Draco's lips pressed together into a hard, flat line, and his expression grew cold and closed.
“I don't want you inserting yourself to protect me, Granger.” His tone was like ice.
She stiffened and there was a sharp stab of hurt that laced through her. “Why not? Is protection exclusively your right? Am I supposed to just sit quietly in the safe houses while you win the war for me?” She jerked her chin up. “I'm not running raids. I'm still carefully cag—”
Draco flinched before she could cut herself off.
She dropped her head and drew a sharp breath, curling her fingers into a fist as she looked away from him. “I'm sorry. That — I didn't mean that. I don't see it that way.”
Lie.
She sighed and looked away from him. “I'm not leaving the safe houses. I'm just coordinating more of the classified details within the Order, which means I have more leverage now than I did before. That's all. I'm not — endangering myself.”
She stopped speaking and stared at Draco. His expression was guarded.
The air hung around them, cold; as though their ghosts surrounded them. They were both drenched in the dead.
The war was like an abyss that wanted everything and was never satisfied. There was always more required. Another life. An additional measure of blood. Be better. Smarter. More ruthless. Quicker. More cunning. Accept a second portion of pain.
It was never enough.
Hermione had gone to Eleos and Panacea. She'd lain herself prostrate at the feet of Athena. She'd built prayer towers. She'd sacrificed almost every piece of herself that she had to offer.
Never enough.
Draco had walked straight to the altar of Ares.
Never enough.
Nothing was ever enough. The war always wanted more.
'If you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you.'
What will you give? What will you give to win?
Hermione swallowed. “Draco — what do you expect me to do?”
He gave a sigh that sounded like a hiss. “I don't want you in this fucking war.” The rage in his voice was raw. “All I do is worry about what will happen to you if I fail to meet all requirements.”
She drew a sharp breath and stepped towards him, reaching for his hand. “The Order is not like the Death Eaters. Draco—”
His expression turned vicious before she could touch him.
“I am aware of the difference.” He sneered. “Do you imagine it's somehow more reassuring to know you'd just volunteer?”
Hermione stepped back and glared at him, her shoulders rigid. “I am not a possession you can put away somewhere, Draco. I've spent years training in order to contribute to the Resistance. You can't ask me to stop or leave because it worries you. You agreed — you swore you wouldn't interfere with my aid to the Order. You can't try to guilt me into passivity either.”
He glared at her. “You have no idea what would happen if you're caught. If—”
“I do know,” she snapped, cutting him off. Her throat was tight, and her chest felt compressed until she could barely breathe. “What do you think I do with all my time? I heal the people you Death Eaters don't manage to kill. That's almost all I've done for years. I cared for the victims from the last curse division until they died. And they all died.” She tried to swallow. “Every — last — one of them — died. I'm so aware of the risks I think sometimes I might go mad from knowing them. Don't you dare — don't you dare try to treat me as naive. I know as well as you. Why do you think I try so hard?” Her voice broke slightly.
Draco's expression remained cold.
Hermione turned away. She felt so drained she wanted to sink into a corner so she wouldn't have to keep standing. She'd been so worried waiting for him to return to England. She'd reached her limit. She could feel her occlumency walls wavering; like a dam, her exhaustion threatened to break apart.
You're losing. You're losing. You haven't saved anyone. Draco. Harry. Ron. Ginny. The Order. The Resistance.
You want too much.
Her shoulders shook. She wanted to go back to her potion cabinet and find something that would make the war stop feeling like death by a thousand cuts.
She pressed her lips together, and her jaw trembled. “I think I need to go. I'm too tired to have this argument tonight.”
She wanted to just vanish. She was so tired of begging him not to die. She swallowed. Even her saliva tasted bitter. “I'll report to Moody about your father. Do you need me to heal you at all?”
Draco's hand shot out, and he gripped her wrist. “Don't. Don't go. I don't know when I'll be able to call you again.”
She wavered. “Draco — I'm so tired — I don't want to fight—”
He pulled her closer. “Just stay with me. Just stay.”
She gave a small nod and dropped her head against his chest. He slid an arm around her waist and apparated. They reappeared in his suite in the Savoy.
He laid her on the bed and pulled off her shoes. He sat on the edge, running his fingers along her arm until she was half-asleep.
He stood. “I need to shower and eat. I'll come back.”
Hermione reached out and caught his hand. “I was afraid you'd die abroad, and all I'd have was your note.” Her voice was thick. “You're always in danger, and I can never ask you to stop.”
He ran his thumb across the back of her hand. “I would if I could. You know that. I'd run with you and never look back.”
“I know—” Her voice broke. She was too tired to keep her emotions at bay. She gave a low sob. “Don't die, Draco. You can't leave me behind.”
He sank back down onto the bed beside her and didn't leave until she stopped crying and fell asleep.
When the bed shifted, she woke to find him on the far side of the bed, his hair slightly damp. It had been hours since they'd arrived; more sleep than she'd had since he'd left.
She shifted across the bed and into his arms, resting her forehead against his bare chest, tracing her fingers along his torso until he caught her hand and then rolled her under him. He studied her eyes but didn't move again until she lifted her head and kissed him.
His hand was on her throat, his thumb sliding up to nestle under her jaw as his tongue played against hers. Gradual. Committing him to memory. She never thought she could know a person with such slow intimacy. She laced her fingers through his hair and closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation of him.
She knew how he would press his lips against the pulse point of her throat, the ways he would push her body down beneath him. The sensation of his hands on her thighs and his teeth grazing across her skin.
When he moved inside her, his hands were locked around her wrists. She arched and met his hips. She felt his breath whisper across her skin.
“Mine. You're mine,” he said as he kissed along her jaw.
“Always.”
Chapter End Notes
“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.” Friedrich Nietzsche
Flashback 35
June 2003
Hermione completed the bomb in two weeks. The final product was silver, ovoid with a faint luminescent shimmer, slightly smaller than a crystal ball, and freezing cold to touch.
The timing of the construction had been precise. When it was finished, she sent immediate word to Severus. He was due to visit Hogwarts that afternoon, to select new prisoners for use at Sussex.
“It's only visible to those who know to look for it,” she said, handing it carefully over. “It's set to activate at exactly noon on July 1st. There are some cushioning charms where I could risk them, but — don't drop it.”