Draco scoffed in the back of his throat and glanced up towards the ceiling. “What I'm like? What exactly do you think I'm like?” He gave a short laugh. “You have a chance to have a new life. Don't drag my memory with you.”
Hermione shook her head
He stared down at her, his gaze hard. “Do you want to walk through your life with a Death Eater's bastard chained to you? The whole world knows you're here and what I did to you in this house. It was quite thoroughly publicised, as you may recall. No matter what colour eyes it has, or how old it gets, it will be the child of a murderer, conceived because I—raped you while you were my prisoner, and everyone will know that. Everyone.”
His chest jerked as he spoke, and he looked away from her. “Leave it all behind, Granger.” He inhaled. “Have children with someone else someday.”
Hermione stared at him. “Is that what you think I'm going to do? Run away and hide, and pretend that you were a monster I was lucky to get away from?”
He stared down at her, expression unreadable. “It wouldn't be a lie.”
Hermione met his silver eyes and saw the flat, empty resignation in them.
“I hate you. I hold you partly responsible for every person who has died so far in this war and every person who will die. You don't need to convince me that you're a monster, I already know it.”
Her throat tightened so much it was hard to swallow as she reached towards him. “Draco, you're not a monster. You didn't have any choice. Did you think I'd still hate you once I remembered?” She stepped closer and caught his face in her hands. “Even before I remembered, you were the only thing that ever felt safe.”
She stared up into his eyes. “I left a note. Did you get my note? I love you.”
He flinched as though struck, and she felt his jaw tremble against her fingers. He started to shake his head, and she stilled him, pulling him closer.
“I love you,” she said more firmly, her voice shaking with intensity. “I love you. I will always love you. Always. Until there's nothing left of me.”
She rose up on her toes, tilted her chin forward, and kissed him.
He was frozen as her lips touched his.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.” She said the words against his mouth. Her fingers slid along the curve of his jaw as her lips kept moving against his.
He still didn't move. She pressed herself closer to him.
Then he shook. His hand rose up to capture her face, and he pulled her against himself. His fingers tangled in her hair as his palms cradled her cheeks. His mouth was burning. He kissed her and kissed her.
He kissed her like he was starving, like he'd been drowning. His tongue and his teeth and his lips pressed against hers. Her mouth brushed against his, and she nipped him. His tongue flicked against her lower lip and slid against hers. It was as though he were trying to pour himself into her or consume her.
His fingers slid along the shells of her ears and his thumbs caressed the arches of her cheekbones. She wrapped her arms around his neck as she met every movement of his lips. He drew a ragged gasp against her mouth, and she felt him shuddering. He kissed her until she could feel the desperation in his blood.
Then he drew back, resting his forehead against hers. His hands were shaking as he held her.
“I'm sorry — I'm sorry — I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for everything I did to you,” he said, his voice hoarse and broken. “I love you. You left, and I'd never told you.”
She asked him to stay every night.
They never did more than kiss. Draco's hands rarely moved below her shoulders when he kissed her.
She would curl up in his arms and fall asleep listening to him breathe.
During the day he'd leave to “work,” and she'd research, giving Topsy longer and longer lists of books she wanted. Curse-breaking. Dark Arts. Lethal curses. Potions encyclopaedias and ingredient indexes. Curse analytics. Muggle medical textbooks.
She'd hoped, if the curse was broken, she'd be able to flense the mark. But after running a mental simulation of the procedure four different ways, she concluded it was impossible. The curse in the mark wasn't dermal, it was like his runes, even if she cut out all the muscle tissue in his forearm and removed and regrew his bones, assuming she could keep his hand in stasis comprehensively enough to preserve the tissue and nerves for up to twenty-four hours, the Dark Mark would just regrow along with bones, muscle, and skin.
Draco estimated they would have a few hours at most once her manacles were removed. It was possible that Voldemort would know immediately; he was intensely interested in Hermione.
If Hermione were trying to get Draco to flee with her, there wouldn't be time for an elaborate healing procedure. The removal would have to be fast.
He'd have to cut off his left arm, just below the elbow.
The thought left a painful knot in the pit of her stomach as she asked for more resources on amputation techniques. She wasn't sure even amputation would be successful. The wound was cursed not to heal; paired with magically accelerated haemorrhaging, the result was rapidly lethal.
It wasn't like the gradual deadliness of the curse Dumbledore had received on his hand. The damage refused to be contained or slowed, magically or otherwise. Tourniquets. Essence of Dittany. Cauterisation. Healing spells. Severus and Draco had tried without success to stop the bleeding.
It was as though the curse was determined to force all the blood out of the body.
She kept narrowing and narrowing the options. Every day felt like a screw being more tightly turned.
Her headaches stopped being debilitating, but they were steadily replaced by shriveling anxiety. The date on the wall felt like a daily death knell. She researched until she couldn't see to read. It was the only way she knew how to make herself feel useful.
Feeling useful was all she was doing. She knew Draco was letting her feel like she was contributing. He was letting her try, so she'd feel like she'd done something. It was just an outlet, like doing crunches in her room or searching the manor from garret to dungeon in the hopes of finding a weapon. It was something for her to do. Something preoccupy her with.
When Draco was with her, he treated her like it was all a goodbye. He looked at her like he was saying goodbye. He touched her like he was saying goodbye. He'd wrap his arms around her shoulders and rest his head on hers, and she could feel it.
One morning she returned from showering and found all her books gone. Topsy was standing beside the bed.
“The Healer is coming this day, the Master says all the books is needing to be put away.”
Hermione gave a resigned nod and went and stared out the window. It was summer, lush and beautiful. She hadn't been outside in over a month.
It felt like such an effort; to go all the way outside, to try to stay calm under the open sky. It would waste time and energy she could be spending trying to find a way to remove Draco's mark.
There was a soft crack, and she looked over her shoulder and found that Draco had appeared.
“Stroud will be arriving soon.”
Hermione nodded. “Topsy mentioned it.”
He walked closer and stood, staring out the window beside her.
“When did you last go outside?”
Hermione kept looking down at the maze. She reached out and rested her finger on the grill of the window. “I don't remember. Early May.”
“You should.”
Her fingers slipped away from the glass and dropped to her side. “It's too open. I don't want to.”
Draco was silent.
“Fresh air would be good for you. It might help you eat more.”
Hermione looked down. “I don't have time.”
“Read downstairs, sit by an open window. You used to always go outside.”