Severus glanced back over at her, looking saddened. “You are compromised by him. Your opinion on the matter is no longer reliable.”
Hermione snarled. “It is not! Moody said I should do whatever I could to heal Draco. I followed my orders and healed him.” She drew a sharp breath. “Draco wants me to stay alive. My life is, for whatever reason, important to him. Whatever else he's doing, my well-being has become an obsession for him and he resents it. He's furious about it half the time because it's interfering with whatever original plans he had, but he can't stop himself. He knows he's reaching a tipping point. I can do this. Just give me more time. Please—”
Severus was unmoved. “You've been given time. You have until the end of next month.”
Hermione felt as though she were dying. Her lungs were shriveling, atrophying inside of her. “You're putting his death on my shoulders, Severus.”
“You made this bed for yourself. I did everything I could to give you an exit six months ago,” Severus said, looking away from her.
Hermione gave a ragged gasp.
Severus paused and added in a gentler voice. “If and when Kingsley and Moody expose Draco, we'll give you an hour to warn him; an opportunity for a more humane exit, if you wish to offer him one.”
Hermione balled her hands into fists and glared at Severus. “If you think that counts as consolation, you don't know me very well.” Her voice was shaking.
Severus gave no response.
A sob rose in her throat, choking her as she tried to force it down. She drew a rasping breath and turned to flee from Spinner's End.
As soon as she got past Severus' wards, she apparated.
She reappeared in Whitecroft. She always ended up there. She stood at the road and looked wistfully down the lane toward the shack that slowly bled into view.
She went and stared at the door. It was Thursday. There was no reason for her to be there on a Thursday. It would be suspicious and illogical. Draco would probably be enraged if she activated his wards on a Thursday for no reason.
She pushed the door open.
Draco appeared before she had stepped into the room.
He looked her up and down carefully, and she stared at him. She had felt as though she'd been starving until she saw him.
“What are you doing here?” he finally asked.
She blinked.
“I—,“ she flailed for an excuse. “The skirmish on Christmas Eve. I — was worried.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That was two days ago, Granger.”
“I couldn't get away. We lost a lot of fighters,” she said. “I had to stay in the hospital wing.”
“So you came at the first opportunity.” He was eyeing her with a dubious expression.
Hermione gave a small nod and walked toward him. She stared up at him, studying him, trying to find a sign of something in him. Anything. She just wanted to know what he was. “Are you alright, Draco?”
“Granger…” His tone was a warning. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing…” Her eyes dropped down to his hands. He'd touched her with those hands. He'd run his fingers through her hair and over her skin. He'd wrapped his hand around her throat, and it had aroused her.
He'd dismembered a Death Eater with those hands, killed dozens and dozens — possibly hundreds — of people she knew, assassinated Dumbledore…
He was ambidextrous, because he'd been intending for years to cut off his own arm in order to become a free agent. Someone who wouldn't need the Order to fight Voldemort for him.
She tore her eyes away from his hands.
“I just… I wanted to know that you were alright,” she said, staring down at her shoes.
He stepped closer, and she looked sharply up at him. His eyes were cold. She started to back away, but he caught hold of her wrist with his left hand and jerked her firmly toward him and then crowded her into the wall until she was trapped against him.
“Since when have you worried about me?” he said with a sneer. His eyes were hard and glinting like quicksilver.
“I don't know,” Hermione felt tempted to cry at the admission. He scoffed.
“And now—? You suddenly can't help yourself?”
“I just wanted to see you.”
His mouth twitched. “Why?”
“Because I'm afraid that someday I'll come and you won't—,” her voice cracked faintly, and she twisted her captured wrist enough to wrap her fingers around his wrist.
His eyes flickered. His hand remained wrapped around her wrist, and his face was inches from hers.
He studied her for a moment, and his expression wavered; something indecipherable in it as she stared up at him.
He drew in a short breath and gave a low laugh. “Is this goodbye then, Granger?”
Her hold tightened. “No!”
Her breath caught. She stared at him and caught his robes in her other hand as she tried to breathe. She dropped her head and rested it against his chest. He smelled like oakmoss and cedar.
She shook. “I just — wanted to see you.”
She felt his right hand come up to rest on her shoulder, and the heat of it slowly sank into her bones as his thumb lightly ran along her collarbone. She kept gripping his other wrist.
“Don't — die, Draco.”
“What's wrong, Granger?”
“Nothing. I just — spent a lot of time making your healing kit. It would be really ungrateful of you to die now. So — don't.”
He gave a hollow laugh, and his hold on her shoulder tightened. Then she felt his forehead drop against the top of her head for a split second before drawing away.
“Only because you asked,” he said. The sharp edge of sarcasm seemed faint. He sounded almost bitter.
She held his wrist tighter. She wanted—
She wanted—
It didn't matter. It didn't matter what she wanted. It never mattered.
For Harry. For Ron. It will be worth it.
She had promised those words to herself a thousand times, but they suddenly sounded hollow.
Draco wasn't innocent, but he didn't deserve the penalty Voldemort would inflict for his betrayal. Easing her conscience and euthanising him would be a paltry form of reparation.
She'd be a hero then, she realised bitterly. She'd exonerate herself to the world and damn herself privately. She would never forgive herself. It would be unforgivable. The guilt would eat her alive.
She hissed through her teeth as she tried to think.
“What's wrong, Granger?” Draco asked again when she had been quiet for a minute.
“Nothing. It was just an unexpectedly bad Christmas,” she said in a tight voice.
He snorted and twisted his hand free. Stepping away, he studied her. He gave a deep sigh.
“Activating the wards is for emergencies,” he said. “Not because you're worried or having a bad day. You'll risk my cover, and I'll be forced to try to guess whether it's worth the risk of responding immediately.”
Hermione felt herself pale. If and when Kingsley and Moody decide to expose Draco, we'll give you an hour to warn him.
“I'm sorry. I won't call you again unless it's urgent,” Hermione said. He looked skeptical. “I swear it,” she said forcefully, “If I ever activate them again, it will be legitimate.”
He gave a sharp nod. “You've given your word, I'll trust you to keep it.”
She gave a small nod back, and he vanished without a sound.
Hermione stayed in the shack; staring at the spot he'd disappeared from. Wondering what to do.
Flashback 23
December 2002