Draco was still for a moment, then he caught her hands and pulled them away. He stared down, his silver eyes studying her intently until she could feel heat rising in her cheeks and ears and bleeding slowly down her neck.
“Do you see my scars that way? When you look at me, are they all you see?” he asked.
Hermione flinched. “No.”
“I don't see you that way either. You're mine.” He let go of her hand, and his left hand lightly traced along her throat and collarbones and then down her sternum to where the scarring was most concentrated. “You are. It doesn't matter what happens to you. You will still be mine.” His head dipped slowly towards her, and he captured her lips with his as he said the last word.
She twisted her other hand free and tangled her fingers in his robes, drawing him closer. She kissed him and held onto him so tightly her hands trembled.
When she traced her fingers along his body and felt the scars along his torso and across his shoulders, her heart ached, and she kissed along them. She would wish them all away for his sake, but it had never occurred to her to dislike them for hers.
He was hers. She didn't love him because she wanted to change him into something easier. He was hers.
He pushed into her, and she caught his face in her hands and almost spoke.
I love you.
It was on her tongue, but she hesitated and bit back the words.
There was a part of her that felt she might somehow doom them if she said it. If there were important things left unspoken, then perhaps tomorrow would come.
She kissed him instead.
I love you. She told him in the way she pressed her lips against his; in the manner her tongue slipped against the pulse point under his jaw; with the desperate way she tangled her fingers in his hair and the patterns she traced across his shoulders.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
She told him in the way she let go of herself and held onto him instead. I love you. I will always love you.
Eventually it was time to leave. There were no excuses to stay longer. The Order had been dealt a severe blow, and Hermione had to go face it.
She glanced at the library one more time before turning to leave.
“I'll bring you back. Anytime you want,” Draco said as they stepped through the doors.
She paused and gave him a small smile. “No, you don't need to.”
They walked back to a foyer they had passed through while walking to the library. It was an immaculate, empty room, but dark and cold for being near summer. Hermione looked around.
“Is it always this cold?”
Draco looked up. “I think it used to be warmer. I remember it being warmer. The ley lines are corrupted now. It affects the house. There are wards I could use to reduce it”—he shrugged—“there have always been better things to do.”
He slid a hand around her waist and side-along apparated her to Whitecroft.
Hermione stepped back and tightened her hold on her wand. Before she could apparate, Draco's hand darted out, and he captured her wrist.
He pulled her back. “Hermione, please—,” his voice broke off as he gripped her harder and hesitated. She looked up into his eyes.
She knew what he wanted to ask her.
He swallowed. “Don't get hurt again. Don't—”
She rose up on her toes and cut him off with her lips. He held her shoulders, and she could feel his temptation to apparate; to take her away and beg her to stay there.
She caught his face in her hands and gave him a slow kiss before pressing her face against his so their cheeks brushed.
“Be careful, Draco,” she murmured against the corner of his mouth. “Be careful. Don't die.”
His fingers around her wrist tightened and almost shook. Then he gave a low sigh and let go of her.
She kissed him again and forced herself to step away. Their eyes were locked on one another as she vanished.
Grimmauld Place was tense when Hermione walked in. There was a palpable sense of despair in the house. She stood in the foyer for several seconds, absorbing it. Now that she was no longer running interference with Draco's murderous rage, she had space to realise her own fury.
She headed up to the hospital ward, her jaw tense as she went to find Padma.
Padma burst into tears at the sight of her. “You're still alive. I turned around, and you'd vanished.”
Padma hurried over and started casting diagnostics on Hermione.
Hermione shoved Padma's wand away. “I'm fine. I've recovered. If I were still in any danger, I wouldn't be standing here. Not that you'd know, since you apparently forgot to use a decent diagnostic spell yesterday. Did you actually diagnose by sight?”
Padma froze and paled. “I didn't? No. Wait — first I used the—” her voice cut off as her eyes widened with horror. “You're right. I'm sorry. I'm so used to you doing the advanced charms when I'm with you. I did a basic one — then — then I think I must have panicked.”
Hermione stared and then shook her head in disbelief. “I had vampire venom in my system, Padma, and unfortunately I wasn't in a state of mind to recall it. That's such an easy thing to fix if you'd just used a better diagnostic. If I hadn't been taken to be healed, I probably would have died in the middle of the foyer.”
Parma's face crumpled. “I don't have any excuse. I'm sorry.”
“Sorry doesn't bring back a corpse,” Hermione said, her voice shaking as she tried to rein in how venomously enraged she felt. Her neck and jaw were tense, straining with the effort of keeping her posture neutral. “There are things that should be rote. Someone is injured, you cast advanced diagnostic and ensure you know the exact extent of the injury. You don't ask them to tell you what happened. You were a field healer for years; I can't believe I'm even having this conversation with you.”
“I know. I know. I'm so sorry.” Padma started crying harder.
Hermione's tongue twisted with all the frustration she wanted to pour out at Padma. She felt so angry she could feel her magic crackling in her fingertips.
She slid her hands behind her back and curled them slowly into tight fists as she forced herself to swallow her fury.
Hermione drew a sharp breath and looked away from Padma. “Where's Alastor?”
Padma sniffed and wiped her eyes. “War room. He's barely left since the Order held their debriefing. We lost Shacklebolt yesterday. Harry says Draco Malfoy killed him.”
Hermione froze. “Harry saw Kingsley die?”
Padma nodded, her exhaustion visible across her face. “A lot — a lot of people died yesterday. I have the records mostly tallied for you. Ron's a mess. Lavender was killed too. They've been close, you know. Since he got mauled, they've been really serious. When he saw her die, he lost it. Harry tried to get him away, but — Ron was — apparently he killed the Death Eater that killed Lavender, and he broke Harry's wand arm when Harry tried to stop him. Kingsley got them both out, but as Harry was pulling Ron past the anti-apparition wards, he looked back. He said he saw Malfoy in front of Kingsley, and he knew it was Malfoy because Malfoy pulled off his mask and smiled before he used the Killing Curse.”
Hermione swallowed and felt her legs threaten to give out. The hospital ward around her swam slightly.
Padma touched her on the arm. “Sorry, I should have told you more gently. I know you two were close.”
Hermione blinked and felt dazed. “What?”
“Shacklebolt. You were friends, weren't you? You seemed to meet a lot.”
“Oh — we — we—,” she swallowed. “It was mostly hospital ward logistics.”
What could she say about her relationship with Kingsley?
There was void in her chest where her emotions over his death should be. It was a blow, a horrific blow to the Order to lose him; she'd had sincere admiration for his skills as a strategist, for his capacity to make impossible choices. Yet the things he'd done — that he'd made her complicit in — his tacit allowance of torture, his disregard for her advice as a healer, his exploitation of Draco. He'd been a puppet master, who found strings he could manipulate and made the Order dance accordingly. He'd kept them alive through sheer genius, but Hermione found herself gasping with relief at being free of him.