“I was going to be treated.” The sensation of having no upper ribs, sternum, or clavicles was horrifying. She couldn't move her arms, torso, or neck. Her fingers barely managed to shift. “I was waiting for Kingsley.”
“You nearly died.” Draco's voice was shaking. “You were dying.”
“He might have come back. He might be there now—" she gasped and tried to make her head turn. “He was cursed. I have to go back.”
“Shacklebolt is dead.”
Her eyes darted up, and she looked at him, horrified.
“How do you know? What do you know?” she said in a voice that shook with outrage.
“I killed him.” There was not a trace of regret in his face or eyes.
Hermione stared.
“You — you what?”
The sinking sensation inside made her feel as though a bottomless pit had opened in her stomach, and she was being dragged in. Collapsing into herself.
Somehow she had forgotten. That he'd killed Dumbledore; that he was a Death Eater; that she'd seen him kill dozens of people at a time without showing a hint of remorse; that his murderousness was why he was a valuable spy for them; that he brought them valuable, vital information because he continued to run successful raids and attacks for Voldemort.
She knew it all. But she'd also forgotten it.
He'd killed Kingsley. He had probably been pleased to do it. She knew how much he hated Moody and Kingsley.
“You shouldn't have brought me here,” she finally said.
“You would be dead if I hadn't. You were bitten by a vampire and took cough suppressing potion. Did you even know you were drowning in blood? You had minutes left when you arrived. Two casualty healers were barely enough to save you.”
Hermione blinked. She had forgotten about the vampire bite — it had happened so quickly. How had Padma overlooked it? Had she not even cast a diagnostic charm advanced enough to detect it?
She shoved the question aside.
“I didn't know. There was a roomful of dying people. I was in line like all the rest of them. Pomfrey was sick. Our backup healer didn't come. They needed me. Once someone started healing me, I wouldn't have been able to move anymore, no matter what kind of advanced injuries came in. It took hours, didn't it? Repairing everything? There wasn't anyone available to do it. Do you have any idea how many people died today? How many are cursed so they'll never recover? Just because you don't care about them doesn't mean they don't matter.”
“You are mine!” Draco bared his teeth with rage. “I turned, and I saw you get cursed as you disappeared, and I didn't even know if you were still alive. You said you wouldn't leave the safe houses. You told me you'd be safe. You were in the middle of a massacre. Then — I learn that you were alive but not being treated.”
He was so angry he looked ready to explode. She could feel the rage emanating from him.
“I even thought I was going overboard by having you kidnapped out of the safe house. I should have known — I should have fucking known, you idiotic Gryffindor. You would have just let yourself die.”
“This is war, Draco. People die.” Hermione said in a flat voice. “Given your personal death toll, you should know that better than anyone else. If you knew anything about me, you would know I'm not going to prioritise my survival over everyone else's.”
Draco stared at her for several seconds. He was breathing through his teeth, his hands clenched into fists.
“Well, you should.” He was suddenly ice-cold. “I have warned you. If something happens to you, I will personally raze the entire Order. That isn't a threat. It is a promise. Consider your survival as much a necessity to the survival of the Resistance as Potter's. If you die, I will kill every last one of them. Given that the risk of their lives is apparently the only way to make you value your own.”
Hermione stared up at him in state of shock that slowly twisted into rage.
“How dare you? How dare you?”
If she could have moved, she would have cursed him, stabbed him, tried to beat him with her bare hands.
She wanted to weep as the full realisation of what his threat meant dawned on her.
He was too dangerous.
Too much of a risk to the Order.
When she reported back to Moody, he would probably decide they had no choice but to kill Draco.
Whether Moody used his memories or hers, the result would be the same.
Tears welled up and streamed down from the corners of her eyes. She closed them so that she wouldn't have to look up at Draco.
The silence hung between them for a minute before she heard him sigh heavily. She felt the bed shift, and his fingers stroked her face, brushing away a lock of hair and then resting on her cheek.
“You're thinking you'll have to kill me, aren't you?” he said. “That I'm too much of a liability now. If you go to Moody, he'll order it.”
His hand trailed down and rested lightly on her chest over the spot where her sternum was re-growing. The heat of it seeped gradually through the cast and into her skin. It made her breath catch.
“And you'll do it. Won't you?”
Hermione opened her eyes and looked at him. He was seated on the edge of the bed, staring down at her. The rage had vanished from his eyes.
“You aren't leaving me any choice.” she said in a shaking voice. “You know — you know I will not choose you over everyone else.”
He studied her. “You'll never forgive yourself.”
Her jaw trembled. “No. I won't—” her voice broke. “But — it wouldn't be the first unforgivable thing I've done. I'm already a whore.” His hand resting against her flinched. “Becoming a murderer will just be an extra line in the history books.”
“If you did, what would you do then?”
“I'm sure you can imagine.” She wanted to turn her head away, but, without her bones, her muscles couldn't function.
His hand withdrew. Its sudden absence tugged at something inside of her. She struggled not to sob.
She hated this war.
She had thought she could do anything. She thought there would be no limits to what she would be willing to do to save Harry — to save everyone. That she would be able to bear with the consequences for long enough to reach the end.
Apparently Draco had become her limit.
She didn't know how to endure the war on her own anymore. The thought of watching the light fade from his eyes...
A ragged wail tore itself from her throat.
Suddenly Draco was over her, holding her in as much of an embrace as he could without injuring her. His face only a breath away from hers.
“Just live, Hermione.” His voice was shaking. “That's all I am asking you to do for me.”
Hermione gave a low sob. “I cannot promise that. You know I cannot promise that. And I cannot risk what you would do if I died.”
He kissed her. His hands caressed her face, and his fingers tangled in her hair. She sobbed against his lips.
“I'm sorry...” she kept saying again and again as she kissed him. “I'm sorry I did this to you.”
His lips were still against hers when he suddenly stiffened and hissed.
He wrenched himself away, gripping his left forearm until the knuckles of his right hand were white. “Fuck.”
He stood up and stared down at her. “I'm being summoned.”
She could see the calculation in his eyes. His jaw clenched, and he seemed to be wavering. An expression of despairing resignation flickered in his eyes.
“I can't delay. I have to go. Topsy!”
A house-elf popped into the room. Hermione started slightly and glanced around, realising that she was not in a hotel room.
“Am I — in Malfoy Manor?” Her voice shook with disbelief.