Her fingers twisted in the fabric of his robes and she stared at him. “Why didn't you have me make an Unbreakable Vow when I offered?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I wasn't interested in not being betrayed by you simply because I made you incapable of it. After all, I'm sure Shacklebolt and Moody have more than enough to damn me without you.”
Hermione gave a short nod. She felt as though there were something lodged in her throat. She looked away for a moment and then back into his eyes. “I can't — I can't choose you over the Order. There — are so many people relying on us. Britain's all that's left of the Resistance. I can't choose you over all Muggle-borns. There's nothing — there's no hope for them if the Order loses.”
“I know.” His voice was clipped. His eyes glittered as he stared at her, his expression vicious, almost mocking.
That was all he said.
Her hold on his robes loosened, and she gave a disbelieving laugh.
He didn't even want to live. He wanted revenge; he wanted to die. Caring for her was a disappointing twist for him — it wasn't enough to make him want to live.
She'd just made it worse. That was all she'd done.
Because Severus and Moody and Kingsley hadn't told her. They'd made her think it was real. That it was forever.
So she'd play her part convincingly.
But it didn't matter — it never mattered, because Draco had always known.
She tried to breathe as she absorbed it.
She opened her mouth and then closed it. Draco smirked and looked away from her.
“Alright,” she finally said mechanically, nodding faintly. She felt as though she'd been knifed; reality cold as tempered steel had been driven in and dragged through her core, and she was left to bleed to death from it.
She swallowed.
“They said—” her voice broke, “they said they'd let me warn you, before they expose you. I will come. I'm sorry.”
He didn't react. Not even a flicker. He was just cold.
She looked up at him, taking in all the details of him that she had memorised; his hair and sharp cheekbones, the intensity of his eyes, his thin lips and straight white teeth, the precise lines of his jaw, and his pale throat disappearing in the black collar of his shirt. The fabric was twisted; she reached out and straightened it. “I am — so so sorry, Draco.”
She withdrew her hand and started to turn away. There was no air in the room. She kept trying to breathe, and there wasn't any oxygen at all.
She thought she might faint.
“So, what happens to you, Granger, after you choose the Order?” Draco's voice casually interrupted her.
Hermione blinked and turned her head back. “Me?”
“Yes,” Draco caught her chin and tilted her face up toward his so that she was looking into his cool silver eyes. They were narrowed as he studied her. “What happens to you?”
“If you — die?”
He gave a short nod.
Hermione hadn't even considered the question. Her focus had been on trying to find a way to keep Draco alive past January. She hadn't even given thought to what she would do next if she failed.
“I don't know,” she said with a short hysterical laugh. She pulled her chin free. “They already mostly replaced me in the hospital wing.” She shrugged, spreading her hands. “Maybe they'll just offer me to the next spy they recruit.”
“Don't joke. I want a real answer.” His voice had an edge of fury to it.
Hermione looked back up at him and scoffed. “I promised myself to you, Draco. I swore it. Now and after the war. I didn't make anymore plans.”
His expression flickered as he looked back at her, and then hardened. “I thought you didn't want to die; surely there is something you're looking forward to.”
She smiled bitterly. “I don't — have anything left. I'm spent now.”
Draco was silent. Hermione pressed her lips together and started to stand. She wanted to leave. The room was growing vaguely luminous.
“I'll swear an Unbreakable Vow,” he said abruptly. “Whatever damn thing Moody wants. Would that qualify as a sufficient demonstration of control?”
Hermione looked back at him sharply. His expression was cold, but his eyes burned as she met them.
“You would do that?” she asked, disbelieving.
He looked exhausted, but there was an edge of something still seething in him. “Let Moody know. I assume he's still willing to act as Bonder.”
Hermione nodded slowly, still staring at him in wide-eyed disbelief. He sighed and reached up and brushed across her throat, his thumb ghosting along the side of her neck. Hermione felt her breath catch.
“Why? Why offer?” she asked, studying him.
He snorted and withdrew his hand. “I realise now, I didn't take everything into account. It didn't occur to me I may have made you marketable.”
He looked away from her.
“Oh,” Hermione said.
The Malfoys are closer to being dragons than they are wizards. They do not share. They are obsessive about what they regard to be theirs.
She felt tempted to laugh. She swallowed hard.
“Alright then.” There was something else she should say. “I'll — I'll let Moody know.”
He gave a short nod of acknowledgement.
He didn't say a word as she stood up and gathered her satchel. His hand twitched forward as she turned to walk away. He didn't look at her as she stepped through the doorway. When she pulled the door closed, he was still leaning against the wall, staring blankly at the floor, so pale he could have been a ghost.
Hermione stood outside in the rain for several minutes trying to regain her bearings. She drew a ragged breath.
She felt as though she were on the edge of a precipice, and she still wasn't sure if she was going to fall from it.
She took another deep breath and apparated to Spinner's End. The windows of the house were dark. She sat on the step in front of the door.
She was soaked to the bone when the door behind her abruptly opened.
Severus stared down at her with a cold expression. She huddled away.
“Is there a reason you're endeavoring to contract pneumonia on my doorstep?”
Hermione stood up and looked at him. There was rainwater streaming down her face. “Wizarding folk are immune to pneumonia.”
He rolled his eyes and opened the door wider. “I'll assume this is urgent. Given your lack of invitation.”
Hermione cast a drying charm on herself as she stepped through the door and followed Severus into his sitting room.
He flicked his wand carelessly and started a roaring fire in the hearth without glancing at her. Then he began gathering up strewn books; there were piles on the sofa and armchairs. He started returning them to the crammed shelves where they belonged.
Hermione's hands were aching with cold, and she held them out toward the flames for several moments before she spoke.
“It was Narcissa,” she finally said. “She was the reason.”
“Really?” Severus' skeptical voice came from somewhere behind her.
“Tom had her in a cage when Draco returned from school after fifth year. She wasn't let out until Draco killed Dumbledore. Is it true that she nearly died when she was pregnant?”
There was a pause. Hermione listened to the sliding sounds of book covers shifting against each other and the faint thump as the books bumped the back of the shelves.
“It is,” Severus said after a moment. “It happened near the height of war. Lucius believed he was going to lose her. Even after Draco was born, there was a period when he wasn't sure she'd survive.”
Hermione nodded. “Draco said Lucius made him swear he'd always take care of her. He said he tried to send her somewhere safe, but she wouldn't leave without him. Did any marked Death Eaters die suspiciously, the way Gibbon did, back before Lestrange Manor burned down?”