His arms closed around her back.
“Tonks said — the Dark Magic I used today, I shouldn't be alone. But — there wasn't anyone to go to. Everyone else already has someone — someone they go to after—”
“But you don't.”
She nodded.
“What spell did you use?” Draco was asking. “What Dark Magic?”
“I carbonised a werewolf. It was mauling Ron. The day before the full moon, stunners would take so long.”
She was having her first hallucination in her life. She was possibly dying. Draco was as hot as a furnace and wearing a light grey hoodie that said Oxford on it and — jeans?
It was almost funny how ridiculous it was. She wanted to laugh as she took it in.
“No wonder you're cold,” he muttered.
She felt the pop of apparition, and, looking dazedly around, she found herself in a lavish Muggle hotel suite.
She was bewildered. Of course, hallucinating as a rule made no sense. But this was just bizarre. She stared up at Draco.
“Do you think this is what my subconscious thinks I want?” she asked. “To be with you in the Muggle world?“
His expression was unreadable.
“What do you want?”
Tears welled up in her eyes as she stared at him.
“I don't want to always be alone,” she choked out. “I want to love someone without feeling like if they know, it'll end up hurting them. Harry was my first friend. I always wanted friends — but I was always too odd, too bookish, too awkward. I was always alone. No one wanted to be my real friend. Harry was the first person who let me be his friend. I thought we would always be friends. But now — I have to push him away to protect him. And Ron. And my — my parents. And now — there's nobody. I have to love everyone from a distance. And I'm so lonely—” She sobbed into her hand.
“What happened to your parents?”
Her mouth twisted. “I obliviated them after you killed Dumbledore. All their memories of me. Erased them all so I never existed. I sent them away. I thought, if the war was short, I'd be able to get them back. But you can't reverse obliviation after five years.”
The heat from Draco's body felt like it was sinking all the way into her core. One of his hands was on her neck, and she leaned into it.
“You don't have to be alone, Granger,” he said.
She wanted to believe him, but her mind couldn't quiet itself to give in. It was never quiet. There were always realisations, guilt, and consequences she couldn't ignore — that she couldn't not know. Even delirious, there were things too dangerous to give herself.
She tried to push him away, but it was like trying to shove away a brick wall.
“Why? Because of you?” she said bitterly. “I can't — I don't get to care about you. If I care about you, I won't be able to use you. And you're the only hope I have left of keeping everyone else alive. So I can't.”
“So use me,” he said. He started to kiss her, but she jerked back.
“No. I can't. I don't — I don't want to do that to you. You don't deserve — I can take care of myself.” She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let go.
“You don't have to push me away to protect me,” he said in a hard, familiar voice. “I can take it. You can stop being lonely. I won't misunderstand. I know you just want someone to be with. I won't take it as meaning more than that.”
She kept pulling away.
“I'm alone too, Granger,” he said.
She stilled, her hands compulsively gripping the fabric of his shirt.
“I—,” she started.
He swallowed her objections. His hands captured her face as his mouth pressed against hers. She clung to him and kissed him back.
Then he drew his mouth from hers and kissed her forehead. He pushed her back onto the bed.
“Just rest,” he said as he seated himself on the edge of it. “I won't go anywhere. Do what you need to stay grounded.”
He leaned back against the headboard and took her hand.
Hermione leaned against his chest and gripped his hand, pulling his arm against her chest and curling her head down. She rested her cheek against the back of his hand. She focused on breathing. On the heat against the cold. On the sensation of his fingers wrapped around hers. On his chin resting on top of her head.
She closed her eyes and focused on him. She could hear his heartbeat.
He was alive. He was alive. She had kept him alive.
She pressed her lips against his fingers and felt his grip tighten.
She lifted her head and stared at him.
He looked back at her and didn't move when she let go of his hand in order to reach out and touch his face. She leaned closer and brushed her lips against his cheek. She pressed her lips against his forehead. Then, after a pause, she kissed him on the mouth.
He was fire to touch.
She didn't know if she'd ever get a chance to be with him again. If this was all she got.
She kissed him slowly. She wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled him closer, until his arms slid around her, and his lips began to move against hers.
She didn't know if what she was doing was holding on or letting go.
She slid her fingers into his hair.
His hands slipped behind her head, and he pulled the pins out of her braids. He helped her take off her cast. She studied the regrown bones and all the scars across her wrist. He ran his fingers through her hair until she shivered and looked back up at him.
Their kisses were slow. It wasn't seething or rushed or guilty. It was just desperate, because he somehow always made her desperate.
She kissed him the way she had wanted to. The way she had let herself secretly wish she could.
She could have that. Once.
He cradled her face in his hands. She gave a low sob against his lips.
“This — is the way I wanted it to be,” she admitted to him. “With you. I wanted it to be like this with you.”
He went still, and she felt her tears sliding along his fingers. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry it wasn't,” he said, pulling her closer, his thumbs grazing over her cheekbones.
Had he always been so warm? She wondered sometimes how much of her memory of kissing him the night after she'd healed him had been real. Or if she'd been so drunk she'd invented parts to replay in the moments when everything felt too void of any tenderness.
“It's fine,” she said, pressing her head down on his shoulder.
”It's not. Let me give you this now.”
He drew her lips back to his and kissed her. Slow and intent.
Like a star, he was glittering and ice-cold from afar, but when the space was bridged, the heat of him was endless.
He kissed her deeply while his hands slid along her body. His fingers traced her spine and over her shoulder blades, ghosting across her skin. He pulled her shirt off and kissed along her collarbones. His hands felt like home as he slid his fingers into her hair, drew her head back and pressed his lips against the base of her throat.
She tugged on his shirt until he pulled it off. Then she brought his mouth back to hers and kissed him again. Her fingers followed along the curve of his jaw, the tendons of his neck, and over his shoulders. He was thinner, and he had so many new scars he felt almost unfamiliar.
He kissed along every inch of her. He pulled her bra off and slid his palms over her breasts. He kissed down her sternum until her head dropped back and she was gasping. The heat of his touch felt like it had kindled itself inside of her. She found herself catching fire until she ached.
He watched her unwaveringly, as though committing every reaction to memory so that he'd always know it.
It wasn't too fast or too much for her to be ready for. He went as slow as she wanted him to.
When he pushed slowly inside her, his eyes were fastened on her face. “Is this good for you?”