Draco pulled her wand from his robes and slipped it into her hand. She could feel the hesitation in his fingers.
“I'm sorry. I didn't realise that disapparation would cause your bones to shatter.”
Hermione flinched at the memory. She looked down and forced herself to shrug. “Pressure. That's why I told you that you can't use displacement transport with brain or eye injuries. It can be similar with damaged bones.”
“I'm sorry.”
Hermione glanced up and gave him a small smile. “It's not your fault. It was a lot of bad luck.”
He stiffened, and his expression froze before he scoffed under his breath. “It wasn't just bad luck. Does the Order realise how predictable they've become? The losses yesterday were almost entirely one-sided. It was a stunning success. It will be repeated.”
There was a bitter rage in his voice.
Hermione stilled and then pressed her lips together, hesitating for a moment. “It was yours, wasn't it? The attack. You planned it.”
Draco tensed, and there was a pause. He looked away from her, and she saw his jaw ripple.
“I have to maintain my position in order to do everything required. The Dark Lord knows there are spies in the army now. He's well aware that the Order has infiltrated somehow. Shacklebolt overplayed. Sussex and the various branches of the army are becoming sequestered. There are dozens of counter-espionage measures in place; maintaining rank is the only way to remain informed of them.”
She slid a hand against his leg. “I'm not faulting you. I just hadn't realised it.”
There was a long silence.
“I had no choice but to kill Shacklebolt,” Draco finally said. “He was cursed, as you were aware. Weasley went on a rampage because some girl died. Shacklebolt got Potter and Weasley out, but he was finished.” There was a beat. “Capture and interrogation would have been worse.”
Hermione gave a slow nod without looking up.
The Death Eaters would have known the value of Kingsley Shacklebolt. They would have done everything in their power to tear out every piece of intelligence he possessed.
It would have been a slow and horrific death.
It would have risked the Order. It would have risked the entire Resistance.
It would have risked Draco.
“Was it quick?”
“It was quick.”
There was nothing else to say.
She ignored the weight in her chest and flicked her wand, casting a diagnostic on herself.
The bones had regrown well, but her lung tissue, tendons and ligaments were still delicate and resetting. Apparition would not be advisable for several more hours.
She looked up at Draco. “Do you need to work? I can help you research inheritance law.”
“I've found what I need.”
Hermione glanced around the room. It was sterile. Almost bare. The bed, a towering wardrobe, a desk, and a chair.
“Is this a guest room?”
Draco's mouth twisted in a brief grimace. “No. It's mine. I don't come here often.”
Hermione looked around more carefully.
It was as impersonal as his hotel rooms; she didn't think she'd ever seen him with anything she could classify as personal possession. “I would have thought your bedroom would be green and silver.”
Draco gave an empty-sounding laugh.
She picked up his hand, entwining their fingers. “I'm sorry, Draco, that you had to come here because of me.”
His fingers tightened, gripping hers comfortingly. “I would have come for the books.”
Hermione lit up, and her eyes widened as she looked up at him. “Can I — can I see your library?”
Draco's eyes glittered, and he chuckled. “I had wondered how long it would take you to ask.”
Hermione's cheeks grew hot, and she dropped her eyes. “It's just — I haven't had access to many magical texts since returning from studying abroad. We brought some from Hogwarts, and the Black library is alright. I've read most of them now — there isn't a place I can get books easily anymore.”
“I'll show you the library, Granger.”
She dressed, and Draco took her hand. They paused briefly at the door. Draco drew a sharp breath, as though he were bracing himself, before opening the door.
They stepped out into a long dark hallway. As they walked down it, several of the portraits muttered. Draco froze and then turned and stared at the pale, narrow-featured ancestor glaring at them.
“A word against her, and I will burn you to ashes. Pass on the warning.” Draco's voice was deadly calm.
The ancestor turned green and nodded before ducking out of the portrait.
The library was enormous. Aisles and shelves of books with spiral staircases leading to a second story with paths running along more shelves.
“Draco…” Hermione felt as though there were stars in her eyes as she took it in. “This is—”
She hesitated. He hated the house. Being there with her had to feel like a nightmare.
”It's nice library,” she finally said.
Draco gave a low laugh. “You're allowed to like the library, Hermione. You don't have to dislike the manor on my account.”
She stepped closer to a shelf and ran her eyes along all the spines. Her fingers hovered a breath away from the leather-bound tomes before she caught herself. “Can I touch them?”
“Of course. I wouldn't show you books you couldn't touch.”
She shrugged. “Some libraries are cursed against Muggle-borns.”
Draco leaned against a shelf. “I don't think the Malfoys ever imagined a Muggle-born would be invited onto the estate.” He gave her a wry smile. “What do you want to see?”
Hermione glanced around longingly before she spoke. “Soul theory, if you have any. They're usually a subsection in magical theory. I don't have much time.”
Draco's expression flickered as he turned and led her through the aisles.
She lost track of time poring over the books. There were so many books there she'd never seen or even heard of. She raced through one book after another until her eyes burned, and she had to tilt her head back to remove the crick in it. As she looked up, she found Draco watching her.
His eyes were dark as he stared at her. Her skin prickled, and a shiver ran down her spine as she set down her book and met his eyes.
He moved like water as he came towards her. He kissed her, and she drank him in. He slid his arms around her waist, and she drew her mouth back just enough to speak.
“We have to be careful. Everything is still a bit fragile.”
He nodded and kissed her again.
He was careful. Slow and gentle. He touched her as though she were glass in his hands.
When he pulled her shirt off and looked down at her, she flinched, and her hands darted up to cover her sternum.
“They'll fade,” she said quickly.
Suddenly she fully understood Ginny's tears over her scar. The injury on her chest seemed so much more prominent than the scars on her wrist were. She couldn't hide it; couldn't conceal it under the sheets, or behind her back, or off to the side so the scars wouldn't constantly be visible.
She didn't think they would affect how Draco regarded her — but maybe they would. The scarring was so present. Dropped right in the middle of her. Perhaps, after a while, being constantly revisited by the sight of them would cause things to change; eventually he'd want something that didn't have the war so overtly burned into it. Someday, if it was over, he might want something that wasn't such a constant reminder of the past.
The thought cut through her like a blade. She bit her lip and pressed her hands more firmly against her sternum.
“I'll treat them — so they'll fade more.” She swallowed, and her fingers fluttered somewhat as she tried to cover them all and make them less — there.