Hermione's name sat beside Kingsley's in every prisoner file. Her handwriting neatly cataloguing in precise, clinical terms the injuries she'd healed, the exact condition of each prisoner when she placed them in stasis.
I was there. I knew. I was complicit.
She swallowed. “I'm not as good a person as you think. I–I could very well end up in Azkaban.”
Draco was silent for a moment as he stared at her. His fingers twitched and tightened around her. “Run. Say the word, and I'll get you out. You don't have to stay here.”
A craven part of herself rose up and unfurled at his words. Out. Free. Far away from the war.
She didn't know how much she wanted it until she heard it offered by someone who meant it.
The idea of living without the war — she wanted to.
“You know I won't,” she said, looking up into his eyes.
His expression was bitter, and his eyes flickered, showing tired resignation. He nodded. “The offer stands. Give the word, I'll get you out.”
She studied him. “What about you?”
He gave a bitter laugh. “If I could run, I would have vanished while my mother was alive.”
Hermione nodded slowly. He would never be there if he had any choice. “Of course. Would you go now, if you could?”
He stared at her, his eyes were molten silver and unwavering. “With you, I would.”
“Then — we'll go together. After the war.” She pressed his hand against her chest and felt her heart beat against it. “When the war is over. We'll both run somewhere no one knows us. We'll — disappear. When it's over.”
His eyes flickered for a moment before he met her gaze and smiled faintly. “Of course, Granger.”
He was lying.
They both were.
It was a fairytale to think they could run together. That things would end neatly enough for that.
She squeezed his hand tighter and met his eyes until the illusion faded away.
“There was a trace on Ron,” she said after a minute. “From Sussex. Would you be able to get us more information about how they work? And what other prototypes they're working on?”
“I'll see what I can do.” His tone was clipped. He drew away and rolled his neck so that it cracked.
Hermione stared at him. He was impossibly elegant but too thin. Nearly gaunt. His skin was pale as marble, and in the dim morning light, he could have been a figure in a painting. His scars made the scene macabre.
She couldn't look at him and not see the war. It was carved into him.
She sat up and fixed the pins in her hair.
“I hate your hair like that,” he said abruptly.
Hermione glanced over and arched an eyebrow. “I could crop it instead.”
His expression grew offended. She gave him a wry smile and shrugged. “I have to keep it out of the way when working. I'm always on call. It makes the most sense to keep it this way.”
He looked away for several minutes. “I want to see you more.”
The corner of her mouth quirked as her heart caught with relief. “Alright. Do you have a time?”
He turned to look at her, and she could see the hunger in his eyes. Possessive. Ravenous.
He would drag her from the war and hide her the instant she let him. She could see the conflict in his eyes. The sight of Draco restraining himself as he stared at her and weighed his options was familiar.
Want. Want. Want. She felt it like her heartbeat.
If he couldn't hide her, he would hoard her to himself as much as he was able.
She'd fallen for a dragon.
“I've always been on call for you too. I have a six hour shift in the hospital ward every afternoon, but the rest of my work is flexible. You can call me, and I'll come as soon as I can.”
“I'll call you then, when I can. If the ring activates once, it's not Order related.”
Draco pulled his cloak off the floor and pulled out a scroll.
“Any new orders this week?” he asked as he offered it to her. His mouth twisted derisively as he asked the question. “Aside from information on the trace?”
She shook her head. “It's the main priority.”
As she reached and took hold of the scroll, he pulled it back, drawing her towards him. He closed a hand around her wrist.
She felt the parchment slip from her fingers as his other hand slid up her throat, and he kissed her.
He kissed her, and she kissed him.
Chapter End Notes
Additional Illustrations:
Foraging had been hers by meriyart.
Lights out love by ecagart.
Flashback 31
April 2003
Draco called her. Often.
Sometimes, his duties in Voldemort's army came to an end in the late evening, but most of the time he called her in the early hours of morning. Hermione would work in her potion cabinet or research until her ring burned. Then she'd slip out of Grimmauld Place and apparate to Whitecroft.
She'd barely step through the door before Draco would appear, snatch her up, and apparate them elsewhere. Always a hotel. Rarely the same one, even from one night to the next.
He'd kiss her, cradling her face in his hands, and it felt felt like he was breathing her in.
Then he'd step back enough to look at her.
“You're alright? Are you alright? Has anything happened to you?” He'd run his hands over her to check as he asked.
Every time the same question, as though he didn't believe it until he'd verified it personally.
She hadn't expected him to be so obsessively worried. She'd observed his immediate arrival at Whitecroft over the months; the careful way he'd run his eyes over her after she'd been attacked in Hampshire. She hadn't considered how deep the fear cut into him.
She'd feel herself unwinding under his touch as his fingers ran down her arms, over her hands, and up her spine.
“I'm fine, Draco. You don't need to worry.”
The words never seemed to have any effect. He'd turn her face up towards his and stare into her eyes as though he expected to find something in them.
She'd look up at him and calmly let him reassure himself.
Whatever had happened to his mother, Narcissa had never told him fully; either because she couldn't, or in an attempt to spare him. Withholding it had probably been the worst choice.
Draco was like her. He obsessed over what he didn't know more than anything else.
She'd meet his eyes, “Draco, I'm fine. Nothing has happened to me.”
When he was certain she truly was wholly uninjured, it was like a tension inside him would finally break. He'd gather her in his arms, sighing with relief while he rested his head on hers.
You did this to him, she reminded herself, and she wrapped her arms tightly around him. You guessed where he was vulnerable, and you exploited it.
She'd run her own fingers over him, trying to detect any injuries on him before he kissed her again.
“Draco, let me heal you.”
She never had and never would heal anyone else the way she healed Draco: in his arms, pressed against his body. She'd slide her hands along him and press open-mouthed kisses on his shoulders, hands, and face while she muttered spells. She'd check him over meticulously until he plucked her wand from her fingers and flung it across the room. Then he'd push her down in the bed and take her slowly.
It was nearly always deliriously slowly. He'd stare into her eyes until she almost felt their minds touching.
Other times, he'd arrive drenched in Dark Magic. It would cling to his clothes and skin. When he was like that, he was always more desperate. Harder. Faster. Trying to lose himself in something he could feel.