find me?"

"Christmas break," he said, gesturing to the snow. "Speaking of which, I also missed your birthday. Seems like I owe you a few presents."

"Draco, you just dropped off enough healing potions and supplies for a small army," she replied, a small, tired smile tugging at her lips.

"Those aren't gifts," he said with a dismissive wave, then reached into his bag with a flourish, his smirk softening with a hint of vulnerability. "But this is."

Draco pulled out a small, elegantly wrapped package in deep crimson, tied with a golden ribbon. The colours were unmistakably Gryffindor, and something was endearing about its thoughtfulness, the way he had chosen them deliberately for her.

Hermione reached out, her fingers brushing against the smooth paper. Her gaze met his, eyes sparkling in the moonlight, and for a brief moment, the world's chaos faded.

"What is it?" She couldn't imagine what he would have thought to give her, especially now, during a war.

"Open it and find out," he said, his voice gentle but with that ever-present note of arrogance that seemed ingrained in him. "You never were good at waiting, wife."

Hermione shot him a mock glare, but her hands were already reaching for the gift, her fingers carefully tugging at the ribbon. She didn't have time to waste, not with Harry inside, still in a fragile state, but she was caught in this moment with Draco, needing a distraction from the hell they were all living through.

She peeled back the wrapping to reveal a small, intricately carved wooden box. Her breath caught as she took in the delicate craftsmanship—runes etched along the edges, intertwined vines wrapping around the sides like ivy. It was beautiful, like something out of an old storybook, and as she opened the lid, her heart stuttered at what lay inside.

It was a necklace. A small silver pendant shaped like a crescent moon, studded with tiny emeralds that glimmered even in the dim light. It was elegant and simple. She carefully lifted it from the box, feeling the cool metal against her skin.

"Draco..." she whispered. "This is... it's beautiful."

"It was my grandmother's," he admitted quietly, his voice tinged with a vulnerability she rarely heard from him. "She gave it to my mother when she was around your age. It's supposed to bring protection... and luck."

Hermione's breath hitched. She knew now how important family heirlooms were in Pureblood families and what it meant for him to give this to her. "Draco, I—"

"Don't read too much into it," he cut in, but his words were soft, a gentleness that belied his usual bravado. "Just... I know you. I figured you were driving yourself mad while you were on the run. That, perhaps, you missed me and felt a little lonely because of it. But you're not alone, Hermione."

"Thank you," she managed through the tears that formed. She took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. "I... I don't know what to say."

Draco shifted closer, his fingers brushing hers as he took the necklace from her.

"Here, let me," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear as he moved behind her, carefully clasping the necklace around her neck. The cool metal settled against her skin, but his touch and closeness sent a shiver down her spine.

The cold December night bit at Hermione's skin, but she barely felt it. Her mind was too focused on Draco. Something was different tonight. There was a tension in the way Draco's eyes kept shifting away from hers, a weight in his words that sent a chill down her spine far colder than the winter air.

He settled her hair back on her nape, and she spun to face him, cold dread creeping into her bones.

Hermione searched his face for answers—for reassurance, something that would calm the rising panic swirling in her gut. But Draco's expression was almost unreadable, carefully guarded in the way she hated. There was always something simmering beneath his surface, something unsaid.

Tonight, though, it felt different. It felt... final.

"I need you to know that whatever happens, whatever this war takes from us, you have someone who cares," Draco said, his voice quieter now but rough, like it pained him to speak. His eyes flicked to hers, and she saw the flash of emotion before he quickly looked away again, jaw clenched. "You have someone who will fight for you. Even if... even if I'm not around."

His words slapped her heart, a jolt that left her reeling. Panic filled her entire existence, gripping her with an icy, choking fear she hadn't felt since Ron had left. She stepped closer to him, her breath coming in shallow bursts as she grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at her.

"What are you saying, Draco?" Her voice trembled, and she hated it. She hated how small and terrified she sounded, but couldn't help it. "You're not—you're not leaving too, are you? You can't. You can't just—"

"I'm not leaving," he cut her off, though his voice was strained, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Not like that."

"Then what?" she demanded, her panic only deepening. Her fingers dug into his arm as if she could keep him here by sheer force of will, as if holding onto him would stop the horrible feeling twisting in her gut. "Why are you talking like this? What aren't you telling me?"

With a subtle turn of his head, Draco's eyes flickered to the side, seeming to seek an exit. His entire body tensed under her grip, and for a brief moment, she thought he might pull away entirely, that he might disappear into the night like a phantom. But then he exhaled sharply, shaking his head, and met her gaze again.

"I've been assigned a mission," he said after a long pause. The way his hand twitched at his side made it clear how much the words cost him. "Something... dangerous. Something I can't—won't—tell you about."

Hermione's blood ran cold, and her grip tightened on his arm almost painfully. She could feel the tremor in her fingers, the growing dread.

"Draco, no—what are you—?"

"Please, Hermione." He cut her off again, this time more firmly, his free hand coming up to cup her cheek, the roughness of his palm grounding her even as her heart pounded in her chest. "Don't ask. I can't tell you. I need you to trust me. I need you to—" He faltered, his voice catching in his throat for a moment before he continued, quieter now. "I need you to believe me when I say I will return to you, whatever happens. No matter what."

"But you don't know that." Hermione's voice cracked, and her eyes burned with the threat of tears she desperately fought to hold back. "You don't know if—if—"

"I know," Draco interrupted, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone, his gaze softening just a fraction. "I know it's dangerous. I'm aware I might get hurt. But I swear to you, I'll do everything I can to survive. For you."

Hermione released a shaky breath, blinking rapidly as she tried to process his words. The weight of them pressed down on her like a physical force, suffocating and heavy.

"Then don't do it," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Just... don't go."

Draco's lips twitched into a sad smile, his eyes filled with regret and resolve.

"You know it's not that simple," he said softly, leaning in to press his forehead against hers. The closeness brought a brief flicker of warmth to her frozen heart, but wasn't enough to banish the fear. "I don't have a choice."

Hermione swallowed hard, her hands trembling as they slid to rest against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her palm, steady and strong, and the thought of losing him—of never hearing that heartbeat again—made her stomach twist painfully.

"I hate this," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I hate that we're always waiting for the next horrible thing to happen. I hate that you're caught up in this."

"So do I." His voice was strained, his fingers tangling in her hair as he pulled her closer, his lips brushing against her forehead in a tender gesture that nearly broke her. "But it's the reality we live in now."

Hermione pressed her face against his chest, inhaling his familiar scent, and tried to steady herself. The war was tearing everything apart, piece by piece, and now it felt like it was trying to rip Draco away from her, too.

And the worst part? She couldn't stop it. She couldn't protect him any more than he could protect her.

Draco's eyes softened further, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face, his touch lingering against her skin.

" I can't lose you, too."

"You won't," he promised, his voice steady. "Not if I can help it.".

She touched the pendant, feeling the cool metal against her skin.

"I'll keep it close," she said softly, her eyes never leaving his. "I'll keep you close."

Draco's lips twitched into a small smile. She could almost hear the dirty joke he didn't say and rolled her eyes dramatically.

With Harry safe, she paused to scrutinize him. His face was drawn, with shadows under his eyes, but his gaze was steady and intense, as if trying to memorize every line and curve of her face.

It was Christmas Eve, and he'd dropped everything to come to her. To help her save Harry Potter, she was certain Draco didn't care whether he lived or died.

"How did you find us, Draco?" she whispered, her voice breaking the surrounding stillness.

"Your ring," he replied, lifting her left hand between them. The silver band gleamed in the pale moonlight, a stark contrast against the bruises and dried blood staining her skin. "It's charmed to always guide me to you if you need me. Ancient Malfoy magic—strong enough to cut through almost anything."

Hermione glanced down at the ring. The thought of him tracing his way to her through that bond, through their marriage, filled her with a mix of warmth and trepidation. It felt like a rope binding them together, a lifeline in a world that was falling apart.

"Someday," she began, her voice soft and edged with a longing she couldn't entirely hide, "do you think we'll get more than stolen, secret moments in the dead of night?"

"I vaguely recall fucking you in broad daylight under the bleachers of the Quidditch pitch once."

"Draco!" Hermione cried out at his crudeness, smacking his arm lightly in reproach.

Draco laughed, the hardness in his eyes fading into something she hadn't seen in a long time—hope. He reached up, brushing a lock of her wild hair away from her face with a tenderness that seemed almost incongruous amid the dirt, blood and chaos. His thumb lingered on her cheek, his touch feather-light but grounding.

"Maybe," he said, his voice low and earnest, filled with a yearning that matched hers. Maybe, once this is done—when we no longer have to be on guard every minute of every day. I have to believe we will."

He leaned closer, his forehead resting gently against hers, and for a moment, they just breathed together, the cold night air mingling with the warmth of their shared breath. Hermione closed her eyes, feeling the weight of his words settle over her like a blanket, comforting and heavy all at once.

"I'd like that," she whispered, her lips brushing against his. "Living openly, without the need for secrecy, just being ourselves."

Draco's fingers tightened around hers, his breath shaky but steady.

"Then we'll make it happen," he promised. "We'll find a way. For now, let's survive this hell. And then... we can have that."

Hermione felt the prickling of tears behind her eyes but blinked them away. She nodded, pulling him into another fierce embrace, her arms wrapping around his neck as if to anchor him to her, to keep him from vanishing like so many fleeting moments before. His warmth seeped into her, starkly contrasting the biting cold around them.

Snow crunched softly beneath Draco's boots as he shifted, tightening his hold, and she leaned into him, her cheek brushing the fabric of his cloak. His arms around her felt like armour, and for one beautiful, impossible moment, she believed it might be enough to keep them safe.

Something inside her broke open when his lips touched her hair. A soft, reverent kiss. She felt a rush of longing so intense it hurt. She needed him now, more than she could bear than she dared to admit.

"I love you." The words tore from her lips, raw and unbidden, carrying with them all the fear, the hope, and the unrelenting ache she'd been holding back.

It was the first time she'd said it aloud, and the words were too powerful and necessary to be contained anymore.

Draco stilled, his breath hitching as he absorbed her words, and then he pulled her in even closer, so tight it was almost painful.

"Fuck." His voice was a low, breathless murmur against her hair like he was bracing himself against a storm. "I love you too, Hermione."

The weight of his confession wrapped around her heart, binding them together in a frighteningly permanent way. She squeezed him back, trying to memorize the feel of his warmth, the solid press of his chest against hers. This promise was fragile and daring, whispered in the dark when no one else could hear.

And yet, deep down, she knew they were racing against forces far beyond their control. They couldn't escape so many things—the war, the Dark Lord, the twisted loyalties that bound Draco to a life of darkness.

But here, in this stolen moment, none of that mattered. All that existed was him, the steady beat of his heart against hers, the scent of pine and winter that clung to his cloak, the fierce way he held her like he'd never let her go.

A lump formed in her throat as he began to pull back, his hands lingering at her waist, reluctant but inevitable. He was slipping away, the reality of what lay ahead rushing back like cold water.

"Stay safe, Malfoy." The words were laced with both command and plea.

Draco's lips brushed her forehead, a kiss that lingered, reverent and heartbreaking. "I will if you will, wife."

He disappeared, his figure swallowed by the shadows of a Death Eater apparating.

She closed her eyes, imprinting the feeling, the warmth of his breath, the soft rumble of his voice. This was a tether, a lifeline she'd cling to no matter what horrors awaited them. She could still feel the ghost of his touch, the faint pressure of his arms around her. They were bound together now, heart and soul.

Hermione realized that despite the trials ahead, they would cherish this stolen moment, a beacon of hope in the impending darkness.

And hope, desperately, that it wouldn't be their last.