Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When our truth is burned from history
By those who figured justice in fond memory, witness me
Like fire weeping from a cedar tree
Know that my love would burn with me
We'll live eternally

Act One

The war is going badly. 

That's not to say it was ever going particularly well, but every time I see Harry, his luster is just a little more lacking. He's our beacon of hope, the baseline upon which all other expectations are set and where he once happily rose to such a noble challenge, now it's just another weight he must carry alone. As if having to kill Voldemort wasn't stressful enough already. I do all I can, but there is little I can contribute anymore. 

Moody, who has never been known for his geniality, has become even more taciturn and mercurial as of late. Whenever I ask him for answers, he ignores me outright and I'm stretched too thin to press the issue further. Gone is that bright-eyed girl who weaponized her tenacity for any cause she deemed just. Now I just try to walk myself through the seven stages of grief on a regular schedule in an attempt to better bear the blow of the next inevitable loss. It's funny, the things we leave behind along the path to victory. Or defeat, I suppose, but if I wallow any further into the muddied waters of pessimism, I fear I'll drown. 

Whenever I've the privilege of spending more than five minutes with either Ron or Harry, I'm too busy trying to fit weeks of companionship into the space of less than an hour to justify discussing the war effort. You'd think that, with the last three years of our lives having been utterly consumed with defeating the Dark Lord at any cost, we'd struggle to find topics not at least tangentially related to the chaos; you'd be right. Still, we try because we are the only safe harbor any of us have, and we miss each other—and the simple way things used to be—with an acute, visceral ache. Anything before 6th year is a safe bet, assuming we don’t bring up Arthur, or Lavender, or Fred, or Dumbledore, or Colin, or—you get the idea. It’s easier to list that which still remains than it is to avoid all the lights we’ve seen extinguished in the bloodied wake of one mad man and his quest for domination. Bleak, right? 

I’m anxious to know what’s causing the latest string of failed ops, but the only gossip on the proverbial trade winds boils down to: we don’t know. Our insider intel is as reliable as ever, and the Death Eaters haven’t suddenly become any more or less nightmarish. There is just something in the air, something heavy and foreboding, and it weighs down the efforts of every Order member left standing. When Ginny comes through my cottage-turned-clinic on a supply run, I ask after our mutual loved ones and she speaks in heavy sighs, avoiding eye-contact for fear of the sobs the familiarity of my face will bring. It was easier when I was out there with them, clothes wrought with old dirt and dried blood permanently staining the skin beneath my nails. It was easier when I prowled the front line, every bit the child soldier the Order wanted me to be. Stupid old fools, they depend too heavily upon our sense of invulnerability, knowing full well just how fragile we really are. Now nothing is easy—not that it ever really was—and I wake every morning to a sharp pain in my leg that never wanes and a sense of endless futility that I’d never before known the taste of. It was easier when I could help.

Now I fester on the sidelines, tending to wounds I have no business handling and crying myself sick in the shower each night. I am still indispensable to the war-effort, Moody tells me, as if his lies are any more believable when he says them out loud. I’m nothing but a leftover reminder of what happens when you fly too close to the sun and what it means—what it actually, really means—to sacrifice yourself to the cause. The indignity of my condition prevents me from feeling sorry for myself, but only because it’s easier to hate the injury than it is to blame my actions. I’ve never been good at self-loathing, my brain was never wired for it, and for all that I’ve broken and rebuilt and lost for this war, I’m still me, in some small part, and though I am not yet Theseus’ ship, were I to change anymore, even just the weight of my name would be a falsehood.

Hermione Granger, Brightest-Witch-Of-Her-Age, laid low and lame by a stray curse meant for the boy she’d spent nearly 10 years keeping alive. I don’t mind that I took the wound for him, that was always my plan should the need arise, but I do sometimes wish it had killed me. Not because I want to die, no, but because the guilt on Harry’s face is almost too much for me to endure. For everything and everyone we’ve already buried, I won’t play humble and pretend that I don’t matter just a little more to him, because I do. Ron, Ginny, and I are as pivotal to Harry’s sense of stability as he is to the slaying of Tom Riddle. We are inextricable, the four of us, and it kills him to know that, for now, I am out of commission and must stand by and let people I love less keep safe that which I love the most. 

The codependency of it would be alarming, were we not three years deep into the bloodiest conflict Wizarding Britain has ever seen. An unhealthy attachment and a complete lack of personal boundaries are the least of our worries at this point. Had we the choice, we’d sleep like puppies in a pile and cling tight to those that matter most. The war doesn’t care about choice, though, not unless it’s a terrible one and so I go to bed alone each night and pretend my mangy pillow is a warm body belonging to someone I’ve loved since I was 11. The manner of love is irrelevant in the face of the sheer power attributed to the emotion. Love saved Harry Potter the day he was supposed to die, and love will save the rest of us when the reaper of his legacy comes calling. It has to because if not, then what is any of this madness even for?

Like I said, the war is going badly.

Harry darkens the faded wood of my metaphorical doorstep with an unconscious Draco Malfoy on what is otherwise an irregularly calm day. Our former schoolyard bully is weak with blood loss and his left arm looks like it was forced through a meat grinder only to be ripped out before the grisly task was complete. There are about a hundred questions begging to be asked, but I am a professional and I hold them back, opting instead to assess the damage. 

“Lay him down,” I instruct Harry and while he situates Malfoy onto the nearest empty bed, I gather whatever supplies necessary to do whatever it is I’m about to be expected to do. Wand in hand, I vanish his ruined shirt and pants, pushing away my distant acknowledgment at how absolutely strange my life is, and cast a few diagnostic spells. In addition to the mangled remains of what could once have been classified as his left arm, Malfoy has two broken ribs, an alarmingly deep gash along his chest, and his right shoulder is nearly dislocated. Running beneath it all is an infection and a fever that is three degrees too high for my liking. “Merlin,” I whisper.

“Can you save him?”

“I don’t know.” The most pressing issue is his arm. It’s leaking blood and infection all over the floor and the scent is putrid. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know.” Harry’s always been a terrible liar. 

“Did we do this?”

“Seriously?” His tone is as incredulous as the question but I hold my gaze level. War makes monsters of even the most gentle of people. “No, Hermione,” he sighs, “we didn’t do this.”

Harry waits patiently while I assess the damage. Some rudimentary healing charms make quick work of the gash in his side, as well as the damage to his shoulder. “He’ll need a modified dose of Skele-Gro for the ribs.”

“Do you have any?”

“Not much.” I summon the bottle and upturn it into Malfoy’s mouth. A quick tap to the throat and he swallows, despite still being unconscious. “I’ll need more Puffer fish after this.” It’s an afterthought and Harry treats it as such. As his ribs begin the process of setting and re-knitting themselves, I turn my attention to his arm. 

“How bad—”

“Bad,” I reply. As gently as possible, I lift the ruined limb. It reeks and the greenish black parlor of the flesh indicates how much of it has rotten away. The vast majority of his forearm is nothing more than a black hole of exposed bone and liquified tissue. The tendons still attached to his hand are stripped and every one of his fingers is limp and lifeless. “He’s going to lose his hand, possibly the whole arm.” I cast another diagnostic spell to confirm my suspicions. “He’s septic.”

“Meaning?”

Another flick of the wrist and the precious bottle of Muggle antibiotics I have squirreled away zooms into my waiting hand. I’ve been modifying them in my off time but Muggle medicine doesn’t tend to play nice with magic. “Meaning he needs to be in a hospital.”

“Hermione,” Harry starts, as if we both didn’t know how impossible that would be.

“What does Moody want?”

“He wants him alive, I know that much. Went through bloody hell trying to get him, he’s worth something.” 

“Merlin—” A groan from Malfoy cuts me off. “I need your help.”

Harry surveys the scene with trepidation. “How?”

“Hold him down.”

It takes the better part of an hour to excise the decaying limb. Despite my general hatred of the patient, I am hesitant to leave him without an arm and so I take extra care to preserve as much of it as possible. The delirium of the pain and blood loss, mixed with my sedative charm, keeps Malfoy under for the procedure, but only just. I use muggle tools in conjunction with magic to sever the arteries and nerves and he writhes with each cut. Harry turns green but manages to maintain his hold over Malfoy.
 
“I’m done.” In the end, I’ve managed to save just over half of his forearm. The entirety of his left hand and wrist, however, are gone. In the space once occupied by his Dark Mark there is an ugly, hollow divot barely held closed by sallow skin. It’ll be a miracle of both magic and science if his muscle grows back. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” Harry steps away from him, and over to the open window. The air of the clinic is thick with blood and the acrid burn of severed bone, a scent that I am all too used to these days. “Will he live?”

I look grimly upon Malfoy’s prone form. There is a yellow tinge to his already pale skin that is made worse by the sheen of sweat covering it. Strands of platinum hair cling to his face which, despite being unconscious, is twisted into a visage of pain. The stump of his left arm is sewn closed but still weeping blood and, on the tray beside his bed, lays the remains of his hand. It’s a macabre sight. “I think so.”

Harry lets out a heavy sigh and moves to stand at the edge of the bed. His expression is unreadable as he drinks in the damage. “I need to talk to Moody.” Turning, he wraps me into a bear hug, either not noticing or not caring that I’m slightly covered in Malfoy’s pure blood. “You alright?”

My bitter laugh is muffled by the fabric of his robe and I pull away. “I’m fine,” I lie, “better than him, anyway.”

“I’ll be back soon. Love you.”

“Love you.” We say it every time, no matter how short the separation. He’s my best friend, even amidst all the chaos, and in times as uncertain as these, it’s a bleak reality that each goodbye could be our last.

Harry Disapparates, leaving me alone with our childhood nemesis. He’s still out cold, thankfully, because the last thing I want to do is speak to him. Losing his hand will be horrifying enough and hearing it from me would be an insult atop his most grave injury. In the ensuing stillness, I clean up the detritus of the procedure, including his severed parts. I incinerate them, the used bandages, as well as his bloody clothes, and vanish the ashes into the unknown. It’s easy to lose myself in the monotony of it all, especially with how frequently I’m faced with such trauma. If we win, if I survive, I’m unsure if I’ll ever undo the damage done. Three years and a handful of scars and if it doesn’t end soon, I’m not sure if there’ll be anything left of me to fix at all.

It’s not until well after sunset that Harry returns, this time with our intrepid leader in tow. I’ve just settled in for a bland dinner of too-thin vegetable soup and cold tea when I hear the telltale POP! of Apparition. With a sigh, I heave myself out of the chair only to be met immediately with a spasm shooting up my leg. Before I can stop myself, I groan and dig my fingers into the wood of the table to keep from falling. My hip aches and the weakened muscles of my left leg tremble under the strain of keeping myself upright. Wordlessly I summon another pain potion and down it. 

“Hermione?” Harry’s voice echoes through the still house.

“In here!” I call. The potion takes a few moments to kick in—not that it’s all that effective anymore—and I’m unable to move until it does, thanks to the spasm locking my muscles in place. Just as the tension in my hip begins to release, my visitors step into the kitchen. “Sorry, I was finishing up dinner.” I’m nowhere near the bowl of soup and the lie is obvious, but they both have enough grace not to mention it. 

“Miss Granger.”

“Moody.”

“We’re here to see Mr. Malfoy.”

On careful feet I lead them over to the clinic, where the person in question lies unmoving in his bed, nearly a corpse save for the soft rise and fall of his bandaged chest. “He’s still unconscious.”

“Wake him up.”

I gape up at Moody. “Absolutely not. The pain alone will—”

“It’s not up for debate.” His gruff voice rumbles through me like a command. 

“I must insist—“

“Hermione,” Harry warns and I glare at him. Traitor.

“Fine.” With a huff I march over to Malfoy and examine him. The fever has gone down somewhat, and the hybrid antibiotics seemed to have dealt with the sepsis. His arm is wrapped up and tucked beneath the blanket but the moment he wakes the pain will be excruciating. I try to summon a pain potion only to realize I’ve just drank the last one. Something that would probably be guilt if I was dealing with anyone other than Malfoy rises in my chest and I swallow down the disappointment I feel. Just another quiet reminder that I need to ween myself off of them. “Get ready.” I twist my wrist in just the right way before tapping his forehead with my wand. In an instant, his eyes spring open and I notice, for the very first time, how gray they are. He begins screaming a second later.

“Malfoy—” Harry starts but it’s no use. Malfoy thrashes and writhes upon the bed, throwing his head back as he howls. It’s every bit as feral as I’d feared. “Do something!”

“I’m out of pain potions,” I snap, nearly having to yell. Malfoy is oblivious to us, lost completely in a sea of agony. “I told you—” 

Moody steps up and hands me a murky white solution. “It’s a numbing agent.”

“How long will it last?” I ask, taking the vial. I briefly wonder why this has not been made readily available to me but now is not the time for such investigations.

“Long enough.” Without instruction, Moody holds Malfoy down by his shoulders. The younger man is completely detached from his surroundings and barely reacts. “Potter.” Harry immediately clamps down on Malfoy’s head, holding it still long enough for me to pour as much of the concoction down his throat that I can. His gray eyes are wild and wide and we all watch as they slowly settle and focus and land upon me. A flicker of recognition that is quickly replaced by confusion.

There is a moment of silence as we wait for his mind to catch up. “Where—mother?”

“Mr. Malfoy. What do you remember?” Moody lets go of him, as does Harry. 

“I don’t—where is—mother?” His voice is stilted and hoarse from screaming. “Where is this?” Malfoy’s eyes roam and he squints up at Moody. “Where is she?”

“What is the last thing you remember?” 

“Where is my mother?” Anxiety, laced with fear, colors his demand. “Where is she?!” 

“Mr. Malfoy. Focus.” Moody is, as always, unshakable. “I cannot answer your questions until you answer my own.”

Malfoy shakes his head, grimacing. “I don’t—I don’t know. The manor? There was something I had to do—it was for my mother, for our family. Where have you taken me? Why?” He’s running out of energy and I worry the numbing potion is already wearing off. 

“You’re safe.”

That triggers something awful in the fragments of Malfoy’s memories and suddenly he’s thrashing again. “The Mark! It’s the Mark! He’ll find me—he’ll find her. I can’t—did you kill him?!” He screams the question at Harry whose eyes widen in surprise. 

“Tom is not dead, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m fucking dead.” He repeats it on loop, his gray eyes growing unfocused with each iteration.

“Moody, he’s barely cognizant.” 

“When can I speak to him?”

“Let me put him back under and, in a day or two, once he’s healed a little more, we can try again.”

Displeasure sours Moody’s already wretched features. “We don’t have a day or two, Miss Granger. I cannot leave a potential threat here without assurance that he won’t betray us.” A shiver of anxiety at the idea of Death Eaters descending upon my seaside cottage runs up my spine. 

“Cho ran through his mind once but it wasn’t exhaustive. He was hardly in a state to be properly questioned,” Harry explains.

It takes a seconds for the implication of his words to land. “You didn’t bring him here immediately after you found him?” I demand and guilt darkens Harry’s bright green eyes. 

“No, Miss Granger, we did not.” Moody looks down at Malfoy once more. He’s still muttering to himself, unable to focus. “I’ll be back in the morning. He needs to be awake and aware.” 

“I can’t just wave my wand and—”

“I’ll send Harry back with whatever pain potions we have at headquarters. What else will you need?” There is no room for negotiation in Moody’s tone. 

I take a second to consider his question. “His fever is likely contributing to his delirium, and the blood loss doesn’t help. What he needs is rest and time. Can you give him the day, at least?” Moody doesn’t look convinced. “He’s hardly a danger to me right now. He can’t even wield a wand!”

“Fine. Tomorrow night.”

“I’ll be back with the potions,” Harry says. 

In the stillness after they’ve left, there is just me and Malfoy, mumbling into the night. A diagnostic charm reveals that his fever has climbed once more, probably thanks to Moody’s interruption and questioning. “Malfoy,” I whisper, stepping into his line of sight.

It takes a moment but he eventually focuses on me, his features twisting in confusion. “Granger?”

“I’m going to put you back to sleep now, okay?” I don’t know why I’m talking to him.

“Am I dead?”

“Not yet.” For some reason, it makes him laugh, as strangled and weak as the sound may be. “Get some rest.” The sleep charm settles over him like a blanket and the tension running beneath his skin drains like seawater. I can’t help but stare at him as he slips back into unconsciousness; I’ve never been this close to him. He looks dreadful, truth be told, with alabaster skin stretched too tightly over sharp bone. The hollow of his eyes are bruised with lack of sleep and for the first time I notice the stripe of dried blood just beneath his ear. The platinum shock of hair I’d come to associate with cruelty is limp and filthy. He’s never seemed so vulnerable before. I could kill him and no one would even know. Were the tables turned, I don’t even think he’d hesitate. 

With a slight shake of my head, I walk away from dark temptation to finish my cold meal alone.

By sunset the next day, Malfoy is doing better than I’d anticipated. Each test reveals the rapid onset of magically induced healing and, by this time tomorrow, his ribs should be healed enough to remove the bindings. The fever is all but gone and the heavy dosage of antibiotics have cleared the infection. Not for the first time I lament at how cruel it is to keep magic from Muggles, if only for the benefits of medical advancement. Regardless, Malfoy is on the mend, save for his arm. The wound is hardly healed and the small black flecks of ink still trapped beneath his skin seem to almost pulse with dark magic. None of my spell-work indicates any lingering power within the Mark but it’s unsettling all the same.

A few minutes before Moody is set to arrive, I wake him myself. If the head of the Order wishes to interrogate him, Malfoy will need to be stabilized and I need to ensure he’s actually aware of his surroundings this time even if, truthfully, I am loathe to interact with him at all. 

“Malfoy,” I pull him gently from his slumber and wait while he wakes once more and struggles to understand. The wild look in his eyes is familiar now, but they clear soon after. 

“What is going on? Where am I?” He already sounds more alive than he did just last night.

“Do you know your name?”

He glares at me, finally seeing me for the first time. “Granger?”

“That’s mine, try again.” Malfoy does not appreciate my cheeky joke but really, when else am I going to have the opportunity to be smarmy to my childhood bully?

“What’s going on?”

“Tell me your name.”

“Why?”

“Will you just tell me your damn name?” My patience runs thin; I’d barely slept the night before thanks to a distinct lack of potions to ease the throbbing in my leg. 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he spits the words at me. 

“Excellent. The year?”

“What the fuck is this? Where am I?” Anger is a good sign, annoying though it may be.

“You’re in an Order safe house.”

His brow furrows and he looks around, drinking in the mismatched makeup of my dining room-turned-hospital clinic. “I don’t—how am I here?”

“I don’t know,” I confess. “I’m just the healer.”

Something clicks within his brain and he lifts his right arm. I’ve tucked his left one under the blanket in an attempt to stave off his horror. It might look like kindness to an outsider, but in truth I lack the bedside manner necessary to provide sympathy to someone I’ve hated since I was eleven. His fingers clutch at the sheet and I grab at him before he can pull it back.

“Gra—“

“Malfoy, you need to know that I couldn’t save—“

“What have you done?” He jerks out of my grasp and pulls his left arm free. I can’t help but watch in sick fascination as he processes what it is that he’s lost. Horror and fury mix perfectly on his features and I hold fast in preparation for the onslaught. It never comes. Instead, in an expert, practiced fashion, I see the hallmark clouding of Occlusion in his eyes and when he finally tears his gaze away to look at me, his face is bereft of emotion. “What did you do?”

“What I had to.” It’s the truth, and I possess no urge to sugarcoat it. “What did you do?”

Something fractures inside him and he snarls at me. “Fuck you, Mudblood.”

Satisfaction, ugly though it is, ripples through me. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.” I step away from the bed. “Moody should be here any moment.”

“I don’t want to fucking see—“

“What you want is irrelevant, Malfoy.”

“Am I a prisoner? Is that it?” Whatever gambit he’s run through has severely impacted his ability to keep Occluding because slight desperation laces his words.

“I don’t know.”

“Well what the fuck do you know? What good are you? Best Witch, Brightest of her fucking age!” He screams at me, the hatred as pure as driven snow upon his cold face. 

“I’ll be in the kitchen.” More insults trail after me as I leave but I can’t be bothered to respond. There’s no point. Moody will pull from him whatever precious bit of intel it is that Malfoy possesses and then he’ll be spirited away to some other Order safe-house prison, out of sight and out of mind.

As always, Harry accompanies Moody when they arrive, and they appear just as the latest string of Mudblood themed obscenities are echoing out from the clinic. “He’s awake, then.”

“Unfortunately.” 

“Stay here, Potter. You too, Miss Granger.” Moody closes and locks the dining room door behind him and the instant curtain of a silencing spell cuts off whatever colorful thing Malfoy has to say. 

With a heavy sigh, world-wearied as only a savior can be, Harry takes the chair across from me at my rickety kitchen table. “How’s it been?”

“Oh you know.” I sip my tea. “He Occluded the moment he realized that his hand was gone. I wasn’t aware he could do that.”

Harry frowns. “Neither was I.”

“Well, he can.”

“Did he hurt you?”

It’s insulting, really. We’ve been at war for three years and in all that time, I’d only been properly injured once. Admittedly, it did take me permanently out of battle and leave me stranded in my ancient cottage by the sea, but still. It’s the principle of the thing. “Harry, I’m not some helpless first year.”

“I know, ‘Mione, but he’s still a dangerous Death Eater.”

I snort into my raised teacup. “Dangerous? In his state? He can’t even walk, I don’t think. He’s down a hand and a wand. The only thing dangerous about him is his ability to get under my skin.” We sit in amicable silence for a bit, savoring every moment of time spent together not in abject mortal peril. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“Dunno,” Harry admits. “Moody says Snape vouched for him.”

“Fat lot of good that’s worth,” I mumble.

“Snape’s never been wrong before, you know.”

“Yes, he has.”

“Bad intel doesn’t make him a bad informant.” When all I offer in response is a noncommittal hum, Harry carries on. “Anyway, I don’t know. I’d imagine you finish fixing him up and he’ll come back to headquarters with us.”
This brings me pause. “What? Why would he go to headquarters?”

“He’s a turncoat Death Eater, we can’t risk him getting caught in the field.”

“So he gets to go to headquarters? It’s location is our most closely guarded secret!”

“And it’s also the safest place.” 

A bitter and rude retort dances at the edge of my tongue but I hold it back, like always. It’s not Harry’s fault I’d been careless and landed myself stuck here. Nor is it his call that Malfoy go to the one place I wish to be more than anywhere in the world. “How’s Ron?” I change the subject, just to err on the side of safety.

“Good, he’s good. Took a nasty spill the other day, but Neville patched him up.”

“My Field-Packs are coming in handy then?” I focus on the positive because the thought of Ron injured makes my stomach twist.

“You know they are.” I do, but a distraction is a distraction all the same. “Ginny is doing something in France, although I don’t know what. I saw her a few days ago. She sends her love.”

“Tell them I miss them.”

“I will.” He won’t, but only because by the time he sees them again, our little meeting will be lost amidst the myriad of other things that take up the bulk of his time. It’s not that I’m unimportant, it’s just that I’m a little unimportant. If we weren’t at war, I’d be bitter. Only just.

Moody returns shortly after, his face as unreadable as always. Harry stands; I don’t. “Let’s go.”

“Wait—what about Malfoy?”

“He’s been given an ultimatum, Miss Granger, so that’s up to him.”

I shake my head. “I mean here, with me. Aren’t you taking him with you?”

“Is he healed?”

Despite myself, I falter. “Not—nearly, yes. By tomorrow everything but his arm should be fine.”

“We don’t have the time or resources to take care of such an injury, Miss Granger, but you do. That’s your job.” It’s not supposed to be condescending, but I take it as such. “I’ve given Mr. Malfoy three days to consider my offer. If he rejects it, we’ll get rid of him.” The unspoken threat of violence isn’t nearly as surprising as it should be. 

“And if he accepts?”

“Then we’ll deal with that when the time comes.” 

Harry and I perform our requisite goodbye ritual and I take a few minutes once they’ve gone to collect myself. Three days, max. Three days of Malfoy festering away in my clinic, hurling venom at me whenever he’ll get the opportunity. I certainly don’t relish the thought, but I’ve endured worse. Will endure worse, if the war is any indication of things to come.

Malfoy is turned away from the door when I step inside, the angle of his left arm telling me he’s cradling it to his chest. As much as I don’t want to, I need to tend to the wound once more and talk him through his potion regime now that he’s conscious. Summoning the appropriate vials, I stand at his bedside and clear my throat.

“Fuck you.” It’s nearly a whisper with the way his voice rasps.

“Charming, Malfoy, but we need to go over—“

“Go away.”

“No. Now, in an hour you need—“

“Go away!” He snarls, glaring at me from over his shoulder. The telltale red of his eyes betrays the vulnerable secret he’s trying to keep from me. Draco Malfoy, of all people, crying in my clinic. 

“No,” I stand firm. “I don’t know what Moody said to you and truthfully, I don’t care, but while you’re here, you’re my patient, and I take my work seriously.” 

“I’m not—“

“This is a pain potion.” I lift the familiar vial of light blue liquid. “You can take one every four hours and it should help to curb the pain. This,” I gesture with the red one, “is a dreamless sleep draught. Only at night, and only an hour before you want to sleep. Any later and it won’t work. Any earlier and, well, you know.” He does, of course, because we went through the same six years of Potions together.

“What kind of healer are you if I’m supposed to manage my own fucking care?”

“The kind with better things to do than babysit you. You’re hardly going to be my only patient during your stay here and I figured I’d do you the favor of not having to ask me for help.” 

“I don’t need your fucking help.” It’s going to be a very long three days.

“Sure.” I set the potions at his bedside and pick up the roll of bandages. “I’ll change your dressings twice daily, unless the wound starts bleeding. If it does, tell me, and I’ll deal with it.”

“Oh so I’m good enough to drug myself, but not—“

“You need two hands to wrap your arm, Malfoy.” I try very hard not to take pleasure in the way the instruction wounds him, but after a lifetime of receiving nothing but hate from him, it’s a challenge. 

“Fuck you.” 

I push through. “For now, you’re on broth and ice chips until I’m confident you can keep down solid food. Dinner is an hour. If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen.” I keep my tone and expression neutral and he sneers at me for so long, I wonder if he’s gone mad. Eventually, I see the Occluding begin and, without another word, he turns back away from me. 

Once I’ve gone, he turns over and downs two pain potions in quick succession. I watch, unseen, from the doorway, glad that I’d correctly anticipated his next move. After so many months playing doctor for soldiers, I’ve come to recognize the ugly way despair looks on someone’s face. I cannot say concretely that Malfoy has a death wish, but it’s a safe bet. Whatever events led him to my doorstep may be a mystery, but suicide is not out of the question. The pain potions are deliberately weaker than normal, a preventative measure should he give in to that little voice I’m sure is whispering in his ear. I would know; it’s an old friend, after all.

Chapter Text

The war is going badly.

You’d think such an assessment would incite joy in my shriveled black heart, but all I feel is exhaustion. Total, complete fucking exhaustion. Sure, I’d never set foot on a battlefield in the three years we’ve been edging this along, but that’s only because I was too busy fighting for my life in my childhood home. As it turns out, siding with the Darkest Wizard to Ever Live isn’t exactly a recipe for a good time. Especially in conjunction with the grim reality that he’s particularly inept at stopping what was initially a group of fucking teenagers from interrupting his plans for world domination. He’d never admit such a shortcoming out loud, of course, and chose instead to inflict his frustration out on his loyal sycophants. Sycophants like my father.

Mother swore his decision to prostrate himself at the Dark Lord’s feet was done out of hope for our survival but, in truth, he’d did it because there is nothing that Lucius Malfoy loves more than his legacy. Not his wife and certainly not his son: I’m merely the manifestation of his obsession with his bloodline. The only scion to two of the most ancient and noble houses in wizarding history. It’s not me as a person that matters to him, but the ideal that I represent. An ideal that, if history is any indication, is something he’d kill to protect.

The Dark Lord capitalizes on this weakness, and has manipulated the three of us into doing whatever it is he needed us too. At this juncture of my shitty fucking life, it was playing gracious host to his presence as he permanently fouled up our once pristine, too expensive marble floors. Father runs off into the night, killing my former schoolmates and torturing muggles, leaving Mother and I to fend for ourselves in the den of wolves the Manor has become. 

For a time, we made it work. Mother's lifetime of experience as a high society matriarch was instrumental in keeping the Dark Lord’s focus off of us. She played the role perfectly, like she was bred to do. Father, in turn, kept himself readily available to be weaponized as the war effort demanded. It wasn’t good or safe but it was stable and effective up until it wasn’t. A familial legacy of madness tends to throw a wrench into things and Mother has always been a shining example of her lineage. I’d tried for nearly a year to keep the ruse going, and as long as Father stayed busy, and the Dark Lord disinterested, I was successful. 

And then dear auntie fucking Bellatrix walked in on my Mother having a conversation with their dead father in the parlor and everything fell apart. In my hubris I was positive I’d get Mother and I out before a punishment could be set. Had I been less of a monumental fuck up, I probably would have. But just as my Mother is bound by her own ancestral nature, so too am I and Lucius never taught me patience, only the all encompassing will to come out on top. 

Lying on a lumpy mattress, without my left arm or wand, in the clutches of our adversaries and under the careful care of my childhood nemesis feels like a lot of things and fucking none of them are victory.

Like I said, the war is going badly.

The days bleed together within the haze of Granger’s pain potions and I numb myself to the reality of what I’ve done and where I’ve ended up. It’s too much too soon to acknowledge the things I’ve lost and so I slip into oblivion to, yet again, avoid reality. Occlusion does the lion’s share of the work, but I am weakened by what’s happened and, without a wand, I have to depend upon my own mental acuity to do it. I’ve employed Occlumency for years in order to survive sharing my home with the Dark Lord and it’s yet to fail me. I’m trapped in an entirely different prison now, and the glaring void that my left hand used to occupy screams at me whenever I’m stupid enough to open my eyes.

Every time Granger changes my bandages, I force myself to look away. I cannot stomach the sight of what I’ve given up in the name of a freedom I didn’t even achieve. When she leaves, I bury my head in the hideously striped pillow and swallow the urge to cry. By the second day, I’ve reigned my stupid fucking feelings in enough to stop wallowing while the sun is up. It’s good timing, too, because after being alone in her clinic since my hazy arrival, Granger gets her first patient.

I’ve been relegated to the bed furthest from both the door and the window, and she’s erected sheets around me as if to play at privacy. They’ve been drawn consistently, and as the commotion begins, now is no different. I’m drifting in and out of sleep, having just had my third pain potion of the day, but the change in miserable scenery has me fighting its effects.“Seamus—Seamus can you hear me?” Granger asks. “Harry help me get him into the bed.” The shuffling of bodies and bedding and my sense of their position in the too small room. 

“I don’t know what kind of curse it was.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got it.”

“I didn’t even see it hit him. Susan found him, she—”

“Harry, it’s okay.” Granger’s tone is placating and the boy wonder drops to a whisper in response, cutting me out of the conversation. They speak for some time, before he leaves and I hear her play doctor with another of our classmates. It’s boring, really, and I succumb to the pain potion pulling at my seams. It’s dreamless, as is intended, and I’m grateful for it.

It’s late morning when she throws the sheet-turned-curtain back and comes to check on me. “Malfoy, how are you feeling?” None of the warmth, and all of the clinical detachment. 

“Fine.” I’ve realized that answering her gets her to leave me alone quicker. 

“How is your pain?”

“Fine.”

She reaches for my arm but doesn’t grab it, waiting instead for me to offer the mangled limb in silent consent. I do, because the control I used to believe I had over my life has been properly extinguished. With deft fingers she undoes the bandage and I stare up at the water stained ceiling. “It looks about as good as it could, all things considered.”

“Great.” 

“I think I’ll remove the sutures tonight.” In cruel emphasis, she pulls gently on the black thread holding my arm shut and I flinch. “Sorry.” She’s a terrible liar.

“Fine.”

Granger summons a set of clean bandages and, after applying some more of the foul smelling poultice, she re-wraps it and relinquishes her hold. I pull it back to my chest and bury the sight of it beneath my threadbare excuse of a blanket. “You’ve kept down the broth and ice chips, so I think you’re good to eat a proper meal today.”

The last fucking thing I want to do is eat whatever dismal meal Hermione Granger has whipped up for breakfast but I need my strength if I’m to get out of here. And I am to get out of here. Moody’s deal rattles around my head and I hate myself for being so tempted. “Fine.”

“Malfoy, are—” It’s like she forgot who I am for a moment and I watch her swallow the concern. The look on her face is hard and I wonder if it kills her to save the life of someone who would probably extinguish her own, given the chance. “Never mind.” She vanishes the filthy bandages and hands me a pain potion. I down it without looking at her and wait for her to leave. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”

She goes and, to my dismay, forgets to close the curtain. I turn my head slightly, careful not to jostle my still sore shoulder and drink in my surroundings. In the pale morning light, I count nine beds, one of them occupied. She’s speaking in low tones and blocking them from my view. Beyond their presence is all the detritus befitting this pathetic example of a clinic. I wonder the kind of good grace I could buy myself into with the Dark Lord just by supplying the location of this cottage hovel. Despite my contempt for the Order, the idea no longer holds the appeal it once did. 

Granger leaves and I make eye contact with the other patient. He’s familiar in that distant way and, wracking my sleep and pain addle brain, I remember Potter calling him Seamus. He’s a Gryffindor if the violent look on his face is anything to go by. Three years out of Hogwarts and the house division has yet to abate. The war doesn’t really help, I suppose.

“So the rumors are true,” he says, “the whiny little ferret finally ran away from mummy and daddy.” My jaw tenses with the effort I expend not to respond. Instead I look back up at the ceiling and will myself to disappear. “What’s wrong? Not feeling chatty? Hard to be smarmy when you’re in such a sorry state, innit?”

“Piss off,” I snap, because I am an idiot. 

“Heard we found you sniveling and whimperin’ in some sorry shed.” He scoffs. “Harry went on for ages about how pathetic you looked.” I feel the burn of his gaze roam across my form. “Seems he wasn’t exaggerating.”

“Fuck off, yeah?” I can’t help but sneer at him. 

Seamus swings his legs over the side of his bed and sits up. Suddenly the distance between us doesn’t feel wide enough and my right hand clutches tighter at the stump of my left. “Nah, don’t think I will. Like watching you squirm.”

“Funny enough, I’ve heard Death Eaters say the same thing about you lot.” What a pain in the ass, this deathwish is. “Especially when some unlucky bastard got caught and thrown before the Dark Lord. You know,” I mock, “you Gryffindors don’t seem all that brave after a few Crucios—”

“Stop it!” He snarls. 

“Nah, don’t think I will.” 

He’s on his feet now, hands balled into fists, and bereft of any outward injury. “You’re a fucking wanker.”

“Thanks.” 

Seamus zeroes in on my bandaged arm and the way I’m clinging to it. “Daddy Lucius did a right number on you, didn’t he? Is that why you ran away like a simpering dog?”

“Fuck you.” 

“Or was it Mummy, hmm? No longer her precious baby boy, are ya?”

Rage, beyond the spectrum of what I’m capable of controlling, rises in me like a red tide. “You don’t know a fucking thing. You have no idea—”

“No idea!?” He bellows, incredulous and I wonder distantly at where the fuck Granger has gone. “You’re monsters, the lot of you. Fucking animals, torturing muggleborns and anyone else that doesn’t fit inside your grand delusion.”

“Save the fucking speech, yeah? If anyone’s operating under a grand delusion, it’s you bloody Order members and your idealism,” I scoff. “As if you’re any better, as if you’re hands aren’t just as dirty. You’d kill me just as soon as I’d kill you.” 

“You’re right. I would.” He stalks over to me, and looms in the space above my bed. I force myself not to tremble and channel the rage running through me for strength. “I’d break your neck without a second thought.”

“You’d attack a defenseless man? Whatever happened to that Gryffindor honor, hmm?” 

“It died alongside all the innocent people you fucking killed.” Seamus drops his face low, so close I can count the ugly freckles on his broken nose. “Maybe I should do it anyway, save Hermione the trouble of havin’ to keep you alive. If you’re here it means you’ve no one left to miss you when you’re gone. Poor little Malfoy, all alone.”

Before I can consider how stupid a choice it is, I spit at him, watching with rapt satisfaction as it slides down his boyish face. “Do it, you fucking coward.”

The expression of disgust twisting at his mouth gives way to unbridled fury and, instead of wasting the time to wipe the saliva from his cheek, he wraps his hands around my neck and squeezes. My body reacts immediately, and I can’t help myself from clawing at his fingers, trying to pry them off. The nails of my right hand find purchase even as the missing fingers of my left do not. The edges of my vision begin to darken as I stare up into his cold, hard eyes. He doesn’t even say anything, just maintains the look of hatred as he chokes the life out of me. Something that is probably relief begins to flood my brain as the end of it all draws near. 

“Alright here’s breakfast—Seamus!!” The shattering of dishes on the stone floor and Granger screams from somewhere beyond the pinpoint that my vision has become. “Stop it!” A third set of hands gets involved in this sudden act of murder and she is successful in freeing my throat just as my lungs burn themselves into submission. With the pressure gone, air rushes into me and I am coughing as I drink it down. 

“He—”

“What are you thinking?! You can’t kill him, not while Moody is still waiting to talk to him.” They scream back and forth for a bit, but I’m already slipping in and out of awareness. There is a violent beating of something primal in my brain and my remaining hand is shaking so hard I can’t even grasp the blanket. Only a few seconds more and he’d have killed me. The disappointment stings worse than the bruising.

“Hermione, it’s his fault!”

“I’m sure it is, but we’re better than this, better than him.” I’m finally able to look up at her and the hate on her face is blatant. Our eyes meet for a moment and the severe line of her mouth tightens. “You need to behave, Malfoy. I don’t care how important you are to Moody.” She turns away from me, addressing Seamus once more. “Go into the kitchen and eat. And, when you’re done, return to headquarters.”

“But, Hermione—”

“Go, Seamus. You’re more than healed,” she insists. “Go.” I must blackout because at some point in time later, it’s just the two of us. She hovers over me, her wand pressed to my aching throat. “I’m going to heal this but you need to avoid another incident like this. Understood?” It’s as if Minerva McGonagall has come back from the dead, and pinned me in place with a glare. 

It’s not like I’m capable of responding and so I just sneer back at her.

“Fine. It’s your death wish.” The magic of the healing spell burns as it reconstructs my damaged throat and I can’t help coughing once more. It takes me a while to get my breathing under control and, by then, she’s brought me another bowl of what looks like oatmeal. “Eat,” she commands. I don’t.

“I want to speak to Moody,” I say the next morning. Granger stops wrapping my arm for a moment to look up at me but I stay staring at the ceiling.

“Well you’re in luck. He’s set to arrive sometime today.” She finishes up and steps away from my bedside. When I turn from the water spot above to me to look down at her work, she hovers. “After you’re finished with him, I’ll remove your stitches and you’ll be free to go.” 

At the mention of freedom I can’t help but turn to face her. “Free to go where?”

“I have no idea, but I’m sure whatever deal Moody has offered you includes placement in one of our safe houses.” My expression must betray something unsettling because she furrows her brow. “That is why you chose to defect, right? For safe harbor?”

I let out a pitiful, aborted laugh. “I didn’t choose anything. I woke up here, with no memory of asking to be saved.”

“Then how did we know where to find you?” She asks.

“How the fuck would I know? You’re in the Order, Granger, you tell me.” When I say it, she flinches ever so slightly and the open curiosity on her face vanishes. 

She clears her throat. “Right well…I’ll send Moody in once he arrives.” For the first time since arriving, I take in the state of her as she walks away and notice her limp. Looks like she’s mortal after all. 

Moody finally graces me with his presence a few hours later, his face the same unreadable slab of cracked stone that it always is. He skips pleasantries, as if we’d even have any, and takes a seat on the bed next to mine. “What’s your answer?”

“What’ll you do to me if I say no?” 

“If we can’t find a way to successfully Obliviate you, then we’ll be forced to kill you.” Despite the way it makes my stomach clench in fear, some small part of me can appreciate the blatant honesty. 

“So it’s not really a choice then, is it?”

“Everything is a choice, Mr. Malfoy.” I wait for him to elaborate, to impart some long-winded diatribe of useless wisdom, but he doesn’t. He just stares at me, his one rogue eye the only sign he’s even alive. 

“If I agree, what about my mother?”

“Like I told you, we’ll make every effort to rescue her, but it’s not our main priority; killing Tom and ending the war is.” 

The nails of my remaining hand dig painfully into the skin of my palm as I try to keep my anger in check. Of course the fucking Order wouldn’t make saving someone’s life a priority if that person wasn’t one of their beloved sycophants. I hate that I’ve fucked up yet again and put myself in this position. The last thing I ever wanted was to end up here, at the mercy of people I detest and completely without options to the contrary. “So what’s the incentive, then? Provide intel in exchange for the possibility that you maybe help my mother?”

“The incentive, Mr. Malfoy,” he leans forward, looming, “is that you’ll be allowed to live.”

“Right lovely life that’ll be.” I gesture to my left arm. “Being held captive by the Order, locked away in some dungeon until, what? The Boy Wonder swoops in to save the day and defeat the big bad evil guy?”

“Unlike your former associates, we don’t keep prisoners of war, and we certainly don’t lock people we’ve rescued up. You’ll be remanded to a safe house, yes, but you’ll be allowed to do whatever you’d like there, within reason.”

“Within reason,” I repeat. “And whose reasoning are we basing that on, yours?”

Moody sighs. “Mr. Malfoy, I know it goes against your selfish nature, but do remember that you aren’t the most important visit I need to make today. What’s your answer?”

I’m trembling with a cacophony of emotions I’m far too exhausted to dissect. What a monumental disaster my life has turned into. If my father could see me now, he’d kill me just to end the indignity of his line. “Fine.”

“Excellent, I knew you’d see reason.” He stands as if to leave. “For the foreseeable future, you’ll be staying here with Ms. Granger.”

The knot in my stomach pulls taught. “What? That’s not—”

“The Order is not an orphanage, Mr. Malfoy. Nor are we a shelter. We are at war and we must utilize every resource available. Seeing as, aside from the intel you’re to provide in the coming weeks, you are incapable of doing much else, there is no point in moving you to a location where you’ll just be in the way.”

The lack of condescension where it is deliberately implied is somehow even more insulting. “How dare—”

“I’m not sure how much you remember from when we found you, but you’ve already gone through the interrogation process once. It’s not a pretty one, I assure you,” he says. I can recall vague, fleeting memories of truth serum and hostile Legilimency, but truthfully, the snippets feel more like a nightmare than a lived experience. The fact that the Order has already had their proverbial way with my brain is violating in a way I'd assumed wasn't possible. “We found nothing to suggest you are an informant and, furthermore, our contact within the Death Eaters has vouched for you.”

“Who is your contact?”

“Severus Snape.” I can’t even process the shock of such a betrayal because the weight of his decision to tell me is overwhelming. You don’t give out secrets to people you don’t intend to trust. I know now, without a doubt, that the only way I’ll ever leave this place is in death. Moody will kill me before he ever lets me go. 

“Ms. Granger will keep an eye on your arm, as well as your behavior, and report back to me should any unpleasantness arise. Barring that, I’ll come by when the situation demands to ask you questions and you’ll provide the intel you’ve promised.” He’s all business, even in the face of my indignation. “Behave yourself, Mr. Malfoy. We’re committed to keeping you safe, to keeping your continued existence a secret from Tom and his army, but that’s only contingent on you playing by the rules. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” I spit out. 

“Excellent. Till next time, Mr. Malfoy.” 

I’m staring off into the distance, failing to come to terms with the downward spiral of my new existence, when Granger makes an appearance. Amidst my mental fog—exponentially worsened by my afternoon pain potion—I’d heard her fighting with Moody and the Boy Wonder. I’m not totally sure what about but, if the ugly look she’s giving me is any indication, I think I can guess.

“Well it appears you’re to stay here for the time being.” 20 points to Slytherin for being oh so clever.

“Try not to look too excited,” I snap.

“As if either of us would ever want this,” she snaps back. “Since you’re not going anywhere, I’m moving you upstairs tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Because as far as your injuries go, you’re as healed as you can be and I need the bed for other patients.”

“What other patients?” I ask automatically.

“I know it was probably easy to forget, locked away in your ivory tower these last three years, but we’re at war. A violent one, at that. Your side has no reservations about using the killing curse, and, when that fails, throwing out all sorts of nasty hexes. Tends to lead to injuries, and those injured need somewhere to go.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Fuck you, Granger. How would you know how violent it is, from so very high up on that horse of yours?”

“You have no idea what I’ve seen, Malfoy.” There is a dangerous tone to her words, and I wonder if the war has made a monster of her, too. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

“You’re right and, furthermore, I don’t fucking care.” We glare at each other across the room and, for a heartbeat, we are teenagers at Hogwarts again. “What’s upstairs?”

“Your new room.”

It’s hardly a room, really. More like a hovel carved out of the ancient stone the cottage is made of. Still, there’s a bed slightly larger than the one I’ve been sleeping in the last week and it’s got a door. The window looks out upon the still forest that flanks us on three sides, and while I can’t see it, I can hear the roar of the ocean that traps us from the north. 

“I’m bringing you down to one pain potion a day, preferably taken at night.” Granger drones on. She’s still limping, for some reason, and I wonder if that’s why she’s playing nurse. 

“Why?”

“Because they’re addictive and, furthermore, a luxury we cannot afford to waste.” She hands me a small bundle of clean bandaging and a jar of the poultice. “Change this once a day until you run out of gauze. After that, you’ll be good to just leave it be. Use the poultice sparingly, if at all; your wound needs to heal of its own accord at this point.” Unwillingly I think back to the sharp sting that ricocheted through my arm when she cut the stitches out the evening prior. 

“Anything else?”

“There are clothes in the trunk, they’ll probably fit. If they don’t, let me know and I’ll charm them as needed. That door there,” she points to a faded blue one to the right of my room, “is the bathroom, with the only shower in the house. And that door,” she gestures to an ugly yellow one, set down a small hallway, “is my room. Don’t even try.”

“I’ve no interest in seeing your dirty knickers, Granger,” I scoff. She gives me a cross look but doesn’t respond. “Now what?” I hate having to ask her anything, but I’m continually at her fucking mercy.

Granger shrugs. “Stay out of my way, really. I’ll bring meals up here and you can eat in your room. There’s a small library of books downstairs, but they're mostly Muggle novels so I can’t imagine they’ll be of any use to you.”

“That’s it?”

“Well I don’t really know what else it is you’re expecting. I’m not here to entertain you, Malfoy, you aren’t on holiday. If you get bored, read the books.”

“Am I allowed to leave?” 

“There’s nowhere to go,” she admits. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by forest and sea. You can wander around the garden if you really want, but it’s hardly exciting.”

I glance out the window, trying to will myself to figure out where in the world we are based solely on the trees outside, as if I’ve ever possessed such a skill. Eventually I turn back to Granger, but she’s already gone.

I stay in self-imposed exile for the next few days, unwilling and unable to stomach being around another living person. Bland meals show up at my door like clockwork, and every night a singular pain potion appears. I hoard it, choosing to drink them at sunrise. Sleeping through the day is the easiest way to ignore the current specifics of my life. It spares me from having to listen to Granger putter around this fucking cottage, saving lives and making the same vegetable stew three nights in a row. Not to mention I’m able to avoid the revolving door of Order members that come through. 

The only downside to being awake at night is the front row seat I’ve been provided to her breakdowns. It appears the Hermione Granger likes to cry herself into fucking hysterics during her nightly shower. I think I’ve ever heard her retch a few times. The first night it happened, I thought she was dying. It’s cruel, but poignantly in line to derive just a small bit of satisfaction listening to her weep like an infant when she thinks no one can hear.

In order to stave off the melancholy, and because I’ve literally nothing better to do, I’ve taken to roaming the house once Granger finally turns in for the night. It was a matter of survival, back home, that I knew every conceivable hiding space and exit of the Manor, just in case the Dark Lord decided he’d had enough of our hospitality. Seems this habit has yet to die and, after a few nights, I’ve gotten the lay of the proverbial land, such as it were.

This place is decrepit, seemingly held aloft solely through spite and salt. There are a few odd instruments that I’m fairly certain are of muggle origin, including a massive ice box that seems to keep the dismal store of food we have cold. The small garden is overrun with various herbs and plant life, undoubtedly needed for the ridiculous amount of potions Granger seems to be brewing. A cursory inspection shows the usual gambit, plus a few cauldrons bubbling away with something I’ve yet to discern. A lifetime ago, Potions was my best subject and it’s rare to come across a brew I don’t recognize. The part of me capable of curiosity died alongside any hope of a real life, though, and so I push the unknown mixture from my head.

Truly the only worthwhile place in the whole bloody cottage is the back porch. It’s a rickety, rotten wooden monstrosity, attached to the cottage by luck, feels like. I’m not sure where in the world we’re at, only that it’s miserably cold, it rarely stops raining, and the northern sea that traps us is an angry, violent thing. The pinewood railing that stands as the only stopgap between us and the rocky cliffs is woefully unstable at best. If I press the full weight of my body into it, I’m sure it’d collapse. 

The moon remains hidden most nights, the black expanse of sky comprised solely of ugly gray clouds. If I squint I can see the stars, but I mostly just stare out into the rolling blue waves and try to accept what I’ve done. My ruined left arm aches constantly, and the biting sea wind surely doesn’t help, especially when all I want to do is forget it even exists. When I can bring myself to actually look upon the offending limb, its as if my brain short circuits and tries to curl fingers that no longer exist. Morbidly I wonder after my amputated hand. What did Granger do with it? It’s particularly disassociating to realize that a part of your body you’ve had since birth is suddenly gone. Where is it? How can a piece of me, a vital and dominant aspect of my being, just no longer exist? I try to match my right hand to the left one that isn’t there and my vision swims. My remaining fingers reach out as if to interlock with their missing counterparts and, for a heartbeat, I swear I feel the connection. Then reality crashes down and I am incomplete once again.

Some night an indeterminate amount of time into my imprisonment here, possibly a week into my relocation upstairs—it’s amazing how little one cares for the marking of days when there is nothing at all to do—I drag myself out of bed once more, having just woken up from a series of increasingly horrible nightmares. I’ve developed a tolerance to the potions Granger doles out and every day they work just a little less. My feet carry me through the dark of the cottage and I am careful not to disturb the silence as I slip out the back door to take refuge on the porch.

Twisted visions of my mother being tortured thanks to my failures swim at the back of my mind and I shudder from head to toe. There is no way my absence has not been noticed by the Dark Lord. Furthermore, there is no way that Mother’s illness has been kept a secret. Aunt Bella loves her sister, true, but she loves that monster more. I allow myself a few seconds of childish hope that my father is the one taking the brunt of the punishments being handed out, but there is a small part of me that knows it’s my Mother screaming into the night. The consequences of my actions make me ill and my stomach rolls in a perfect imitation of the sea.

I hate myself. I hate my complete inability to do anything right. It festers like an infection, burning through my body, and in that moment I want nothing more than for the pain to stop. Before I can talk myself out of it, I slip down the wooden steps to stand precariously at the cliff’s edge. Hundreds of meters below, the ocean rages and sings to me its violent siren song. The wool socks I’ve been provided soak up the moisture from the rock and the cold numbs my feet. I wonder if it’ll hurt. I used to relish the feeling of flight, privately sure that the only time I’d ever felt truly alive was when I was streaking through the air with only a broom and my skill to keep me safe. Now I am without both, without everything, and the open expanse of air before me is no longer an old friend.

The fall is such that I’m fairly certain I’ll die hitting the water. It might even be painless, for all that matters at this point in my life. I lean forward, feeling the pull of gravity at my skin, and inhale deep the briny scent of the sea. I’ve always hated to ocean. Of their own volition, my arms swing wide and I curl my toes around the jagged edge. I’m just a flinch from free fall, from cruel release, when Granger makes her presence known.

“What are you doing?” Her voice carries across the sea breeze and I nearly fall. When I reflect back upon this moment later on, I’ll wonder if she hoped to scare me into slipping. 

I don’t answer. I cannot for I don’t have the right words to properly convey the agony I’ve found myself in and, even if I did, she’s the last person I’d ever want to share them with. Over the roar of the ocean, I hear her move down the wooden steps to stand just beyond my vision, close enough to shove me, if she so chose. The weakest parts of me hope that she does.

“Malfoy,” she says again, “what are you doing?”

“Nothing.” It’s not a lie, because I’ve made no true, substantial choice to do anything. I’ve merely relinquished control over my body and let it come to whatever end it saw fit. 

I wait for her self-righteous speech about the sanctity of all life, but it never comes. Instead, “It won’t be as painless as you’re thinking.” 

Despite myself, I tear my gaze from the rolling waters beneath me to stare at her over my shoulder. For her part, she is looking out into the gray, her expression hollow and hard to read. “I have no idea—”

“I know it looks like a long fall, but it’s not. You’ll crash into the rock face before you ever hit the water and instead of a swift end, you’ll sink into the darkness, mangled but conscious and you’ll drown. It could take minutes. It’ll feel like forever.”

“Familiar with oblivion, then?”

“Intimately.” It’s oddly comforting, in that wretched human way, to know that Granger is just as much of a fucking mess. She really is mortal after all. “If you want to die, I’ll give you enough pain potions so it’s like going to sleep.”

“Why not just kill me yourself?”

This grabs her attention and she glares at me. “Because I’m not a monster, Malfoy. I don’t kill people just to do it.” 

“I’m not a person to you.”

“Nor am I to you,” she counters. “Whose fault is that?” I’m too ragged to think of a clever response and so I opt for none at all. I turn back to the ocean and we stand in silence for what feels like an age. “We should go back inside.”

“No one is forcing you to stay out here.”

She sighs, and steps up to stand beside me, the length of my outstretched arm, ruined though it is, the only thing separating us. “I can’t just leave you out here.”

“Why?”

“Because no one deserves to die alone.” 

It hits me like a wave, like a boulder, like a promise. “I don’t need your misguided sympathies, Granger. And I certainly don’t need your company.” If my voice wavers, the vitriol I force into the words does a decent job of masking it.

“I know.” She is infuriatingly calm. 

“I don’t want to die,” I’m supposed to declare it but I whisper it before I can stop myself, the words wrenching free of their own, traitorous volition. 

“I know.”

My arms drop to my sides and I step back from the edge. Without a word, she mirrors my actions and we make the small trek back into the cottage. On the kitchen table, glinting in the moonlight, is a small pile of empty potion bottles. A familiar pale blue liquid shimmers from the bottom of one but, as I look to Granger for explanation, she continues on past me, up the stairs and into her room. 

Chapter Text

After a month of being unreachable in the wilds of France, Ginny arrives all at once one bleak Wednesday morning. I hear the crack of her Apparation just as I bring the chipped teacup to my mouth and, despite my resolve, it rattles in sync with my nerves at the noise. 

“Hermione?” She inquires, and before I can even properly stand, she makes the short trek from the entryway into the living room. “Hermione!” By some small glory, she closes the distance between us before I’m forced to move. 

“Ginny,” I breathe, burying my face into the collar of her jacket. She squeezes me back just as fiercely and, for a moment, we simply embrace. One day, perhaps in some unseen future, I hope to no longer greet my loved ones with such raw melancholy. One day. 

She pulls back and gives me a searching look. “How’ve you been, love? It’s been ages.”

“A month, I think.” It’s been 33 days to be exact, but obsessive desperation isn’t a good look for someone who is supposed to be doing better. “How was France?” I lead her over to the couch, it’s faded pattern dusty with disuse. “Tea?”

“Please,” she sits. “France was….well you know.” 

I don’t. “Of course.” 

“The weather was fair, at least.”

“Was it successful?” Once I was the sole keeper of such intel for the Order. Despite his leadership position, Moody would defer to me more often than not, especially on the more mundane, day to day work. Ron had the head for strategy, and it was my job to maintain a wealth of data for him to employ. Only a year ago, I’d have sat in my small room-turned-office back at headquarters, jotting down notes while Ginny relayed her time in France to me in specific, careful detail. Now I hover near the coffee table of my sea soaked cell and tense my thigh to keep my leg from trembling. 

“....and Moody was relieved, obviously.” I’ve tuned her out, again. 

“Obviously,” I parrot. “Have you seen Harry yet?”

Her affable smile slips, just for a second. “Yes, I’ve just come from there.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “He sends his love.” I’m not present enough to find the appropriate placating response and so I opt for a small nod instead. Ginny is too busy replaying some private moment in her head to even notice.

“Ginny–” I start.

“Ron’s doing much better.” She says in a rush.

My fingers tingle slightly and I rip at the skin of my thumbnail to relieve the sensation. “He was hurt?”

Her reaction is slowed, the guilt is clear as day. “Well–I mean–he was but he’s fine now,” she backtracks. “It was nothing to worry about.”

“Is this about the fall he took out in the field? Harry mentioned something but that was weeks ago.” 26 days, technically. 

“Oh no, he’s fine now.” It’s a non-answer and we both know why. “Please don’t worry about it.”

“Of course.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Fine, really. Busy, although that’s hardly a good thing.” I cast a glance through the doorway, into the makeshift clinic. An Order member whose name I don’t even know is sleeping off a pustule curse, and a Ravenclaw the year ahead of us is toying with the fresh bandage I’ve just applied to her broken elbow. 

“I mean you, Hermione, how are you?” Ginny reaches out for my hand and I squeeze her fingers once before pulling away. 

“Tired. Malfoy is–”

“Malfoy? As in Draco Malfoy?” Her lip curls in disgust and it's a private revelation how similar she looks to him in that moment. Were I a better poet–or even a poet at all–I could probably lament on the ways hatred reduces us all to our most base selves. 

“Yes. Haven’t you heard? He’s staying here.” I’m not callous on principle and derive no small moment of joy that I know something she does not.

“Here here?” She glances around as if he’s lurking in the shadows. “Right now?” I nod. “Why?”

“Because Moody wants easy access to his intel without having to actually worry about his safety.”

“But–but isn’t he dangerous?” 

I scoff. “Hardly. He’s only got the one hand now and–”

“One hand?!”

“Yeah,” and before I can stop myself, “didn’t Harry tell you any of this? He’s been here for over a month.” 32 days. “He defected–”

Ginny’s face sours. “I haven’t had a chance to ask him, is all. Draco bloody Malfoy is hardly our first topic of conversation.”

“Well obviously, I just–”

“Even without his–his hand are you sure you’re able to…” she trails off and glances quickly at my leg. The tingling in my fingertips increases. 

“I’m perfectly capable,” I snap. She looks hurt and I berate myself for being so selfish. “I’m sorry. I know you meant well.”

“Hermione, I–”

“I know.” We stare at the ground a moment, and the nail of my pointer finger slices expertly into the fragile flesh of my thumb. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She gives me that familiar, gentle smile. “How is it?” It, of course, being the unnamed injury that has permanently maimed my right leg.

“Better,” I lie. “The exercises help, especially now that it’s not so cold.” It’s been raining for 4 straight days, but she doesn’t need to know that. 

“And your pain?” Her voice drops to a whisper, as if my suffering is some secret we must keep between us.

“Managed.” The razor’s edge of a cracked memory cuts at my attempts to lie, but I shove it back into it’s ragged box and carry on. “Only had one pain potion this week.” Such a significant understatement it borders on dark comedy. 

Still, the lie is worth it just to watch that careful bunch of tension drain from her face. Ginny smiles that smile and if I’m reminded of my mother and the way she just wanted everything to be okay no matter the cost, I don’t lament on it.

“I’m so thrilled to hear that, Hermione. We miss you back home.” The idea of the Longbottom estate being considered home is as ludicrous as my fabricated control. “I’ll talk to Moody again, see about–”

“No, no. Don’t. He’s got enough on his plate,” I interrupt. “You all do.”

Ginny chews her lip, a habit she’s stolen from me, and quickly stands up. We are only a foot or two apart, but she’s got four inches on me and every centimeter feels like a canyon. “I’m headed back to France in a few days, but I’ll be sure to tell Ron to come see you.” 

The idea of Ron, the very mental construction of him being near me, is too much and I press too deep and the skin beneath my nail gives way. Blood seeps and instead of reacting, I make a fist. “Ginny, really–”

“He misses you,” she insists. “And besides, I’m sure his presence would make you feel safer what with fucking Draco Malfoy skulking around.”

“I don’t need–”

I watch her glance at the clock as I speak. “I should get back.” She wraps her arms around me and I reflexively do the same. “Take care of yourself, Hermione.”

“I will. Please be safe out there, Ginny.”

She gives me a wry grin. “Always.”

Once she’s gone, I let out the last of the air hiding in my lungs and force myself to appreciate that she never followed up on her request for tea.

Sleep has become a stranger these days. I’ve long since developed a tolerance to the more therapeutic effects of the pain potions and mostly take them to keep from falling apart. As the days trickle by, I find myself spending more and more of my nights staring silently at the large, faded water stain above my bed. My mind races, chasing each and every thought that spirals into existence and eventually, I let the rising sun pull me from my silent insomnia. 

It’s thanks to this new manifestation that I hear Malfoy rummaging around the cottage at the most ungodly of hours. In the beginning, I tried to ignore him, attributing my lack of sleep to his less than silent creeping. In actuality, though, it’s comforting in the way a former favorite shirt is. You don’t appreciate its existence—the calming sounds of someone else’s life—until it’s gone. Pity that it’s Malfoy, though.

The night of Ginny’s visit, the acknowledgment that I’m going to spend the next several hours begging for sleep is suddenly too much to bear and I find myself slipping quietly down the smooth wooden stairs, trailing after him. When I finally corner him, he’s hunched over the latest batch of my still unsuccessful Shield potion. “What’re you doing?” For the second time in only a short amount of days, I interrupt his macabre nightly ritual. When I reflected back on the hunch of his shoulders as he stood at the jagged edge, my fingers ache and I let it go. 

To his credit, he nearly succeeds in pretending not to be startled. “Fucking hell, Granger. What’s your problem?”

“I want to know what you’re doing.” If he thinks I sound rude instead of exhausted, that’s his own problem. 

“Fail to see how that’s your business,” he scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. Or rather, trying to. As the missing inches of his left forearm make themselves known, the muscle memory falters and he lets both limbs fall to his sides, limp. 

“It’s my house, it’s my potion. It is categorically my business.”

“Still a swot, I see.” His automatic reference to our shared history feels purposeful and hollow. The sneer he attempts is even less convincing.

“You’ve had all this time to think of insults and that’s the best you’ve got?”

“Much like your friends, I haven’t spent much of the last few years thinking about you all that often.” I flinch at the implication and his grin is a cruel confirmation. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I insist. 

“I heard that pathetic attempt at casual conversation you had today,” he says. “Tell me, is the She-Weasel the only one, or do all of them treat you like shit?”

“Excuse me? How dare you—”

He barrels right through my protests. “Do you lie to them on purpose or did they all just assume you’re not a fucking mess?”

It strikes too close to the heart of it all and I snarl at him. “As if you’d know the first thing about friendship!”

“Looks like I struck a nerve there, Granger. Sensitive topic?”

“Shut up. The only meaningful relationships you formed at Hogwarts were with those two bumbling idiots and you treated them like minions!” My voice is shrill. “Don’t you dare lecture me on friendship, you foul little insect.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“Oh, did I strike a nerve?” I snap, matching him glare for glare. “I’d say you shouldn’t be a hypocrite but you’ve always been excellent at letting people down.”

It wounds, just as I’d hoped it would. “Fuck you.” He shoves past me, shoulder-checking me hard enough that I have to grip the wall not to stumble. 

“What’s wrong, Malfoy? Sensitive topic?” I yell at his retreating form.

He hovers in the doorway a moment before wrenching his whole body back around. “You’re so fucking pathetic Granger, that even being around you is miserable. No wonder your friends abandoned you here.”

“As if you’re Mister Perfection. You say you didn’t even want to defect, and yet here you are, just as trapped as me. Was it worth it? Was it worth what you’ve lost?” The ugliness between us is palpable. Had he a wand and a hand to wield it, I’d already be preparing a counter-curse. Hatred and anger meld into a violent look on his face and I wonder at just how dangerous he is, even stripped bare. He’s taller than me, although slighter. If it came down to it, could he kill me first? Could I kill him at all?

Malfoy opens and closes his mouth a few times, and I wait for the next verbal assault. Finally, “do it.”

I’m taken aback. “Do what?”

“Hurt me, curse me, kill me. I can see the look on your face. You’re just looking for a reason, an excuse, and for what? Who’d dare challenge your account?” He’s so suddenly devoid of emotion, I nearly miss the signs of him Occluding. 

“I told you I’m not a monster, Malfoy.”

“But I am,” he says it so simply. “So do us both a favor and put me down.”

“I—what? What are you saying?” I suddenly crave the argument we’d just been having. Hating each other is familiar, natural. This cold vulnerability, this bearing of his neck to me, it’s not. It’s all together too much.

“End it.”

“I won’t give you the satisfaction of responding to that.”

“Coward.”

“You’re the coward if anyone is,” I snap. 

Malfoy shrugs, all muted and dull emotion. “Maybe. Still, you’re such a self-righteous bitch, it was worth a shot.”

He’s hot and cold and nearly a parody of himself in this state. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you like this?”

“Why are you?” He counters.

“You know why,” I respond automatically.

The ensuing silence wounds, unexpectedly serrated. All at once he goes, subdued and disinterested and I stare at the empty doorway for longer than expected, trying to understand even if I shouldn’t.

He stops eating the food I leave at his door everyday. Before our latest fight, he’d eventually crawl out from his hovel to feed himself, generally at night. If I was a better doctor—or even a doctor at all—I’d have been more on top of his care but he makes himself so scarce, I lack the energy to try. At least I did until the meals pile up. Bowls of congealed soup, cold pasta, and stale sandwiches mock me. The hallway isn’t big enough for this little protest of his, and by the third morning, I’m tired of vanishing away the evidence of his tantrum. 

When I knock he doesn’t answer, of course. “Malfoy?” Another knock. “Malfoy, I know you’re in there.” Silence. “I’m coming in.” I hesitate, giving him a second to prepare before pushing my way inside. 

He’s sitting up in bed, reading. Despite my warning, it’s obvious I’ve startled him, and he makes an unsuccessful attempt at concealing the book pressed into his bent legs. The flash of familiar blue tells me what I’d already suspected. Our eyes meet and the sheer panic on his face sets me completely off kilter and, for several seconds too long, we just stare at each other. 

"Right," is all I can think to say before shaking the surprise off. "Anyway, uh, why aren't you eating?" 

The panic shifts into a look of annoyance. "What do you care?" 

"I care because the amount of food we have is limited and the rations need to last us," I snap. "Furthermore, you're my patient and your wellbeing is my responsibility. Starving yourself isn't—" 

He snorts. "I'm hardly starving myself, Granger. Don't be so dramatic. Excuse me if it's a bit of a struggle eating that pathetic slop you consider food."

"Oh I'm terribly sorry the accommodations aren't up to your standards, Lord Malfoy. We don't have any enslaved house elves on site to cater to your every whim." 

"Clearly."

I give him a withering look. "If you hate it so much, you're welcome to come downstairs and make your own bloody food!" All he does in response is roll his eyes like the petulant child he's pretending to be. "Merlin knows I'm not bringing you any more. It's a waste of food and I don't have the energy to keep lugging plates up those stairs."

"Why not just use magic? Don't tell me you're actually carrying the fucking dishes." 

It's my turn to be petulant. "Of course I don't. But walking up—" I slam my mouth shut and he quirks an eyebrow. "It doesn't matter. If you want to eat, you'll have to do it downstairs. And don't even think about carrying on with this little hunger strike of yours."

"It's not—" 

"I don't care what you call it, you need to eat. I didn't go through all that trouble saving your life for you to just throw it away."

"I never asked you to do that, Granger." His tone is as dark as the look in his eye. 

"As if you'd ever ask me to do anything," I say. "As if your opinion was ever up for consideration."

It's supposed to be callous but the brutal honesty comes out almost understanding and he seems uncharacteristically accepting of it. "Fine."

I go to leave but, because I've never known when to quit and there is nothing regarding literature that I can force myself to ignore, I look at him over my shoulder. "If you like The Hobbit, I recommend the Lord of the Rings trilogy next. It's the sequel.” Before he can respond and inevitably throw my wretched kindness back in my face, I shut the door and walk away. 

The following afternoon brings Moody and a wealth of more bad news. I’ve barely had a chance to clear the empty pain potion vials from the sink when he arrives with Harry in tow, their familiar faces bent into an even more familiar grimace of frustration. It kills me not to ask but after all these months, I’m not sure I can stomach another placating dismissal. 

“Mr. Malfoy?” Moody inquires.

“Upstairs, presumably.” 

“Could you fetch him?” I swallow back the petulant comeback and just nod in ascension. Harry’s brow furrows, and I feel the weight of his searching gaze as he tracks my wounded step. It takes more effort than usual not to limp and the moment I turn the corner, it returns. 

As I trudge up the rickety steps, I think back to the uneaten breakfast portion I’d seen congealing in the kitchen this morning and dig a nail into the side of my thumb. The genuine, albeit somewhat diminished, concern I feel is a surprise even to me. It’s easier than anticipated to view him solely as a patient than as the terror he was in my youth.

“Malfoy—” I start but his door pulls open before I can even knock. He looks ragged, flustered, and I narrow my eyes at him. “Alright?”

“Peachy. What is it?”

He sounds like his usual horrid self and so I carry on. “Moody’s downstairs. He wants to speak with you.”

Malfoy grimaces but, instead of protesting, gives me a nod. “Lead the way.”

Once downstairs, the two of them disappear into my empty living room, closing doors and dropping silencing spells in their wake. Harry gestures for me to sit beside him at the kitchen table and, because he’s still my best friend, pushes the fresh cup of tea he’s made me towards my seat. We linger in the rare stillness and drink.

“George is missing,” he half whispers it into the empty air between us. 

My heart tightens at the confession. Ever since Fred’s death, George’s sense of self-preservation had been steadily declining. Of all the remaining Weasley’s, he’s the one that shows up here, bloodied, the most. “When?”

“Night before last. He was out on recon with Tonks, scouting a potential location when they were ambushed. They got separated and only she made it back to headquarters.” 

“Have you gone back to check?”

He nods. “There’s nothing.”

Words of placation aren’t my forte and he doesn’t want them anyway so instead I just return the nod and, together, we take a sip of our tea. 

The afternoon slips by in much the same fashion until, at long last, Moody reappears. The pocket door to the living room clicks open and he steps out, looking somehow even more grim. “Ready, Mr. Potter?”

Harry nods and quickly hugs me goodbye. “Love you,” he whispers into my hair.

“Love you,” I murmur back.

“Before I go, do you need anything, Ms. Granger?” For some reason, of everything about him that irritates me, it's his continued use of pleasantries that irks me the most. 

“No,” I say. Truthfully, there is a lot I need, but my requests have fallen on deaf ears too many a time for me to waste the breath airing them once more. 

“I’ll be round in a few days with the next supply run,” Harry gives me an apologetic smile, as if somehow the wrongness of our new normal is somehow his fault, in addition to his burden.

Once they’re gone, I let out a heavy breath and struggle to my feet. It’s barely 1 pm and I’ve far too much left to do. Running a hand down my face, I startle as I step into the living room to find Malfoy still inside. Honestly, I’d completely forgotten about him once I’d heard about George, but the sight of him now is one I don’t think will ever leave me. He is sat in the ancient armchair, bent half over and quietly sobbing into his knees. I go completely still as his shoulders heave with near silent emotion and it’s fascinating in that distant way how good he is at not making a sound. 

The chair is angled away from me and his trembling form is backlit in washed out sunlight. As I watch him fall apart, I wonder what to do. It feels wrong, intrusive even, to see him like this. Merlin knows I’d hate it if someone I hated stopped and stared at me as I broke down. Still, I can’t move. If I break the silence, he’ll know I was there, but if I linger, it’ll be worse. In the end, Malfoy decides for me.

He stands so abruptly, the height of him seems suddenly too big for the raw emotion on his face. Despite everything, I know he’s aware of me. Before I can speak, though, he slips through the door and a moment later, I hear him vomiting into the downstairs loo. Sobbing and puking are two things I know very, very well, and I elect to leave him be. 

Stepping back into the kitchen, I try to focus on the potions brewing before me and, if I listen carefully for his eventual retreat into his bedroom, it’s only because he is my patient and I am his healer.

A few nights later, just as the three and a half pain potions have finally dampened enough of my anxiety to make room for sleep, there is a thud followed by a massive clatter that echoes throughout the empty cottage. I am up and awake immediately, downing the Sober Up potion in the next heartbeat. As I toe on my ragged sneakers, I strain my ears for sound. Something rustles at the end of the hall. The grip on my wand is tight enough to snap and it should sicken me more at the rush of adrenaline flowing through me. I was honed for this, and a year spent locked up has yet to change that.

The bedroom door—oiled silent in anticipation for just this moment—slides open just enough for me to slip through and I take careful, measured steps towards the top of the stairs. My leg muscle is taut to keep me from limping and, just as I peer around the corner, a groan from the bathroom breaks the stillness.

All at once I remember Malfoy. He’s so easy to forget now that he spends all of his time in his room, stealing my books and eating the bare minimum to keep me from nagging. Out of sight, out of mind just like mother used to say. I shudder at the memory of her and try to calm my racing heart before knocking on the door.

“Malfoy?” Doors and inquiries and meals gone cold. He’s more ghost than person at this point. He mumbles in response but something in the tone irks me. “Are you alright?” Another mumble, less constructed than the first, and I push inside, propriety be damned.

All of our encounters have suddenly become mirrored loops of each other. Another sudden entrance, another discovery of him in a vulnerable position. Only this time, he’s dying. At least it looks that way. Malfoy has slumped into the wall, legs bent beneath the strain of his weight, as if he’s anything other than skin and bones. I drop to my knees before him at once, pressing a hand to his forehead. He’s drenched in sweat and clammy all over. 

“Malfoy, what’s happened?” I try to shake him into awareness, but he just mumbles the word ‘mother’ over and over again. He slides further and I shoulder his weight with one hand and cast a diagnostic with the other. “What have you done?” He’s burning up, fever uncomfortably north of 103 and riddled with infection. In the next instance, my sense of smell comes fully into focus and the scent of purification in the air is suddenly cloying. Glancing down, I can see the soiled white bandage around his arm has fallen away, leaving the violent, angry infection laid bare. It’s vile but I stay the course. “Oh you stupid boy.”

With awkward, jerky movements, I get him safely propped up into the corner of the wall by the shower curtain. My leg burns but I stay crouched beside him, pulling his ruin of an arm into my lap. He whimpers at my careful but deliberate prodding. “Wha—”

“Quiet!” I snap and begin the process of eliminating his infection once more. I’m too far away from the clinic to summon much in the way of materials, and have to delve into the barren emergency stash I keep in my room. 

“S—s—sorry,” he stutters to someone who is not me. Gray eyes flutter beneath paper thin eyelids and I am acutely aware of the danger his high fever presents. 

“You stupid, stupid idiot,” I whisper it like a mantra and force his mouth open to shove the heat reduction potion down his throat. A quick tap of the wand keeps him from choking and, as soon as he swallows, I summon another. It takes three of them in rapid succession to get him below 102 but I’ll worry about the long term gastrointestinal effects when he’s not loitering at Death’s door. 

He stills, finally, and I use strips of cloth soaked in poultice to pull the remaining infection from his wound. It reeks and no amount of vanishing spares me the assault. Determination and eleven months of exposure carry me through. Once he’s stable, I finally let my muscles go slack and lean heavily into the wall behind me. The upstairs bathroom is small even for one person and we’re a mess of limbs and empty glass vials strewn across the floor. 

For a few minutes, I just sit there and watch him. My leg needs to stop trembling before I can stand anyway, and so in the interim, I contemplate the man before me. What has brought him here, to this place with me? Why does he flirt so carelessly with his own mortality when it’s obvious he went through hell to survive? How many more times will I have to pull him back from the brink of oblivion? 

For all our shared history, ugly and storied as it is, it dawns on me how little I know about Malfoy. In school he was spoiled and horrible and whined whenever the mood took him. Now he’s slumped before me, barely this side of alive—again—and I wonder at the darkly interesting turn our lives have taken. If you’d have told eleven year old him that a Mudblood would have saved his life going on three times now, he’d have sneered and snarled at the thought. Eleven year old me would have been just as horrified. And yet, here we are.

Time makes fools of us all. 

Chapter Text

There is diffused, insistent light blinding me through my eyelids. It heats the skin of my face and the shiver that moves through me alights my body in aches. There is a dull simmer of pain where there was once a fire engulfing my left arm and I know that I’ve somehow survived to see another miserable fucking day. I let out a pitiful groan.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Granger’s voice startles me and I open heavy eyes to stare at her. She’s perched on a chair at my bedside, fuming.

“Apparently.” It comes out strangled and weak. Wonderful.

“What is wrong with you?” She shrieks. “Why did you let it get so bad?”

With effort, I prop myself up on my only good arm and meet her glare for glare. “I don’t need a fucking lecture—”

“Yes, you do! Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake, you cannot do this. I told you what you needed to do to take care of your arm. I gave you explicit instructions and left the appropriate medicines with you.” Were she not sitting, I’m pretty sure she’d stomp her foot. “When did the nausea start?”

Hazy memories of the last few days drift over me. After my horrific little chat with Moody, everything just kind of blends together. “A week ago.” It’s a safe estimate, although I’m fairly certain too generous. 

“That’s why you stopped eating.” 

“Told you it wasn’t a hunger strike.” Sarcasm is all I have the strength to reach for. 

“You’re impossible.” Granger stands, looming over me. “I’ve handled things, again.”

“If you’re looking for gratitude, you’re going to leave disappointed.”

“Malfoy,” she sounds so exasperated and the genuine spark of guilt I feel is unwanted. “Please.”

“What do you want me to say, Granger?” Her nails dig into her thumb and I watch the movement instead of making eye contact. The skin is shiny and pink, betraying this ugly little habit of hers. “Do you wanna hear some sob story about my sad little life, is that it? Want me to confess my sins?”

“I want you to make a decision,” she says. Our eyes meet. “If you’re going to do this, commit to it. I’m tired of being the one to decide for you.” Without breaking eye contact, she silently summons a roll of bandages. “Every night, from now on, you’re going to come downstairs and let me tend to your wound. If that’s not agreeable, tell me now, and I’ll make sure you’re left alone long enough.”

She skirts the blatant implication but it’s clear as glass. I swallow to stall for time, shocked into near silence. “You’d what? Just let me do it?” I force myself to ask. 

Granger shrugs, as if my literal life doesn’t hang in the balance. “If that’s what you want, what you sincerely want, yes. No half-measures, Malfoy. I’m too tired for this.”

“What about Moody?”

Another shrug. “Will you let me take care of your arm?” Her gaze bores into me.

The question is so heavy and my answer comes so easily, I almost can’t believe it. “Yes.”

Something that might have, at one point, been her attempt at a smile flashes across her face. “Good. Tonight, then.” She stands, pocketing the bandages. Muscle memory has her hand reaching for the door frame to steady herself before she takes another full step. “Get some rest.”

She leaves and I don’t.

It difficult blatantly accepting her help. Ever the prim and proper swot, Granger sits at the kitchen table, and pointedly stares at the bowl of soup placed before what I can only assume is my seat. Her own is nearly empty and my stomach rolls at the thought of food. Still, there are apparently no half-measures welcome within her definition of survival and so I sit and eat. It’s bland, thin, forgetful. Truly abysmal as far as enjoyment goes, but precisely what is necessary to reintroduce full meals back into my routine. How clever.

To my endless gratitude, she doesn’t make small talk. She doesn’t talk at all. Instead, as she waits for me to finish my food, she chops herbs and prepares a variety of potion ingredients to numerous to name. The careful slice of her knife through weed and root is wretched in it’s familiarity. The sea roars outside the half cracked kitchen window and I lean into the muted cacophony to drown out the flood of school year memories.

As I down the last dregs of soup, Granger carefully stashes her finely cut ingredients into the massive cabinet that flanks the wall behind us before returning to the table, a familiar set of items in hand. Wordlessly, she holds out her hand and wordlessly I slip my arm into it. Despite the promise I’d made to myself, I turn away as she unravels the bandage. Honesty was never an easy lesson for me. With firm, deliberate motions, she slathers the wound in salves and creams before watching me down two foul tasting potions. Her eyes track the glass as it empties and all at once I’m aware of the total lack of space between us.

I cannot remember the last time I’d ever been touched this much. Even Mother, at the end, pulled away. My skin aches at the memory, but I let her finish before curling my arm back into my side. 

She nods at me, once, and I flee.

Time is nothing. It’s endless and cold and I’m losing my mind within these four brown walls. The only human contact I have is Granger, every night, when we silently eat dinner together and she manages my rapidly healing arm. Despite my own personal wishes, her ultimatum and my subsequent decision impose themselves upon me at every possible turn. It’s difficult smuggling her books upstairs, stealing them from the nearest full bookshelf whenever she goes to bed. I’ve inadvertently let my sleeping schedule slip back into the approximation of a normal one and find myself awake with the rest of the house’s revolving occupants. The view from my window is dreary and, all at once, I need out.

I press my ear to the door, listening for sounds of company. It’s midday, and if my spying is half as reliable as I’m hoping, the only person left is Granger. It's demeaning, creeping down the stairs to ensure our solitude. A lifetime ago, I'd have paid someone to do this for me. Now I am hunched over the railing, straining and pleading for silence. 

When I'm convinced of the lack of patients, I finish the trek downstairs to find her where she always is; hunched over a bubbling cauldron, harpy's nest of hair stuck out every which way. All at once I'm crossing into the 5th year Potions' dungeon, sneering at her endless need to be acknowledged and seen. I'd never stoop so low, I would think then, as I carefully documented everyone's reactions to my arrival. Always on display, forever in the performance. Perfect little fucking asshole. A floorboard creaks beneath my careful step and Granger spins around, shattering the unwanted trip down memory lane. 

"What's wrong?" Still so earnest, even now. 

"What?" 

"Is it your arm?" She's like a mangy dog with a bone, forever worrying at it. I hate it. 

"Nothing is wrong," I snap. 

She leans into the desk behind her and I wonder if it's because of her mysterious limp. "Then what do you want?" Granger frowns, and it’s perfectly in line with the rest of her disappointed features. 

I roll my eyes. "Not everything is about you."

To my surprising dismay, she doesn't take the bait. "Pot calling the kettle black, aren't you?" Her reference sails far beyond my understanding and my expression must mirror that for she just shakes her head. "Why are you down here? Normally you save your skulking for the midnight hour."

“Spying on me, are you Granger?" 

"You're hardly discreet."

"Wasn't trying to be." She says nothing, just continues to stare at me expectantly. "Why do you even care?" 

"It’s my responsibility to care." 

Fingers I don't have try to run themselves through my too-long hair and the stark reminder just sours my already shit mood. "For fuck's sake. Am I not allowed to walk around, then?" 

"No, it's just that seeing you when the sun is still out is weird," she says. "You're free to do whatever you want."

"Within reason," I don't bother to hide the bitterness in my voice.

"Obviously."

With a sigh, I sag into the doorway. "It's….too quiet upstairs." What possessed me to share this with her, I've no idea. 

Granger drops the Prefect act and gives me a look of genuine understanding. My stomach rolls at the implication we're anything alike. "Right. Well, just stay out of my way."

I grunt in response and let my feet carry me into the living room. Snapshots of the horrific intel Moody pulled from me settle over the scene like a heavy fog but it's the only room not connected to her stupid fucking clinic and so I take what I can get. 

"There's tea on the stove," she calls as an afterthought, borderline domestic. I don't bother responding. 

Quiet fills the house once more, save for the distance break of gray waves on black rocks. The slant of sunlight that's broken through the clouds illuminates the dust I kick up with every step and stops at the second shelf of her sad excuse of a library. Granger wasn't lying when she said it was predominantly muggle literature. Aside from an outdated Potions text and some delectably bland historical accounts, the remaining books are foreign to me. I've gone through the series she'd recommended, not that I'd ever tell her. It was…fine. Horribly inaccurate, of course. Just the thought of elves being anything resembling ethereal was ridiculous. No surprise that the muggles got something wrong. 

Still, the total lack of stimulation will undo my carefully constructed denial and if I don't do something, my Occlusion will fail and the thought of having to actually process what's happened to me is too much to bear. So instead, I run a finger over the mismatched spines and try to find something worth reading. 

Stranger in a Strange Land catches my eye, if only for the pathetic similarities to my current predicament. It's cover is faded and worn, the green not nearly as striking as I'm sure it once was. Still, something about the odd figure and bizarre synopsis pulls me in and, bereft of literally anything fucking else, I take it. 

Immediately I want to go back upstairs but I fight the urge. My emergence from my hovel is two fold. One being that if I spend another second locked away inside it, I'll take Granger up on her offer and meet a swift end. Two is a desperate need for information. My last traumatic encounter with Moody left me sobbing like some kind of fucking first year but was otherwise useless. He had nothing to say about my mother, the Dark Lord, or even the war. Despite my apparent decision to remove myself from the conflict at large, I am desperate to know how things are going. It's nearly impossible to eavesdrop from the second floor landing and so, making myself as small as possible, I tuck into the chair that faces away from the door and open the book. 

For her part, Granger ignores me. Aside from wandering in to grab something unseen from her cabinet of ingredients, she stays on her side of the house. Various scents drift on the stale breeze that moves through the cottage, all of them just familiar enough to pull at my attention. Another trip down memory lane is the last fucking thing I want, however, and I am privately a little grateful to whoever this Heinlein muggle is. If nothing else, I'm occupied enough with his storytelling to be spared. Still, in the back of my mind I wonder at that cauldron of unknown origin she's always mothering over. I'd never ask, of course. 

I don't notice the setting of the sun until the strange, muggle lighting kicks on. The first few nights in my room I tried to figure them out on just willpower alone but Merlin knows I've never had much of that. Regardless, they break the weight of my focus and, eyes bleary from the small text, I glance around the room. 

"Are you allergic to anything?" Granger doesn't startle me, but only just. Since when was she capable of being quiet?

"Uh, no," I answer without looking over at her. "Why?" 

"It's just useful to know, is all." She pauses and I wait. "Dinner is done."

This is my least favorite part of my already miserable life: meals with Granger. The food is impressively unremarkable and her company is grating even if she doesn't say anything. Especially because she doesn't say anything. 

Still, I have to eat, apparently, and even though I'd never admit it, my arm hasn't hurt in the last day or two, no doubt thanks to her efforts. Hazy images of the night she found me half-dead in the upstairs bathroom plague me, but I force them down, Occlude them into oblivion like everything else. I stand, letting the book slide onto the chair, and take a second to crack my stiff joints. When I finally look over, Granger is staring at me, expression unreadable. 

"What?" I ask, nearly convincing myself that I don't care. 

"You're still quite pale.”

"Excellent deduction skills, Granger."

All she does is hum and walk away. I let out a heavy sigh, hunching my shoulders forward, and follow. 

Dinner is its usual silent affair, the only sound the scraping of bent forks on chipped porcelain and, as always, the sea. Tonight's meal is another pathetic attempt at spaghetti. She appears to only know four fucking recipes total. All those bloody novels and not a single cookbook. What’d I give for a roast or some pumpkin juice.

Once the requisite time has passed, she summons the same batch of items as always and makes her way around the table to sit beside me. She limps, because she always does, but it’s not my job to meet her halfway. It’s not my job to do anything at all. With a sigh, she drops into the chair and waits for me to offer up my arm. It settles between us and, as she unwraps the gauze, I stare off into the distance.

I still can’t stomach looking at it, even now. The rancid smell that clung to the bandages has finally subsided and I can sleep without burying my head beneath the pillow, not that it fucking matters. I've spent the last three years perfecting the art of avoidance by way of Occlusion and it's barely working. Watching strangers tortured to death is apparently easier to handle than losing my arm. That should be a good thing, help remind me that underneath it all, I'm still human. It doesn't. 

"It's healing nicely," Granger comments. "How's your pain?" 

"Fine."

"In a few days time you should be healed enough to stop wrapping it. Probably for the best; these things tend to heal better when you let them breathe."

"Please shut up," I say but it lacks the usual force. It's difficult to snap at someone when I can't even look in her direction. 

I feel Granger tuck the end of the gauze back in on itself and tap once with her wand. "All done." As I stand to leave, she says "we're out of pain potions." 

Wretched, fucked up arm hidden beneath white bandage once more, I'm finally able to look down at her. She's so small. "I wonder why." There is a flash of shame in her eyes that lingers a moment before turning to hate. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

Instead of answering, I just give her a knowing look that borders on cruel and walk away. 

The fucking She-Weasel shows up a few days later and it's every bit as pathetic and annoying as it was the first time. She pops in on Granger having a small screaming match with her cauldron, as she tends to do some days. I'm hunched over in the hideous chair, facing the window, and perfectly hidden from view. Seems my efforts at eavesdropping are finally going to pay off. 

A series of pleasantries and small talk dominates a good portion of their conversation. Granger is every bit as terrible at lying as she was last time and the Weasley is just as stupid. When she says she hasn't had any pain potions this week I have to chew my cheek to keep from scoffing. Why she is so insistent on keeping up her charade is beyond me. Might as well lean into her failures, manipulate them into actually doing something for her. Gryffindors, though, are always too tender-hearted for business as dirty as that. 

"And France?" Granger asks. 

"Finished, finally. A smashing success, if you ask me." This grabs my interest. My knowledge of the Dark Lord's operations was pretty narrow in scope, truthfully, but I'd heard whispers of something in France. 

"Did you find it?" 

"No, but we did find this." Something thuds onto the kitchen table and it kills me not to turn around. 

"Is this—" 

"A journal. And no, it's not cursed. Not like…" Ginny trails off. My father was so fucking proud of that little stunt back in second year and he rode on the coattails of his brilliance up until it backfired. It took a few years for the Dark Lord to punish him properly for it, but by then his track record was already so shit it was just another drop in an ocean of failure. 

"What language is this?" 

"No clue. Lupin thinks—" 

"Its ancient runes," Granger cuts her off. "Not the usual ones, though. It almost looks cuneiform."

"As opposed to?" 

I can picture the look of disappointment on Granger’s face perfectly. "The proto-Germanic ones we were taught in school. Spellman's Syllabary has an excellent introductory chapter detailing the evolution of runes and the ultimate decision to shift away from them in modern spell work."

"Of course, how could I forget." If there is affection in the she-weasel's sarcasm, I can't find it. "I'll make sure Luna has a copy of Spellbard—" 

"Spellman—" 

"Syllabus—" 

"Syllabary—" 

“—at her disposal." A rustle of a bag punctuates her statement. 

"Wait! I can decipher this. Ancient Ruins was one of my best subjects."

"They were all your best subjects." Fair point. "Besides, you've got enough on your hands here."

"I don't, not really," Granger insists. "Please." The desperation in her voice is pathetic and wildly out of place. 

"Hermione," Ginny sighs. "No. Luna is more than capable. You just focus on your healing efforts." 

"Is this because of Moody? Did he tell you not to let me translate it?" 

"Not everything is some conspiracy. Moody hasn't even seen this yet." She actually chastises Granger as if she’s in any position to do so.

“I didn’t say it was some conspiracy, Ginny. I’m just,” Granger falters and I lean towards the kitchen. “I just want to feel like I’m contributing to the effort.”

“Oh, love.” I’d bet my last Galleon they’re hugging. “You’re already doing so much! The last thing any of us want is to add any unnecessary stress.”

“It’s not–” Granger sounds muffled and I sneak a glance around the edge of the chair to confirm my suspicions that they are, in fact, hugging. “It’s really not a burden.”

“Hermione, really. Besides, someone has to keep an eye on Malfoy.” My jaw tenses at the sound of my name in her mouth.

“I’m not his babysitter!”

“I didn’t say you were.” The rickety chair screeches as it scoots back along the stone floor. “Look, if Luna runs into any dead-ends, I’ll see about passing some of the pages off to you.”

“I–fine. That’s fine.”

“I love you, okay. We all do. The last thing any of us want is for you to have another—”

“I know, Ginny. 

A moment of strained silence passes. “And you’re really off the pain potions, right?”

I cannot help it, I have to watch Granger try to make this lie believable. Once more I peer back at them. They stand in profile, halfway between the kitchen and the living room. The she-weasel’s face is all condescension masquerading as concern and Granger looks ill. Glancing down, I see the familiar motion of her fingers digging into one another, nails just sharp enough to wound, and it is fascinating watching this fabled war-hero fall the fuck apart because she cannot bother to tell the truth.

“Really. Yes.” 

Once she’s gone, Granger sags into the doorframe, her leg nearly giving way. I turn away, opening up the copy of And Then There Were None that’s been discarded in my lap. The information I’d gathered in regards to the war wasn’t all that useful, but knowing that the smug know-it-all that always bested me in Potions is an absolute fucking mess makes it a success. Unfortunately, the spine of the book chooses that moment to crack and it reverberates through the still house.

“I know you’re there, Malfoy.” I lean forward and meet her gaze. “Enjoy the show?”

“Quite the performance. Truly a disaster. I’d say I’m surprised Potter’s girlfriend is stupid enough to believe it but, honestly, those Weasley’s never were all that bright.”

She crosses her arms, nearly wrapping them all the way around. “I’m certain I have no idea what it is that you think you know, but regardless I can promise you you’re wrong.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Oh please. That won’t work on me, Granger. I’ve seen your dirty little secret first hand. That mess of empty pain potion vials you drag downstairs every night makes a wonderfully distinct sound.”

She lurches forward and I stand automatically, my body poised for any potential threat, perceived or otherwise. “Shut up.”

“The truth hurts, doesn’t it? Not so easy to pretend when someone calls you on your bullshit.”

“Shut up! You don’t know anything about me.”

“Do they even work anymore? Or is it just another crutch? Merlin knows you could use one.” Cruelty is like air in my lungs. It moves me, animates me, keeps me alive. 

The distance between us shrinks as she stalks forward. “Does it make you feel better, being so horrible? Does it detract from the absolute mess you’ve made of things?”

One would think that the years would have made me better equipped to handle it when my own cruelty is thrown back in my face. In truth, I never took to learning my lesson. “Don’t you—”

“Poor little Malfoy, all alone without anyone and all you can do is bully me. That’s all you’ve ever been and all you’ll ever be: a bully. A lonely, sad, pathetic bully.” Despite our height difference, the weight of the glare she’s shooting up at me has a gravity onto itself.

“At least I know who I am, Granger. Better a monster than a liar.”

She laughs, sharp and cold. “Are you serious? You want to speak to me about honesty?” Her hand raises, gesturing at my bandaged arm. “When was the last time you looked at it, huh? You can’t even come to terms with what you’ve done. You lie to yourself every time you glance away.”

Anger builds within me, insistent against the weathered seams of my self-control. In that moment, I want nothing more than to crush her. Without a wand, or two working hands, or anything resembling bravery, though, I can’t. So instead, I dig my fingers into the book still held in my grasp. 

“Go on then,” her tone drops to nearly a whisper. “Do it. Call me a Mudblood. Save us both the time and effort of having to pretend that wasn’t where this conversation was going.”

“No.” If only because I hate being told what to do.

“Coward.”

“Liar.”

“You’re such a child, Malfoy. So petulant. So petty.” Granger steps back, though the hatred on her face stays the course. For a second she glances down and the edges of her mouth curl upwards in a cruel grin. “Justice Wargrave is the killer.”

“What are you…” I look down and my attention catches on the title. All at once I realize what she’s done. “Did you seriously—are you fucking serious? Did you just spoil the fucking ending?” It’s so ridiculous, so completely out of nowhere, that the rage boiling in my gut dies. “You’re mental.”

Her face is the picture of smug satisfaction. Without a word, she twirls on heel and marches back out of the living room, barely a hitch in her step. It’s all I can do just to stare, open-mouthed and silent, as she goes. If we were different people, devoid of our shared, hateful history, I’d probably be impressed.

“Your arm’s healed up quite nicely.” It’s the first attempt she’s ever made at small talk and my fork pauses in it’s journey to my mouth. 

“Right.”

“I think tonight will be your last treatment. It’s far enough along now that the salves and bandages are more hindrance than help.”

I glance downwards. “So, then what?”

“Pardon?” 

She is staring at me when I finally look back up at her. “What happens next?”

The noodles twirled around her fork sway as she considered my question. “I’ve done all I can do. In truth, there’s nothing much else left to be done.” I know this, of course, I’ve always known this. Still, if anyone could pull a miracle out of thin air. “I’m still not bringing you food anymore, though. I’m not your servant.”

“Perish the thought, Granger. You’d be a terrible servant.” 

Indignation settles on her face. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re too rude, for one. You lack even the most trite of social graces.” I lean back, letting myself disappear into the conversation. “And your cooking is a horror show.”

“I’m hardly privileged with ingredients here, Malfoy.”

“Clearly.”

“There are only so many ways to combine pasta, vegetables, and salt.”

“Oh, was there salt?”

The withering glare I receive is more prickle than puncture. “As if you’d know the first thing about cooking.”

“You weren’t the only one to get an Outstanding on their Potion’s O.W.L.’S, Granger.”

“Yes but of the two of us, I did markedly better.” She grins, ever so slightly, and it’s the first time she’s ever done anything other than grimace and glare at me. 

“And yet, this linguini is rubber and the sauce it’s bland prison.” I grin back and, if pressed, I’d lie and swear it’s insincere. 

Like all things that I once found to be stalwart, my Occlumency has begun to fail me. Up until this point, my nightmares were ephemeral and without enough substantial significance to matter. Lately, however, they’ve begun to take shape, and I find myself fumbling through horrific near-memories in the half-light of my subconscious. So many ugly things I’d carefully cataloged away for a date never to come are slowly rising to the surface and it seems I’m nearing the centerpoint of my capabilities as an Occlumens. Disappointing, to be sure, but hardly a surprise.

Regardless, my dreams are bloody, violent things that I cannot escape. So much mayhem and murder occurred within the manor’s ancient walls, what I’d mistaken for callous detachment was in fact just another wearied attempt at survival. It’s all coming back to haunt me now, and even the small solace I’d found in the shit room Granger has relegated me to isn’t enough.

So I do the sensible thing and avoid sleep entirely. 

The most unfortunate aspect though is without the numbness that comes with sleep, my hand, or rather, lack thereof, is nearly impossible to ignore. Thankfully, I guess, I’ve been supplied with a small collection of hideous knit jumpers to smother myself in. The sleeves are too long and, with careful movements, I can keep the entirety of my grim reminder tucked away out of sight and out of mind.

During my extended stay here in hell, I’ve comfortably mapped out our shared prison, and so, bereft of other activities, I’ve taken to sitting on the porch at night, indulging in the biting, icy wind. My Occlumency works best when I’m able to shut my mind off and staring forlornly out into the sea like a fool from one of Granger’s muggle novels is an excellent option. I imagine the boxes, labeled in what would be my Mother’s handwriting, had she the mental capacity to still put pen to parchment, arranged along rows of shelves in the metaphorical dungeon I’ve built for myself. They’re not particularly large, smaller than an average cauldron, but big enough to hold whatever sharp, painful thing I hid inside. The one marked ‘Massive Fuck Up Number 4’ is open before me and I’m carefully shoving inside any and all thoughts and feelings regarding my missing limb. The bottom keeps dropping out, however, beneath the weight of this mistake and I’m spending more time repairing the thing than actually using it. It’s tedious and gruesome but I’ve got fuck all else to do. 

This is how Granger finds me, staring blankly into the middle distance as I run the mental gambit necessary to function another day. It’s late, so late that it’s early, when she slips out the backdoor, two cups of tea in hand. Her presence shatters my careful concentration and I nearly scream at her. The frankly fucking pitiful look on her face holds me back, for some reason, and instead I just slide over along the wooden bench in silence. 

She offers me the mug—white, with the faded image of some fat man in an ill-fitting red outfit on the side—and I take it. It’s hot, wisps of steam curling slowly into the night air, but the sea breeze cools it soon enough. The fact that she brought me anything at all, that I crossed her mind in any capacity not totally drenched in hatred, is almost too much to bear.

“I always thought you lot would have won by now.” It takes me far too long to realize it’s my own voice I’m hearing. I’ve no fucking idea what possessed me to open my mouth, but it’s too late to swallow the confession now. She glances at me and I keep my eyes locked on the ocean.

“You sound almost disappointed by that.” 

Again, despite myself, I scoff. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’ve apparently defected; turned and ran like the coward everyone presumes me to be. Surely, such disappointment as that isn’t that unbelievable.” 

Granger sighs, weary with things I cannot name but feel all the same. “Honestly, I’d have thought it’d be over by now, too.” She takes a slow sip. “A childhood of rapid successes really set me up for disappointment.”

“Yes well, without Dumbledore—” Fuck, it’s been years since I’ve even allowed myself to think his name and Granger pulls it out of me without even trying. I trip over my own words in an attempt not to let loose the flood of emotion within me. “—without a seemingly endless parade of people in power stepping up to help you, it’s hard to keep that streak going.”

If she notices my fuck up, she has grace enough not to comment. It’s pity, surely, but I’m not in a position to beg, much as I wish I was. “I’d hardly call what he did as helpful.” There is so much bitterness in her voice it’s palpable. “Greatest Sorcerer in the World and he had 13 year olds fighting his battles.” I can't help myself when I stare at her. "What? Just because he's Harry's hero doesn't make him mine."

"I just assumed you and the wonder twins were of the same mind. Merlin knows you act like it." 

"It's that kind of reductive thinking that helped cause this war, you know."

"Oh please, as if you don't regard me with the same willful ignorance.”

Deliberate or otherwise, Granger sticks her fucking nose in the air. “I regard you exactly as your behavior dictates, Malfoy.” She sniffs. “And your track record is hideous.”

“I am nothing if not consistent.” I respond and instead of taking the bait, all she does is frown and turn away.

Silence blankets us and I let the calming chaos of the rolling waves pull me under. My thoughts are surprisingly quiet despite the less than ideal company and that sharp nagging at the back of my mind pulls back, ever so slightly. It’s not peaceful because I am incapable of such a dreadfully positive emotion, but it’s close. 

So, of course, I have to fuck it up.

“He’s grown desperate.” My entire fucking body is just one endless performance of betrayal, apparently. “I wasn’t privy to the specifics of his war efforts, despite what Moody thinks, but his moods were—uh—” I falter and I wonder if my carefully curated boxes are swelling at the seams. “—something we—something I was intimately familiar with.” Granger is looking fully at me now and the gravity of her gaze threatens to swallow me whole. It’s a landslide, a fucking force of nature and I am powerless to stop it as the words pour out of me like sea water off the glistening rocks. “At the time of my—departure his moods were particularly fucking shit.” Her mouth twists and her eyes widen and the pure fucking sympathy undos me. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Where I stored all that putrid weakness has emptied and left more than enough room for my oldest refuge: anger. “Like I’m some broken play thing for you to fix. I’m not one of your pathetic mates that you stitch back together every time they foolishly throw themselves into the line of fucking fire.”

Her face hardens but she is made of stronger stuff than to be so easily scared away. “I never thought you were.”

All I want is for her to scream at me, even the playing field, and her insistence to stay neutral only further enrages me. “I don’t want your fucking pity!”

“I’ve no pity left to give out, Malfoy.” She confesses. “I’m just trying to understand.”

“Why I left?”

“Why it took you so long.”

It strikes to close to the bruised center of it all, of me, and I snarl at her. “Don’t you dare to presume to know a fucking thing about me, Granger, I’m not Potter or your beloved Weasel. I don’t want your tender, stupid heart.” As if I’d know what to do with it. “I don’t want its concern, and worry. We aren’t mates, we aren’t friends, we aren’t anything other than what we’ve always been.”

She rankles, but barely. “Which is?”

What should come easily threatens to rend me from the inside out. Granger and her perfection, the ease with which she achieved things that I was told a muggle born never could, it burns me. It always has. When Harry Potter rejected my offer of friendship and chose hers instead, she became the symbol of unattainable desires for me and it pained me from then on to give her any shred of my attention. But I couldn’t let her alone, not when she was so perfect and arrogant. That was my role to play and she stole it from me. I’ve claimed to hate her for so long now that to realize I don’t, not like I used to, not like I technically should, pushes me nearly off the edge. A second passes in rapt silence as she stares at me expectantly. “Nothing,” I finally spit out. “We’ve always been nothing.” 

It’s not disappointment on her face, and yet I feel as though I’ve let us both down. “I’m not offering up my heart to you on a platter, Malfoy. I’m trying to make peace, lest these coming weeks and months become unbearable with this ugliness that lies between us.” At the promise of our endless cohabitation, my stomach rolls.

“What if I don’t want your peace, hmm? What then, Golden Girl?” 

“Then perhaps you are as I’ve always known you to be.” I wait for her assessment as if it will do anything other than sting. “An idiot boy who’d cut off his own nose, just to spite his face.”

“Fuck you.” I pull myself up, off the bench, out of her space. The empty mug perched precariously on my leg hits the deck and rolls away, cracked but unbroken. I have to get away from her; she’s too much, too perceptive, too fucking close.

“Aren’t you tired of pretending?” She throws it at me as I’m halfway to the door, keen eyes set perfectly on everything I don’t want her to see. 

It’s so much easier to hate her but I’ve never been good at making things simple for myself. “Aren’t you?” For one deliberate, careful moment I hold her stare. She is looking for something but I am empty inside, hollowed out for the purposes of self preservation and survival. There is nothing here that she needs, certainly nothing she wants and while she is dimmer now than she’s ever been before, there is still too much gilded about her to tarnish. I’ve always known the value of important things and Hermione Granger is one of them. In what capacity, in what selfish way that may be, I don’t yet know but if we spend much more time together, forced or otherwise, I fear I’ll have no choice but to find out.

End of Act One

Chapter Text

Chided by that silence of a hush sublime
Blind to the purpose of the brute divine
But you were mine
Staring in the blackness at some distant star
The thrill of knowing how alone we are, unknown we are
To the wild and to the both of us

Act Two

There has been a shift.

Where he was once a passing thought, Malfoy now occupies a small but continuous portion of my attention. His presence downstairs is reliable in a tenable, albeit annoying fashion that I was unaware I appreciated. Not him, mind you, but the realization that after nearly a year of just the wounded, often unconscious, for company, that there is suddenly a living, breathing person regularly within my eyeline is comforting. There is a human need to be around others, even if said other is a prickly, rude, and overall unpleasant person. In truth, I thought myself above so base a necessity but I am, as usual, a terrible judge of emotion.

The rhythm of my days is largely unchanged. Wake up with the dawn—assuming I’m lucky enough to have been asleep at all—spend several minutes stretching the warped muscles of my leg so they’re loose enough to function and head downstairs to enjoy a breakfast of yesterday’s tea and a stale roll of bread. From there, it’s housekeeping and potion maintenance with various levels of medical horror randomly interspersed. Eventually I have enough of a lull to make more pasta or reuse the same bone stock for another pot of stew and, once cooked enough to be considered edible, I drop myself into a rickety chair and eat in silence. 

Only now, there is another person, a pale shadow, who lurks at the edges of every activity. He spends nearly all of his time tucked into the living room, angled away from the door that leads into the kitchen. All I catch are glimpses of him throughout the day: a shock of platinum hair peeking above the top of the faded armchair; the soft shuffle of wool socks on the rock floor as he slinks from room to room; a hand so pale it’s translucent in the scattered sunlight propping up some old familiar book, the cover of which I can read from memorization alone. Before, he’d have come and gone from my attention whenever I wasn’t directly speaking to him and now, he’s there, always, like a drop of ink on an otherwise pristine blouse. Once I’m aware of it, it’s impossible to ignore and so, every now and again, it catches my eye, reminding me of it’s incongruent existence.

Four days have come and gone in between the late night conversation we had on the porch and now. In them, Malfoy has demonstrated enough self-preservation to eat one full meal a day—dinner—and does so nightly, sulking across the old wooden table from me, somehow managing to be sullen and arrogant at the same time. After the weirdness of his confessions that night and the implication that he’d willingly bare even the smallest sliver of himself to me, he pulled away utterly, not that we were anything past begrudgingly cordial to begin with. Aside from the bare minimum, we don’t speak to one another for the first three days. Oddly enough, whereas I’ve spent the last 11 and a half months going whole afternoons without speaking, I all of a sudden find the silence of the house too much to bear.

“How are you finding Frankenstein?” I inquire halfway through our meal on that fourth day. 

Malfoy narrows his eyes at me from over the rim of his glass, pausing mid-drink. “Why? Gonna spoil that one too, Granger?”

“Depends. Are you going to be a prat?”

“According to you, I’m always a prat,” he counters. 

“True,” I concede. “Are you going to be a git, then?”

“Of course.” The conversation dies an ungraceful death and I forbid myself from trying again. I will not seem desperate enough to actively seek out his—“Is it true?”

“Frankenstein?”

“Yeah.”

The perfect opportunity to snub him for being an idiot lays itself brazenly at my feet and I ignore it. “No. It’s just a story, part of a genre of novels that muggles refer to as Science-Fiction.”

“I figured as much.”

“What gave it away? The whole ‘bringing a grotesque monster stitched together out of random body parts to life using just lightning’ aspect?”

“Hardly,” he sniffs. “That just sounds like Transfiguration with more steps.”

“Well it’s no wonder why you failed Transfiguration, then. That’s alchemy.”

“I can see why you like it,” he continues on, barreling right over my jab. “Frankenstein is just as insufferable as you.”

“Me? Oh honestly Malfoy, you’re the Victor Frankenstein here, not me.”

“You’re the one playing mad scientist.”

“I’m a Healer, not an ill-informed, egotistical aristocrat pretending to be god.”

“I fail to see the difference,” he drawls 

“Admitting defeat so easily, Malfoy?” We stare at one another from across the table. “Fine, if I’m the good doctor Frankenstein, what does that make you?”

“Right.”

“You’re insufferable,” I admonish. “Who's the grotesque monster?”

“Moody,” he replies immediately and, despite it all, I laugh. Malfoy raises his glass and, even though it obscures his face, I’m certain he grins.

“I give up,” I declare, tossing the parchment down onto the table beside the cauldron. “It’s impossible.” My latest failed batch of Shield potion bubbles up at me in mockery. I’d spent the last few days babysitting it, meticulously stirring and adjusting the temperature, ensuring each ingredient was perfectly cut and used and still, it has failed.

With a huff, unable to stand even being in the same room as the wretched reminder of my current disappointment, I shuffle through the doorway and collapse on the couch. Fingers pinching the bridge of my nose just this side of too hard, I walk myself through the usual breathing exercises required to get my emotions under control. Or at least I try to until Malfoy interrupts. 

"Giving up already, Granger?" A cruel chuckle. "Pathetic."

"Shut up," I snap, trying to muster up the strength to open my eyes. "Speaking to things you know nothing about is in bad form." 

"As if my reputation has ever been a primary concern of mine."

"It was once, if your behavior in school was anything to go by." Things between us have been civil since our conversation regarding Frankenstein, if one defines civil as only having every other conversation descend into a screaming match. We don't talk for long, generally just over dinner. I'm not of the conviction that I regret being so honest with him in my desire for us to get along for the sake of a tolerable living situation, but I do feel a tad foolish. Malfoy is hardly friendly, let alone kind, and everytime I extend the proverbial olive branch, I can't help but feel slightly vulnerable. Perhaps this insecurity, coupled with my frustration with the Shield potion, is why I am so immediately hostile towards him. "Not that you were ever very successful." 

"Yes well I recall you being less pathetic. Still a right bitch, though," he says acerbically. 

"Mudblood, you mean," I retort, finally finding the will to glare at him. Unfortunately, he's unable to appreciate my stellar withering look because he's still angled away from me, facing the front window. 

I watch his shoulders shrug in disinterest. "Your words, not mine."

I was never particularly skilled at verbal banter, possessing a penchant for academic intelligence not social cleverness and so I stay silent. The quiet swells through the emptiness in the room as the ancient clock ticks rhythmically, maddeningly. 

"What the fuck are you even trying to brew? It smells rank," he eventually asks. I never knew Malfoy to be a curious person but truthfully I've never known Malfoy to be much of a person at all. 

I drag a hand down my face, chasing the action with a sigh. "An Enduring Shield potion." 

He finally looks at me, twisting his upper half out of the chair. "That's impossible."

"No, it's not. It's just tremendously difficult."

"Its difficult because it's fucking impossible."

I lean forward, gesturing. "The second law of Potioneering states that a potion's effects can only last as long–" 

"As the strength of the brewer in conjunction with the specific ingredients used to potentiate the potion allow. I know the fundamentals of fucking potioneering, Granger. We took the same classes."

"Then you know that Libatius Borage has made the claim—several times in several publications—that the laws are antiquated and fail to take the advancements of the field into consideration."

Malfoy scoffs. "Borage is a loudmouthed simpleton." 

"Don't just parrot Snape's beliefs, Malfoy." He sneers slightly but I carry on. "I'm fully aware of his feelings regarding Borage, Harry has a textbook full of them." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

My thoughts immediately drift to sixth year and the curse Harry nearly killed Malfoy with. Despite the fact that he was defending himself against an Unforgivable, the guilt Harry felt over what he'd nearly done almost ate him alive. The Half-Blood Prince's copy of the book is probably still hidden within the Room of Requirement and not for the first time I privately wish we still had access to it. He may be horrible and cruel, but I cannot deny Snape's skill as a potioneer. 

"Harry found Snape's copy of Borage's Advanced Potion Making in sixth year." It feels unwise to bring up the Sectumsempra ordeal so I say nothing more. "Regardless of his….shortcomings, Borage was right."

Malfoy narrows his eyes, searching my face for whatever it is I'm not saying. When I refuse to break beneath his scrutiny, he carries on. "What proof could you possibly have?" 

"I was able to—briefly—get the Enduring Shield potion to work by reverse engineering one of the basic healing recipes using the guidelines Borage laid out in one of his later papers."

"Briefly?" 

"It lasted nearly a minute," I confess and Malfoy's smirk is the picture of smug arrogance. "That's an impressive achievement!" 

"But a useless one. What good does a minute do?" 

"Keeps them alive for just that much longer!" I snap and he looks positively smug with his discovery. 

"There it is."

"What?" I ask, as if I don't already know. 

"Your predictable bleeding heart. You're such a control freak, you're trying to rewrite the fundamental nature of potion brewing just to protect those sycophantic idiots you call friends." 

I flinch as if slapped. "Kindness is not a weakness, Malfoy." 

"Who said anything about kindness? This is just your hubris masquerading as selflessness," he replies and it's horrible. He's horrible.

I need to change the subject, lest he make this unraveling of my deliberate cocoon a habit. "The magical science is sound. The shield spell-" 

"Is a fucking spell, Granger. You know as well as I that spells and potions aren't interchangeable."

"But they can be! It's possible!" 

"So is anything, everything, if you're deranged enough. Look at you, you're neurotic enough to think you're any semblance of functioning."

I will not sit here and endure his violence. "And you're delusional enough to pretend like you're not one more reminder of your missing hand away from a total mental breakdown."

Malfoy stands and I stand with him. "Go drown yourself in some more fucking pain potions, Granger. Maybe then you'll be able to withstand your own pathetic existence," he snarls. 

"How's the Occlusion going, Malfoy? I'd be careful. Anymore denial and you're going to avoid yourself right off the deep end."

We step across the divide, less than a foot apart. "It'll never fucking work." 

"No," I deliberately look down at his left arm. "It won't." 

I don't see him for the next two days and when he finally slinks down for dinner, it takes us another two to be far enough away from the wound to no longer bloody ourselves in an effort to speak. 

"Have you tried Doxy Eggs?" 

"Because of their usage in the Girding Potion?" 

"Obviously." 

"Of course I have." 

"Using what preparation method?" 

"Raw and toasted. I've been considering boiling them, although that will probably affect their potency."

"What about rotten ones?" 

"They'll be too degraded to use at that point, won't they?" 

"Not if you suspend them in Dittany right at the point of going bad." 

"To what end?" 

"Doxy Eggs are an energy source first and a reagent second."

"Naturally."

"Letting them rot will undercut their energy capabilities, but if you marinate them in the Dittany, it should allow the reagent aspects to grow in potency." 

"I—thank you. That's—that's an excellent suggestion."

"Don't act so surprised, Granger. An Outstanding, remember?" 

"Yes, yes, so you keep telling me." 

The Doxy Eggs extend the next batch by an average of ten seconds and when I tell him, he's intolerably smug for the rest of the day. 

It's easy to pretend that we aren't at war when my clinic is devoid of patients bleeding out at regular intervals. These periods of calm allow me to breathe, spend time restocking our stores of potions and work on my pet project. I'm able to properly tend to the sorry half-dead herb garden struggling to bloom outside and employ some clever spell work to extend the life of our food stores. Malfoy's presence doesn't really impact these pockets of stillness, but more importantly, he doesn't ruin them. In short, these quiet days are nice, but they're also deceptive and I'm reminded of that when Moody comes popping into my kitchen without warning. 

"M-Moody!" I startle, jumping to my feet and knocking over my glass of water in the process. His eye follows the mess as it streams over the edge into a puddle on the floor before looking up at me, saying nothing. "Are you here for Malfoy?" 

"I am." 

"He's already in the living room." Moody nods in response and, as he lumbers away, I have a fleeting moment of guilt that I can't warn Malfoy of his approach. The distinct sounds of the door closing are all I hear before the house is still once more. I Vanish the spilled water and go back to pruning the withered Hemlock, waiting for Harry's inevitable appearance. 

"Hey," he says after finally Apparating and slides a small wrapped parcel across the table towards me. I tap it with my wand, watching the latest package of food and ingredients unshrink. It’s small, light, disappointing. Harry grimaces. "The last week has been a rough one. We had to send Percy on a scouting mission and it ate into his supply run time.”

“He went out? What about his wand?”

Harry shrugs and sits beside me. “George is still missing and Percy volunteered to go in his place.” Percy’s guilt and endless pursuit of atonement were a sore spot between us and Ron. Harry and I were both of the belief that now wasn’t the time for holding grudges, especially since the Weasley family was already in a near constant state of mourning. They’d lost Fred and Arthur two years ago in a disastrous attempt to raid Malfoy Manor. Ron, though, found strength in anger and let his fury at Percy’s prior siding with the Ministry help maintain that.

“How’d the scouting go?”

“It’s…fine. It went fine.” The worst part of our mutual lying is the silent acceptance of it. Of everyone, Harry is the most aware of my lack of improvement. In turn, I know fully how frequently he twists failures into missed opportunities or outright withholds information I’d find concerning. I hate it but when it comes to Harry, I’ve always been weak. “How’re things here?”

We both know he’s talking about Malfoy. “Fine. Uneventful, as usual.”

“Uneventful is a good thing though, isn’t it? Means less work for you.”

“Yes but it’s not as if I’m otherwise bursting at the seams with things to do,” I say. “There’s not much in the way of options for hobbies here.”

Harry gestures at the living room. “You could read. You’ve got all those books.”

“Books I’ve had since childhood. I’ve carted them around for ages, you know this. Besides, they’re generally being read by Malfoy and the last thing I want—”

“Malfoy reads?” Harry interrupts. 

“When he’s not trying to kill himself, sure.” I think it’s supposed to be a joke, although I can’t know for sure despite having been the one who said it. Concern colors Harry’s features. “I’m joking.”

“Right.”

“But anyway, yes, Malfoy reads. He’s gone through about a quarter of the pitiful library we’ve got, if my estimations are correct.” They are. 

Unfortunately, this doesn’t seem to placate him. “But…they’re nearly all muggle books, aren’t they?”

I nod. “Just about, yes.”

“And Malfoy is reading them, these muggle books.”

“Odd, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

“Why?” he asks, as if I’ve any idea into the machinations of Malfoy’s brain.

“If I had to surmise, I’d assume it’s because there’s literally nothing else to do.” I fidget with the ingredients spread before me. “Although, in their defense, they are excellent books.”

Harry makes a joke about my reading habits and we smile at one another and we pretend, in silent agreement, that for a moment, everything is okay. A few more minutes of friendly conversation carry us through this nice little fabrication until he freezes halfway through a sentence to dig something small and golden out of his pocket.

It’s a coin, enchanted with the Protean Charm. Despite being far removed from the simplicity of Dumbledore’s Army—an irony not lost on me in the slightest—we and therefore the Order have maintained their usage. The first few months of the war, after what would have been our seventh year ended, I’d spent many a night charming dozens of coins that were then distributed out to the other members. For a time, I even had the Master Coin, as it was my responsibility to summon and deploy people as Moody saw fit. And when he sent me here, he took it back. 

“What’s wrong?”

Harry stares at the small round object, mouthing along to the words as they reveal themselves to him. It’s in code, of course, because I had to assume that Malfoy—having stolen the idea once before—would have passed on such information to the Death Eaters and we couldn’t risk one of them being discovered. “It’s from Luna.” I’ve always wondered who took my place and I think I’ve just found out. It’s a bitter, cruel sting that I’m relieved it’s not Ginny.

“Is everything—” 

“We need to go.” Harry jumps to his feet and pulls the living room door open, breaking the Silencing charm and setting loose a cavalcade of yelling.

“Where is she!? It’s been weeks! You incompetent fucking asshole.” Malfoy’s voice carries through the house, the severity of it bouncing off the faded walls.

“Mr. Malfoy I already—Potter?”

I quickly follow Harry, peering around his tall frame to where Moody sits, staring away from Malfoy as he towers over him. 

“Luna’s summoning us.”

“The object?”

“Yes.” 

It’s like hearing your favorite poem spoken in a different language. You feel as if you should know the words, the meter and rhythm are identical, but the meaning is lost. It slips through your fingers like sand, leaving something hateful and envious in its place. 

Moody stands. “We’ll finish this later, Mr. Malfoy.” 

I lean towards Harry automatically to hug him but he twists away into nothingness without so much as a goodbye. Our intrepid leader follows suit, leaving me alone with my rejection and Malfoy’s anger.

“What the fuck was that about?” he asks.

“I wish I knew.” 

That wish festers, reopening an old wound I was sure I’d forced shut. It resets me, loops me back to the first month I spent here, pacing, kept afloat through anxious worry. My need to control things isn’t a desirable trait, but it’s yet to fail me when the situation turns dire, and it’s not as if I can just turn that part of myself off at will. It took weeks of deliberate refocusing and dozens of pain potions to feel less like a caged beast. And all at once the bars break and I’m untethered. 

Pacing is my default reaction and having a twisted mass of scar tissue where my upper thigh used to be won’t stop that. I walk the length of the kitchen table for the next few hours, trying to bludgeon my anxiety back into its prison but it’s no use. I hate not knowing what is going on. To go from the arbiter of intel and information to a secondary afterthought somewhere along the North Sea is in direct opposition to the fabric of my being. It’s a large part of why Harry keeps me in the dark on things he’d otherwise be able to tell me. The not-knowing is painful but the half-knowing is agony.

When they return, a day and a half later, I’ve run myself ragged with racing thoughts and have to quickly consume two pain potions back to back before breakfast just to look presentable. Unfortunately, their timing is off and Malfoy is mid-shower when they arrive. I half expect them to just leave but to my mild horror, Moody sits down at the table with Harry and I to wait.

“Is everything alright?” I don’t want to ask, but I feel as though my nerves will eat me alive if I don’t.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Moody responds.

“Because of yesterday, and Luna’s message?” I can see how badly Harry wants to say something but he wouldn’t dare, not in front of his reigning father figure.

“There is nothing of note you need to concern yourself with, Ms. Granger.”

“But what object were you talking about?” I direct it at Harry, desperate for even a sliver of information. “Is it the diadem?” Moody gives me a cold look but in truth, there’s not much he can actually do to me. He’s already forced me out of a war I was at the inception of and locked me away from all that I hold dear. Aside from my intelligence, I’ve little left to lose. 

“No.” There is no elaboration.

Still, I’ve never been good at stopping while ahead. “What about Narcissa?” Truthfully, it’s the first topic that comes to mind. If he won’t tell me about the incident the day before, perhaps I can at least learn something useful. 

“As I told Mr. Malfoy yesterday, and at every meeting prior, there is no change.”

“Why?”

“We cannot rescue her at this present time, given her current location.”

“Which is?”

“Not your concern.”

It’s unsatisfying, as most conversations with Moody are. It’s also insulting. My lack of sleep and sudden degradation into the Hermione I was a year ago has me on edge, short tempered, absolutely indignant. “I thought it was our duty to help those in need?” Never in my life have I considered the safety of Narcissa Malfoy but this subject is a foothold for a much more important conversation. A foothold that I categorically refuse to surrender.

Harry looks horrified. “We do help—”

“Our duty, Ms. Granger, is to kill Tom Riddle. That is the reason the Order exists, the reason we’ve fought this hard, for this long.” And, for an extra twist of the knife: “the reason we’ve lost all those that we have.”

“Don’t speak to me of loss, Moody!” I snap. “I know all too well what’s been sacrificed for this war. But killing Tom isn’t our only goal; it’s the endgame. In the interim, we should do all we can to help whoever is in need.”

“And what, pray-tell, makes you think that Narcissa Malfoy is in need? Why are you of the opinion that she is not precisely where she wishes to be?” he counters.

“Because Malfoy—”

“Draco Malfoy is a petulant boy used to getting his way. Has he told you he has no memory of how he got here?”

“I—”

“Or that he never even wanted to be here in the first place? Has he ever, in your life, been someone whose safety mattered to you?"

"He's—" 

"No, Ms. Granger, he hasn't. So don't pretend you're worried about his mother when the truth is something far less noble."

His words wound so deeply I'm nearly stunned to silence. Nearly. "And whose fault is that? Who's responsible for turning me into this person? I've done everything you've asked of me the last three years Moody. I was every bit the weaponized symbol you needed me to be. I've killed people at your command. If my morality isn't what it used to be, then it's on your orders."

"We all pay the same price in war, Ms. Granger, it just looks different from the outside." He proselytizes. 

"You've killed someone?" Harry half whispers and I cannot bring myself to look at him. The salt of my tears stings my eyes, but I hold fast. 

"I am what you made me to be." My hands tremble as I stand, perfectly in sync with my voice. 

"No, you are what you've allowed yourself to become."

A sob rips it's way out of my throat and I lurch away from the table. As I turn to the stairs, needing out of this corner I've backed myself into, Malfoy is there, hovering at the bottom step. Our eyes meet and my already tense stomach tightens in preparation for whatever cruel barb hangs at the tip of his tongue. 

"Say something then!" I scream when he doesn't. "I dare you." He stays silent, rigid with discomfort. My heart wrenches and I shove past him before he can see me cry. 

After an acceptable amount of days have passed, they send Ginny to come check up on me, as if she's the first person I'd run to for comfort. Better than Ron, I suppose. 

"Hermione?" She calls. 

 "In here."

She walks into the room, stepping lightly as if the very ground around me is dangerous. "There you are. "I'm where I always am, bent over some cauldron, failing to make this damned potion work.

"Hi." I feel too tender, like a bruise that has yet to form. Still, when she is close enough, I reach and we embrace. It's quick, careful, and over too soon. "Did Harry send you?" 

"He's worried about you."

"So why isn't he here?" It sounds callous and her flinch confirms it. I rub my forehead and try again. "Sorry. That's not what I meant."

"I know." Embraces and lies, these are the only constants. "He's running drills today but he wanted to make sure you're feeling better." 

“I am.” As if there is any other way I can answer her question. “It was just…a bad day, that’s all. I’m doing much better.”

Ginny does not look swayed. “Hermione, you can be honest with me. It’s okay if you’re not alright.” She holds tight to my forearms and the concern in her eyes nearly pushes me over the edge. All of a sudden the desire to open myself up and tell her everything is so strong it threatens to suffocate me from the inside out. I want nothing more than to do as she asks, to rip off the bandage and air out the wound. In my moments of hesitation, though, too much time passes and the urge weakens. 

“I’m getting better, really. It’s a work in progress and sometimes I–I struggle.” The words come out stilted, fighting me at every syllable, but I push forward.

“And you take a pain potion?”

“Yes. What? No. That’s not—I mean I struggle emotionally, mentally.”

“So you aren’t still taking the potions?”

I pull away, shaking my head. She’s not getting it, just like I thought she wouldn’t. “Ginny, this isn’t—”

“They’re not good for you, Hermione. You know this. You lectured me on the dangers of abusing pain potions,” she points out. “Don’t think I’m not above lecturing you back.” There is mirth in her voice as if it helps soften the blow. 

A sigh, heavy in the way my heart feels, allows me to stall long enough to re-submerge the truth once more. “I know you aren’t, and I appreciate it.”

“You—”

“Well, well, look who it is.” Malfoy comes strolling into the kitchen, jagged features pinched into his usual sneer. “Ginny Weasley, Potter’s little girlfriend.” 

Ginny stiffens, glaring at him. “Draco Malfoy. Still a fucking ferret, I see.”

“And you’re still a pathetic Weasel.”

“Heard you were injured.” She folds her arms across her chest. “How’s the hand?” I immediately look to Malfoy, bracing myself for his inevitable descent into anger only it never comes. Instead, there is a flash of clouding in his gray eyes.

“Lovely. How’s the war?”

“Fuck off.”

“Charming.” He sniffs and looks expectantly at me. “It’s dinner time, Granger.”

I wasn’t expecting him, in any capacity, and for a moment all I can do is blink. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t apologize, you’re only human. Still, I’d get to it, if I was you.” 

“Are you joking?” All he does in response is raise one pale, thin eyebrow. “You hate my cooking.”

“Of course I do, it’s dreadful. But, you insist on my continued good health and so, I insist you feed me.”

“I’m sorry, have I somehow miscommunicated to you that I’m at your service?” 

“Must have been all that worrying over my wounds.”

He’s aloof and trying very hard to be the person he was when we were fifteen. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m hungry, did I not make that clear enough?”

“Some things never change, apparently.” Ginny interjects, her stare not quite withering enough to work. “Once a whiny little shit, always a whiny little shit.”

“Keep talking, She-Weasel, but no amount of posturing will pull you out of Granger’s shadow.” The thread of real anger running through his words tells me exactly what he’s done with his reaction to her initial insult. 

Unfortunately, I am too taken aback at the implications of his words to challenge them, allowing Ginny the space to step in. “Excuse me?” She is as indignant as I should be.

“The truth is an ugly thing, isn’t it?”

“The only ugly thing here is you, Malfoy. You’re just spiteful and cruel because that’s all you have left. You’ve got no goons here to boss around and belittle.” She steps around me, marching up to where he towers, a pale pillar of arrogance. “In fact, last I checked, they’d chosen the company of a madman over yours. Hurts, doesn’t it, realizing how alone and unloved you really are.” Despite the glaring difference in heights, she sticks her face in his. “Pathetic.”

For a second, I’m afraid he’ll hit her and I won’t be fast enough to stop it. Instead: “It’s easy to be a self-righteous cunt when yours is kept wet and ready at Saint Potter’s beck and call.” I shove myself between them before her fist makes contact, and the blow glances off my shoulder. It hurts, but it’s preferable to what I’d prevented.

“Stop.” 

“Hermione—” She squirms around me as Malfoy steps back to lean comfortably against the door frame, his mask a still lake of cold indifference.

“Stop,” I repeat, and my wretched leg nearly gives beneath her efforts to get to him. 

“I’m going to kill him—”

“Malfoy, leave.” He turns on me, and sneers like the child he’s pretending to be, saying nothing. “ Leave.” I focus the sumtotal of my remaining energy into the glare I pin him with. It strikes true and, with an ugly scoff, he smirks at Ginny before disappearing from the room.

For her part, the moment he’s gone, she pushes away from me, furious. “I can’t believe you didn’t defend me.” I’m the only thing left for her to throw her anger at, and so I bear it like I bear everything else my loved ones hurl at my feet.

“It’s useless. You said it yourself, he’s just the same as he always was. Fighting with him at Hogwarts didn’t work, why would it be any different now?”

Her chest is heaving and she grips her wand for stability. I hadn’t even realized she’d drawn it. “You don’t think that, do you?”

“That fighting with him doesn’t work?”

“That I’m stuck in your shadow.”

“Ginny.” I cradle her shaking hands in my own and I lie straight to her face. “Never.”

“What is wrong with you?” I slam Malfoy’s door open, not even bothering to knock.

He’s wedged himself onto the window sill and flinches when the knob makes contact with the wall. “Well that was rude,” he drawls.

“Rude? I’m rude? What about you! What was that down there?”

With measured disinterest, he lulls his head around to look at me. “She started it.” The petulance in his voice is so rehearsed it's embarrassing for us both.

“What are you, twelve?”

“In her eyes? Absolutely.” Malfoy turns back to the window, and the mess of trees beyond it. “Her opinion of me doesn’t fucking matter, anyway. Why should I bother changing it?”

I throw my hands up. “Her opinion does matter! It matters to Harry, which in turn means it will matter to Moody.” 

He shrugs.

“I told you to make a decision, Malfoy, and you did. So stick to it.”

“Getting in a row with Ginny fucking Weasley is hardly an act of self sabotage, Granger.”

“In fifth year, maybe. Not now, not anymore. If you push back hard enough, my opinion won’t be enough to stop Moody from throwing you to the wolves.” 

His head turns back, gray eyes snapping to mine. “Are you saying you’d defend me against your little friends?” There is poison on every syllable and the stress of the last few days betrays me.

“I’m saying that, if I ever had to, it wouldn’t matter.”

“Merlin, you’ve well and truly lost it.” 

“You’d be so lucky.”

He sniffs, trying to detach himself. “I’m unlucky as a matter of pride, thank you very much.” 

“Damn your pride. You can’t speak to her that way.”

“Oh what? You’ll keep yelling, maybe spoil another one of your precious books as payback?”

“Why is punishment the only motivation you understand?” It comes out in a rush and in the ensuing silence, I accept the dark look he gives me without complaint. 

“Fine.”

“Good.”

It doesn’t occur to me until later, once we’ve sat through a tense meal and retired back to our rooms, that it was nowhere near our usual dinner time when he interrupted my conversation with Ginny. In fact, he had never up until that point asked me for anything, least of all food. I ruminate on the purpose of his decision to instigate her and come to the unlikely if not downright impossible conclusion that maybe, just maybe, he was doing it for me. Why, I’ve no idea—it’s not as if I can do anything of value for him—but the mere concept of such a massive deviation in his usual behavior is baffling. It speaks of things I can’t yet conceive and leads to somewhere I can’t yet wish to visit. So instead I bury the thought, like I bury most things that threaten to upset my careful equilibrium, and carry on.

Chapter Text

Proximity is a dangerous, insidious thing. The constant exposure to thoughts and feelings otherwise avoided degrades a lifetime of self-understanding at remarkable speed. I've known the value of solitude for so long now it's a near physical agony to suddenly be without it. No matter how far I retreat into my cramped room or crowded mind, the life signs of my unwanted roommate permeate the barrier. The clatter of dishes in the sink, the gods awful scent of her impossible potion, the quiet echo of her wrenching sobs half buried beneath the crash of the shower. I know her now, in a way I've never known another.

This vile intimacy is a punishment unto itself. Up until now, the only thing I was intimate with was the undercurrent of misery that became my life. Now, it's a shared suffering; an unwanted thread slowly tethering us together. It's been well over two months here, if my half-hearted attempts at time keeping are correct. The sum total of every interaction we had in school doesn't equal a fourth of the time we've spent here, together, a line of careful encounters drawn between us. We walk it daily, an ocean of bad blood on either side that is one slip of the tongue away from rising up and drowning us. 

With this proximity, however, comes one brilliant positive: I have begun to learn all kinds of fascinating, deliciously private facts about Granger and the Order at large. Like that the fucking Golden Girl has killed someone . Multiple someone's, possibly. Such a revelation was so shocking it almost completely drove her inquiries into my Mother's location out of my mind. Almost but not quite. 

It bothers me for days. Especially Moody's implication that she's using it to her advantage somehow. It makes no sense, but I'm undoubtedly missing a few pieces. Still, her reasoning is secondary to me because if I can use this to my potential advantage, I absolutely will. Which means that I'll need to slither my way into her good graces. It makes my stomach wrench just thinking about it, but survival has always been the goal, even if I’ve strayed from the path on certain dark occasions. In this, I can no longer falter. Not now. Not here, with these fucking self-righteous sycophants and her. Never with her. 

I must make myself indispensable to Hermione Granger. 

It's as if she somehow knows this because all at once, she begins to carefully and deliberately avoid me. To be honest, it's an impressive feat considering our cramped living situation and lack of secondary locations. I can't help but wonder if my less than subtle attempts to 'rescue' her from the She-weasel's bleating has clued her in, but it's too late now. 

Eventually, I must once again go to her. 

"Why a potion?" I inquire during dinner. Beef stew, of course. Third fucking time this week. My entire inheritance for some bloody pork. 

"Pardon?" Granger doesn't even bother looking up, she's so wrapped up with writing in that weird muggle parchment book she's always carting around. 

"Why are you trying to turn the Shield spell into a potion?" 

"Because the spell must be recast every time it's needed and that casting wastes precious seconds that could be used deflecting a curse or sending a hex back." 

"Surely you realize that there's a reason it's never been repurposed as a potion." 

She finally looks at me, her expression pinched. "Just because no one has bothered to give it a proper effort doesn't make it a complete impossibility." 

I wonder if she's aware of how indignant she sounds. "And because you’re such an insufferable know-it-all, you’re one hundred percent sure no one has?”

“My research into the subject has yet to prove me wrong in that regard.”

I glance beyond her, to where the shelves of books are. “What research? Last I checked Jane Austen wasn’t a potioneer.”

“You read Pride and Prejudice ?” She seems genuinely shocked.

“No. It sounds droll and overly romantic.”

“It’s a romance novel, Malfoy, it’s supposed to be romantic.”

“So the droll aspect is just for fun, is it?” 

Granger rolls her eyes and goes back to her incessant writing, not even bothering to contradict me. I watch her for a time, trying to reshape my usual hostility into something passably friendly. It’s difficult seeing as I still mostly loathe her but as she once said, no half measures. 

“You’re staring.”

I grow warm, grateful most of my neck is wrapped in an itchy wool jumper. “I’m trying to read what it is you’re always writing.”

“If I wanted you to be able to read it, I wouldn’t make such an effort to the contrary,” she points out.

“How am I supposed to help you on your impossible quest to rewrite the laws of potioneering if you don’t keep me up to date on your failures?” Again, she looks up at me, her expression searching. My Occlusion has been woefully unreliable as of late but I’ve been practicing in the mirror for just this moment. I need her as an ally, regardless of how dreadful the concept is, and I must be convincing in my sincerity. 

“I don’t recall asking you for help, Malfoy.”

“That’s because you’re incapable of asking for help.”

Granger lets out an undignified snort. “You’re hardly one to talk. You’d rather die, quite literally, than ask for my help.”

It’s uncomfortable knowing that she’s so adept at figuring me out. Since when was she an expert in body language? Surely I’m not that obvious. “Perhaps I just find your help grating?”

“Well then perhaps I find yours just as awful.”

“My Doxy Eggs suggestion worked, didn’t it?” It’s an objective fact, whereas up until this point I’d been trying at emotional manipulation and I hoping it worked.

She rolls the weird muggle quill-like device between her fingers, running one of her jagged fingernails down its length. So much of what she doesn’t want to say is betrayed in the ministrations of her careful hands. The fact that I carry this observation around with me, that it lives unwanted in my brain, is exactly why I must use her to find my mother. Once the Order rescues her from whatever hell the Dark Lord has her in, we’ll leave. We’ll escape to parts unknown and I’ll leave this archaic cottage and insufferable woman behind, letting them vanish into distant memory.

“Doxy Eggs were on my list of possible ingredients to try. I would have figured it out eventually.”

I lean back, crossing my mostly intact arms over my chest. “Oh I’m sure you would have. If only time wasn’t constantly and persistently of the essence, hmm?”

“Well maybe if I spent less time getting roped into pointless arguments by you, I’d actually get work done,” she snaps.

“I don’t rope you into anything, Granger, you’re just obnoxiously antagonistic and very, very easy to bother.”

She pushes the mostly empty bowl of stew to the side and leans forward. “That’s a halfway decent excuse you’ve got there, Malfoy. I don’t believe it, of course, but an O for Outstanding all the same.”

The conversation has drifted off my carefully planned course and I am struggling to wrest it back into place. “An excuse for what?”

“You’re just as miserable as I am and furthermore, you can’t successfully pretend for a single second that it’s not slightly less horrible here with someone to talk to.” Arrogance looks so fitting upon her face, it’s a wonder she’s not a Pureblood. All the innate talent and ancestral pride and it’s wasted on her. At least by our society’s definition. 

Unfortunately, my private ruminations on her nature do little to help me regain control of the situation and my emotions. Fucking Occlusion, it’s more a bane than a boon at this point. “You think far too highly of yourself, Granger. Your company is nothing but another punishment to endure.”

I want it to hurt, but if it stings, she’s doing an excellent job of keeping it hidden. “And yet, you seek it out.”

“There are only so many rooms in this shithole. It’s inevitable I’d wind up in the same one as you.”

Granger laughs, short and mercurial. “You’re a bad liar, Malfoy.”

I parrot her little laugh right back. “And you’re a worse one.”

“According to you.”

“My opinion is the only one worth noting, I assure you.”

“Oh yes because I’ve put such stock in your opinion of me before.” All of a sudden, she stands and the dishes rattle atop the table. “I’m not sure what it is you’re trying to do, but it’s not going to work. I’m not a child anymore, you can’t bully me into doing what you want.”

“Are you always this fucking suspicious?"

"Of someone who made it his life's mission to make me as miserable as possible? Of someone who was, up until three months ago, someone I'd have had to kill on the battlefield lest he kill me first?" There is this incomprehensible pull to her anger that I find the lesser parts of me chasing after. "Yes. So spare me your judgment for not immediately trusting your motivations."

Perhaps instead of polar opposites at extreme ends of the same spectrum, we're just a set of mirrors, echoing back the same vitriolic expressions again and again. "What possible motivation could I have, Granger? It's not as if I'm a fucking threat to you anymore." 

"How stupid you must be to think you ever were." 

I've never been good at subterfuge. This shortcoming was one of the myriad reasons why my mission to kill Dumbledore fell apart like it did. I grew up spoiled to the point of becoming rotten, apparently, and this supposed weakness did not lend itself to being subtle. Why would I ever play games when I could just demand of others whatever it is that I wanted? Crabbe and Goyle, the witless goons that they were, were under my complete control up until I fucked everything up. Same with my parents, before dear old daddy decided to prostrate himself at the feet of a monster. 

I've never had to beg or manipulate or sneak around. Such pedestrian behavior was beneath me, something for servants and sycophants. Of course, when school ended, and we played permanent hosts to the Dark Lord and his army of night terrors, I learned the value of being unseen. Going unnoticed is a vastly different beast than reshaping myself into a person I'm not and I am coming to understand this intimately as Granger again and again refuses to engage. 

And then Potter shows up and she leads him outside, away from my prying eyes and ears, and suddenly there is a shift. A distortion to her as up until now suspicious and secretive nature. The Saint leaves and that night, Hermione Granger pulls me, just ever so slightly, into the tide of her confidence. 

"So what would you do, then? If you were to turn the Shield spell into a potion?" 

"Give up," I say immediately. When she glares at me from her perch on the couch, I reel in my tendency to needle her. "I suppose I'd first figure out exactly what effect I am trying to mimic."

"I am trying to manifest a sort of overshield."

"Like a cloak?" 

"Partly," she explains. "More like a suit. I want it to provide total cover from all angles."

"Merlin Granger, why not just shoot for total invincibility?" 

"I am perfectly aware of the limitations I face, Malfoy."

"Are you? Because honestly, the more you reveal, the more mental this entire thing sounds."

"If you're not going to help then just stop bothering me about it." She goes to leave. 

"Wait. Gods, you're sensitive."

"Malfoy-" 

"Please tell me you at least accept that this potion cannot last for very long."

This draws her back in and she slowly settles back on the couch. “Of course I am. Although, duration is one of the major hurdles I’m trying to overcome.” Deft fingers flip carefully through her muggle journal. “Statistically, the average duel lasts between 30 and 75 seconds, assuming the conditions are within the usual range.”

“Oh yes because the battlefield is so predictable.”

“It is, actually. Something you’d know, had you actually done any real fighting.” She says this so deliberately, I can’t help but react.

“Why do you continuously assume I didn’t? How would you even know?”

“It was my job to know Malfoy.” She straightens, squaring her shoulders. “In addition to fieldwork, I was in charge of any and all intel that came in. If you had been sighted, I would have known,” she insists. “Trust me, I kept track.”

I’ve always been vainglorious and lean towards her, propping myself up on my knees. “Were you monitoring me, Granger?”

She’s hardly what I’d call fair skinned but the red that blooms across her face is obvious all the same. “Not—not just you. I kept tabs on all persons of interest.”

“And I was interesting?”

“You were a known quantity, even if you hadn’t been seen in three years. Snape kept us abreast of your movements, uneventful though they were.”

Fucking Snape. I feel betrayed and I can’t even name why. It’s hardly due to some lingering, misguided loyalty to the Dark Lord. Perhaps it’s because of Mother and the faith she always had in him. “I rarely saw Snape.”

“I know.” She’s smug, pretentious even, and I wonder not for the first time how she was ever sorted into Gryffindor. “That was by design. He is most useful when he goes unnoticed.”

“How’d you lot even manage that?” I ask, leaning back into the chair once more. “Snape is one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted servants.”

Granger shrugs, as if she’d ever succeed at playing coy. “It’s complicated. Something to do with Harry’s mum.”

“As if you don’t know.”

She narrows her eyes. “As if I’d tell you.”

“Oh yes because I’m clearly a double agent,” I scoff, halfheartedly lifting my left arm. “Bit of an extreme cover story, if you ask me.”

“You always were terrible at moderation.”

“Please don’t act as if you know anything about me. It’s embarrassing for the both of us.”

“It was my job to know, remember?”

“Not anymore.” It’s just mean enough, although for once I wasn’t going for honest cruelty, and the mood in the room sours along with her expression.

“No. I guess not.” With a definitive motion, she slams her journal closed. “Thank you for the rude reminder.”

“What you call rude I call objective truth.”

“Can’t you just be nice, for once?” She’s more exasperated than pleading.

“Where’s the fun in that?” I grin at her.

“It must be exhausting being so horrible all the time.”

“And yet there you are, wide awake.”

Granger sighs and, bracing herself against the couch, gets to her feet. “Why you insist on turning every conversation into an excuse to bully people, I don’t think I’ll ever understand.” 

Where I should feel slighted I instead feel something far worse: guilt. I’m losing my mind, I must be. This forced cohabitation with my former nemesis is wearing away the once definitive shape of my personality. “I’d hardly call this bullying, Granger.”

“Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you?” 

“As would you.”

“I’m not a bully.”

“No, no, of course not. You’re just a presumptuous swot.” We glare at one another, as ritual dictates. 

“What was it you said about pretending to know things about one another?” She sniffs, nose pointed high. “You’re right. It is rather embarrassing.” Granger leaves and I make no move to stop her.

I miss my wand. I’m not even sure where it is, if it’s anywhere, if anyone even has it at all. The memories of my apparent escape are as ephemeral as they come, but I distinctly remember at least having it when things fade to black. I asked Moody, that first meeting after I woke up here, about it but he just grunted in his usual way and dismissed me and my inquiries outright. I suppose Potter might know, since he was the one who delivered me here, not that I could ever stomach asking him. My pride will probably be the death of me but at least I’ll be undone by something expected. Better self-destruction than an Avada to the heart. Or maybe not. I’m sure Granger would disagree. Regardless, I find myself thinking of my wand more and more these days and, like pretty much fucking everything else, it hurts.

Not that I could use it anyway, thanks to the stunning absence of my left hand and wrist. Of all the consequences I’d considered when I started this perilous journey, being rendered utterly incapable of performing magic ever again was not one of them. I’ve always been foolhardy, and terribly impatient, and of course this is what undoes my identity, in the end.

Thanks to the uncertainty of this miserable war, I can avoid thinking about the long term implications of losing one of my hands by any means necessary. Every time I catch myself reaching with fingers that aren’t there, or trying to clench a fist that no longer exists, it’s as if I am experiencing it all again for the first time. Denial is as familiar to me as my hand once was and I suppose it’s as good a substitute as any other. The fact that said denial is fueled utterly by my rapidly degrading Occlusion is neither here nor there.

Unfortunately, every time Granger—intentional or otherwise—flaunts her magic in my face, another crack forms along the chasm in my chest where I’ve decided to store my withered sense of self. Magic was my birthright, as known to me as the innocent scars of my boyhood or the beat of my wicked, black heart, and to be denied it is a specific and personal hell. Wandless magic is not unheard of and I’m somewhat versed, albeit still unquestionably a novice, but it’s not the same. Nothing is the same. It never will be again.

Another week, another visit from Saint Potter. This time, however, Granger is busy unbreaking the ribs of some moron in her dreadful little clinic room, and so I’m the only one there when the Savior pops into the kitchen. I drop the book I’d been struggling to hold and the thud of it hitting the table is especially loud in the ensuing silence of his arrival. 

“Malfoy.” His voice is cold, a solid reminder of our mutual disdain. 

“Potter.”

“Where’s Hermione?”

I jerk my head towards the former dining room. “Playing nurse.”

“Why are you down here? Shouldn’t you be skulking around upstairs, haunting the hallways?”

“There’s just the one hallway, unfortunately.”

“You’ll make do.”

We scowl at each other for a while. “Come to drop off this week’s shipment of stale food and other such subpar ingredients?”

“You should be grateful you’re even deemed important enough to feed. If I had it my way, I’d leave you petrified whenever Moody wasn’t bothering with you.” Everyone always pretends that the Boy Wonder is some bastion of kindness and compassion, but I’ve known the taste of his cruelty too often to believe such propaganda.

“Yes well you’d need an awful lot of Mandrake for that and Merlin knows you lot are practically destitute when it comes to supplies.”

“Thanks in no small part to your side’s efforts, of course.”

“My side?” I mock. “No, Potter, we’re playing for the same team now. I defected, remember?”

“Of course I do,” he counters. “Do you?”

I don’t. In the days leading up to the Order finding me, all I have are snapshots of moments completely detached from defined reality. I remember planning to leave since Mother’s condition had been discovered. Beyond that, though, it’s just black. Flashes of terrible agony, the stark blood red slowly pooling on the white tile of what I think might be my bathroom floor. Mother’s face, twisted into something horrified and still. Dark hair, dark robes, dark magic. The phantom pull of flight, the discordant sting of some unknown curse. Shouting, screaming, sobbing. Whenever I ruminate on it, whenever I’m foolish enough to let myself slip beneath the still surface of my carefully Occluded thoughts to see what lurks beneath, it’s as if needles come to life within my brain. It hurts, like my skull is trying to burn itself from the inside out and I’ve stopped trying to piece together the jagged bits of memory. My tolerance to suffering is maxed out as is.

I can’t say any of this, of course, and so all I do in response is sneer.

“That’s what I thought.” There’s a grunt of pain from somewhere within Granger’s clinic but Potter doesn’t use the blatant excuse to leave. “Don’t worry, I remember it perfectly.”

“Bit obsessive, isn’t it?” I say. “You always did pay me special attention in school. Do you think I’m pretty, Potter? Is that it? Gods, someone should tell the She-Weasel.”

He glowers at me, those electric green eyes glittering with hate. “Keep Ginny’s name out of your fucking mouth.”

“Oh-ho-ho what a temper you’ve got there. Don’t worry. I won’t tell your girlfriend you just referred to her as a female rodent.”

It takes him a second, dull as he is, but when it works, it works perfectly. “Shut up, Malfoy. I mean it.”

“Or what, Potter?” I challenge. “You gonna hit me? Not very heroic, that. Beating up a wandless man and all.”

“Keep running your mouth and we’ll see how heroic I’m feeling,” he responds, the words low and dark. “There’s no one here to stop me.”

“I’m here, so yes, there is.” Granger steps into the room, glancing between the two of us. “There’ll be no fighting.”

“He—”

“No.” She’s firm, intolerant towards reproach. “I don’t care.” I shoot Potter a smug look but she catches it. “You’re just as guilty, Malfoy. Honestly, you two. This stupid rivalry.”

“Rivalry?!” Potter shrieks. “He tried to Crucio me!”

“And then you tried to fucking vivisect me!”

“In self-defense!”

“Well maybe if you weren’t so obsessed with me, following me into bathrooms where you didn’t belong—”

“I thought you were a Death Eater! And I was right!”

“Harry—”

“So fucking clever, aren’t you?”

“Malfoy—”

“It didn’t take much effort. You’re not subtle.”

“Will you both—”

“How lucky for you, then, because Merlin knows you’d never figure out a fucking thing without Granger here to do it for you.”

“She’s—”

“Shut up!” Granger flicks her wrist and with a simple cast, silences us both. “For the love of God, you’re both adults. Can’t you act like it for five minutes?”

Potter gestures, stupid mouth flapping as he continues to yell, muted. I turn my attention from him to Granger and give her the best glare I can manage.

“We’re at war, you know. This isn’t Hogwarts. Malfoy, you need to behave. We talked about this.” She’s chastising me, like a fucking mother hen, and it’s degrading to the point of lunacy. “Same goes for you, Harry. This kind of behavior is ridiculous.”

Potter’s entire being is alight with frustration and though I feel much the same, I force myself to remain calm. I must. I cannot betray myself anymore to these people. 

“Fine.” With a sigh, Granger releases us from her charm.

“You heard what he said to Ginny! What he called her. That was just the latest act in a lifetime of evil behaviors,” he insists, gesturing at me as if I’m a piece of furniture and not his very first arch-nemesis. In this, I’ve beaten even the Dark Lord. 

“Malfoy is just trying to goad you into a fight, Harry, you know this."

“Can you both stop fucking talking about me like I’m not even here.”

They don’t. “You cannot let him rile you up every single time you interact. It could be years before this war is through, do you really want to carry on like this?”

“He started it!”

Granger throws her hands into the air. “Children! You’re both children. Malfoy, can’t you—”

“No! I can’t! I’m not one of your stupid friends, you can’t tell me what to do.” I stand, knuckles pressed to the wooden tabletop. “Fuck this.” The chair squeals as I shove it away and, with another dirty look thrown to both of them, I push past Granger and disappear up the stairs.

Unlike the last time I’d found myself in a screaming match with one of Granger’s vile little mates, she doesn’t come to find me the moment they leave. I wait, preparing a litany of ugly things to say to her when she inevitably bursts into my room to berate me. Hours pass, though, without her intrusion and, when the sun sets, I accept that it’s not going to happen. Unfortunately, there is a thrum of pent up energy ricocheting beneath my skin and I know I’ve got to do something besides pace the length of my room.

In the end, I spend an embarrassingly long time trying to wandlessly cast Lumos to zero success. Objectively it should be possible, under the right conditions with an appropriate setting, none of which I have. I'm several years and myriad traumatic events removed from the whiny, petulant child of my youth, but as my razer thin patience snaps, I find myself crying all the same. 

It's humiliating, all of it. For all the horror that the Dark Lord brought upon our home, as long as I stayed out of sight, my dignity was one of the few things left mostly intact. Father saw to that, I suppose, although I doubt it was deliberate. Once upon a time, there was nothing that mattered more to my parents than me. It was an uncomfortable truth to acknowledge that, at least for Father, I was only important so long as I could uphold the precious family name. After I'd completely fucked that up by failing to kill Dumbledore, he'd taken my legacy back. It's only fair, I suppose. It's not like I was ever going to do anything with it. Ambition falls to the wayside in the face of base survival. 

Now I've nothing left. No dignity, no magic, no life to speak of. The cornerstones of my identity have crumbled away and all I'm left with is this useless, broken body. The dark desire to make good on Granger’s promise to let me cut this fucked up existence short is extremely appealing, now more than ever. Just slip away into still oblivion, and let the rest of the world carry on without me.

Unfortunately for myself and the world, there is a pinprick of resistance still holding fast to my seams. Lying there sobbing, head buried beneath my pillow to mute the sound, there is nothing I want more than to fucking unravel. And the fact that some ephemeral, unknown part of my body is keeping me from doing just that is just another betrayal in a very long list. How is it that I am supposed to be in control of myself when my entire physical being is insistent on doing whatever the fuck it wants? The motivations of my mouth and my brain are incongruous with one another and this loss of autonomy is brutal, inescapable.  

I used to define myself based on the image I projected. I was a symbol of our family, a scion to our ancestral legacy. My blood was pure and magic was my birthright. And now, at the end of things, all I am is scar tissue, strung up and forced to endure. My stomach twists in revolt and I swallow the bile, it's bitter aftertaste just wretched enough to pull me from my tangled thoughts.

On shaking legs, I drag my body from the heat of my bed, out into the still hallway and to the bathroom door. I wrap my remaining fingers around the doorknob and Granger wrenches it open. 

"Oh—!" She shrieks stepping back and nearly crashing into the cracked porcelain sink. The shock of seeing her immobilizes me and for a few seconds too long, all we do is stare at one another. Her big brown eyes are wide and one careful hand clutches the lapels of her robe, pulling it tight, closed. 

It dawns on me far too slowly the vulnerable situation I've found her in. The usual nest of messy curls that frames her face is darker, wet, stringy. Despite myself, I glance down, meeting with a slack jaw the expanse of skin that is her legs. Up until this very second, Granger was more of an image than a living, breathing person. All at once I realize she exists physically in just the same way as I. Blood and bone and way, way too much flesh. 

"Malfoy?" She sounds terrified, her voice an echo of the screams that strangled her that night in the Manor. "What are you doing?" 

It breaks whatever spell I'm under and with a shake of my head, I take a full step back. My hand trembles. My heart races. "Shower. I was going to shower." 

"Okay," she says slowly. I draw a careful breath and meet her panicked gaze. 

"I'm—sorry?" Every bit of mental and emotional fortitude I weaponize against myself everyday has long since drained away, swept out with my pitiful little crying session. "I didn't know you were—" I gesture at her, as if we aren't both thinking almost exclusively at the state she's in. "Here."

"Yes. Well. I am." She clears her throat. "Here, that is." 

I should leave, I need to fucking leave but I can't get my feet to work. I've never wanted to know what Hermione fucking Granger looks like post shower, half damp and wrapped in a hideous, too large robe. Distantly I am grateful that, while the entire scene has me shell-shocked, there is nothing desirable about it. She's still the personification of so very much disdain. 

"Are—are you okay, Malfoy? Have you been crying?" Whatever it was that I'd done to terrify her has worn off and the genuine quality of her concern is fucking awful. 

"No, I save my tears for the shower, same as you." 

The open expression of something that is almost kindness slams shut, her mouth twisting into an ugly frown. "What is that supposed to mean?" 

"Nothing," I say quickly. I don't have the energy for a proper fight with her. "Are you done?" 

"Uh—yeah. Yes." It appears she's just as tired. 

I step to the side, making as much room for her as physically possible. As she walks past, the scent of strawberry body wash wafts in her wake and I cannot believe we're sharing fucking toiletries. I slip inside the humid little room, so uncomfortable at this point, I'm clawing to get out of my own way. 

"Malfoy?" She’s lingered, like the scent of our mutual shampoo, like the aftertaste of burnt tea. 

"What?" I'm half in the bathroom, half into the hallway and wholly one more moment of humanity from losing my fucking mind. 

"You know—never mind." The shake of her wild hair sends water droplets ricocheting around us. "Good night." 

The click of her bedroom door is definite and even though she can't hear me, even though it's more reaction than intentional I murmur back, "good night." 

Hours later, the edge of the horizon black with the promise of an inevitable dawn, something is nagging at the back of my bruised brain. Normally such an awkward encounter would never happen because I use Granger’s sob fest as an indicator of when the coast is clear. Tonight, though, it appears we shared more than just an uncomfortable moment in the bathroom. Tonight, Granger and I cried ourselves sick at the same time, together. 

Proximity. It's fucking insidious.

Chapter Text

“You're burning the milkweed." Malfoy's lazy drawl tugs at my attention. 

"No I'm not." I lean forward, breathing deep over the pot. The milkweed is supposed to be simmering in Essence of Cardamom but I've been so distracted by the current batch of Shield potion, I've completely neglected my usual, repetitive brews. To my disdain, I realize he's right; the fine green leaves have begun to brown and curl. With a quick glance I confirm that his stupid face is buried in my copy of Moby Dick before quietly pulling the pot off the burner. 

"Told you so." 

"Shut up." 

He hums in response and I glare at him. It goes unnoticed but I feel better for the small act of defiance all the same. 

Thankfully, the milkweed isn't totally ruined and, with a bit of clever wandwork, I'm able to revitalize it enough to use. The dented cauldron of Blood Replenishing Potion foams as I add the green sprigs and, after a few minutes of careful attention, settles into its final phase. Satisfied with its progress, I return my focus fully on the newest batch of Shield Potion. 

Much to my private chagrin, Malfoy has been unfortunately helpful. I've yet to fully inform him of my recipe and formula but because he's always been annoyingly perceptive, he's discovered enough to continuously offer up unsolicited advice. While I'm generally too proud—or stubborn, as Harry would say—to ask for help, I cannot afford to turn his away. Especially because, for the most part, his suggestions are brilliant. In another life it would be nice—pleasant, even—to have someone to engage with intellectually. 

“You should try Salamander blood.” 

“Why? It’s a shielding potion, not a healing one.”

“Yes but it also has latent rejuvenation properties.”

“So does Flobberworm Mucus,” I say matter-of-factly. “What makes Salamander blood any better?”

Malfoy has the audacity to actually look annoyed. “Last I checked, there isn’t an abundance of Flobberworms around here”

“But there is of salamanders?”

“Better chance of it, I suppose.”

He's right, unfortunately. Flobberworms are only found in swampy wetlands and most certainly not in whatever coastal region we’re in. What’s worse is the inconsistency in my methods that he’s inadvertently revealed to me. While my grasp on the myriad ingredients in my potential arsenal is rather in depth, I've been forced to reduce them down to their most notable properties for the sake of memorization. In short, I’ve gotten complacent.

“Yes, well, we're fresh out of salamanders so it doesn't matter.” 

“Why not ask the Potter pals to bring you some?”

“That’s hardly a priority for them.” With a sigh, I turn back to the cauldron before me. It gurgles weakly as if it’s aware of its own impending failure. “As if Moody would even listen,” I mumble. 

“How is it not a priority? You’re actively trying to save their pathetic little lives.”

“They’re not pathetic. And furthermore, I haven’t told any of them about the Shield potion anyway.”

Malfoy leans forward, eyeing me in a particularly uncomfortable way. “You haven’t told them?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t even guarantee it will work—”

“—which it probably won’t—”

“—and I don’t want to get their hopes up,” I finish, deliberately ignoring his continued assertions that I will fail.

“So how have you managed to secure the other ingredients you already have? I know they’re dense but surely someone would have noticed you don’t need this much Gurdyroot and Lionfish Spines.”

Something akin to guilt worries at the back of my throat. “I’m just careful with the requests I make.”

He grins wolfishly. “So you lie.”

“I do not lie!” My voice is shrill even to my own ears. “I simply…regulate the information I give them.”

Malfoy just shakes his head, the twist of his mouth smug. “Which is just your fancy definition of lying.” I glare at him but it’s been so many weeks now that it no longer has an effect. “Who knew that the Golden Girl was such a liar?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s the truth, something you seemed diametrically opposed to.”

I pick at the fragile layer of skin that has formed over the raw edge of my thumb, using the sharp sting to ground myself. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Malfoy.”

“See, you keep saying that, and yet it appears I keep striking a nerve.”

“Just because I find you grating doesn’t mean you’re cruel assumptions of me are anything other than just that: assumptions.”

“Surely you’ve realized by now that I’m not so easily fooled. Not like those so-called friends of yours, anyway.”

“Why do you care?” My patience snaps. “Why are you so fixated on this, on me?”

The smirk slips from his face and the Occlusion that clouds his eyes is telling. “I’m not fixated, I just like making you squirm.”

“Why?”

He shrugs halfheartedly. “Better than the alternative.”

“Which is?” I chase this line of questioning carelessly. 

“Something dreadfully close to cordiality which I’m sure neither of us wants.”

“Would that be so terrible, Malfoy?” The gray of his eyes clears and I almost want to take notes as I watch his Occlumency fail in real time. “Being civil to one another? It’d make living together much easier.”

“We don’t live together, Granger. Don’t make this mutual imprisonment into something it’s not.”

“If this is what you consider imprisonment, you should have spent more time in your own dungeons.”

He flinches and grows cold. “You know nothing—”

“Yes, yes, so you’ve mentioned.” I wave his hostility off with my hand. “Let’s not lose focus here. Can’t we agree that it’d be less miserable here without this constant bickering?”

“As if you’re one to ever back down, Granger. You’re stubborn to the point of recklessness.”

“Once upon a time, sure. Now I no longer have the privilege to be so audacious.”

He scoffs. “What you call a privilege other’s would call obnoxiousness.” 

“Other’s being you?”

“Naturally.”

Talking to him is exhausting. “I don’t want to be friends.”

“Perish the very thought, Granger. I’d rather walk on hot coals.”

Yet again, my withering glare falls short. I am most definitely losing my touch. “Regardless, civility could be—”

“—could be what? Nice? What about this fucked up situation is nice to you? In any other scenario, we’d be actively trying to kill one another. Why is this any different?”

“Because, whether you like it or not, we’re stuck here, on more or less equal footing.”

“Equal? You call this equal?” He gestures wildly between us. “Just because you’re trapped here doesn’t make you any less of my jailer.”

I roll my eyes at his theatrics. “After all this time and you're still so dramatic.”

“And you’re still so fucking annoying.”

“Fine.” I close my potions notebook and let it hit the table with a definitive thud. “Have it your way. We’ll continue to make what should otherwise be a place of neutrality into another warzone.”

When he sneers at me, I wonder if he knows how ineffectual it’s become. “You and I have never been neutral. Why start now?”

“Because we’re not children anymore and this ongoing hostility is exhausting. Aren’t you tired of turning every single interaction into a screaming match? I’m not going anywhere, no matter how wretched you act.”

“Trust me, I know.”

“So then why—”

“How can you just pretend like this is normal? How can you just swallow all that hatred and accept that you’ve got to interact with me?” His jaw clenches before he carries on. “How did you contend with the fact that you had to save my life?”

It’s my turn to shrug. “It’s not as if I’m burdened with choice, Malfoy.” When he doesn’t relent, I sigh. “This war, this entire nightmare, exists because of hatred. And I'm too worn down to perpetuate that cycle. The fact that you aren't is alarming."

"That's an easy stance to take, sat upon your throne of righteousness, Granger, but we can't all play pretend." 

"It's so easy for you to dehumanize me. Does it help justify your pointless cruelty?" 

There is so much he betrays just in the curl of his lip that no amount of Occlumency will bury. These last three months of cohabitation have made me uncomfortably familiar with the shades of his expressions and the way he tends to perform when something strikes too close to his heart. It's become clear to me just how much of his behavior in school was one big effort to seem larger than the sum of his parts. Over what he felt so desperately self conscious I cannot fathom, but it's interesting in a certain kind of way to know he was just as uncomfortable as me. The reason is less important than the consequence. 

"I've never needed justification. This is just who I am." 

"What a waste, then, of all that potential." 

And yet, despite his assertions to the contrary, Malfoy continues to talk to me. Over dinner and throughout the days, his posh voice follows me through the house. He goes still and silent, often vanishing upstairs, whenever a proper patient shows up, but other than that, his presence persists. I'm a habitual creature, relying happily on schedules and repetitive motion where others would whine at the monotony. It's easier for me to anticipate the unimaginable if I exert constant control over the rest of my life. Therefore Malfoy and his endless efforts to engage slowly become incorporated into my daily life. 

We fight frequently, but as of late the screaming matches end in less and less cruel hostility. I'm not sure why he has decided to strive for peace after weeks of otherwise being impossible to deal with. I'm sure he has some hidden motivation for playing nice, probably to do with intel or his mother. There is little in my life that properly engages my love of puzzles and so, unfortunately for him, Malfoy becomes my latest conquest. 

What I discover is….interesting. He is clever, but I've always known that. Between the 'Potter Stinks!' badges and that dreadful 'Weasley is our King' song, his mental acuity has never been a surprise. He asserts constantly that he was excellent at Potions, and this is true, but only to an extent. He was excellent because they came easy to him, not because of any deliberate effort on his part. The more we discuss potion ingredients and they're various effects, however, it does become clear to me that he possesses a latent natural talent. Surely the result of all that careful breeding. 

No, his intelligence is not what plagues me; it's his tendency to avoid everything and anything that causes pain. At the slightest mention of the misstep that led him here in the first place, he shuts down. If I make even the most basic of inquiries into his life before he chose to leave, his gray eyes go distant with Occlumency and he'll snarl and spit at me until I either back down or walk away. This tendency isn't in and of itself incongruous with the boy I knew in my youth. Of course he shies away from the difficult and unpleasant, he's Malfoy. But at age 12 he was merely whining to whatever professor would listen, not employing Occlumency when things got even mildly uncomfortable. He's not a child, he's certainly not ignorant when it comes to magic, and yet he's continuously abusing it. 

While Occlumency and Legilimency aren't part of the regular curriculum of Hogwarts, we do learn about them, specifically the dangers they pose. In theory, Occlumency is used specifically to counteract Legilimency. In practice, it can be an insidious tool for emotional suppression. Done sparingly, it poses no threat, but to employ it with such immediate voracity as Malfoy does is dangerous. It can lead to permanent memory loss or psychosis, not to mention the overall muting of your personality. It's only a matter of time before it all comes crashing down. 

The question, of course, is how.

It’s a week past my suggestion of civility when the storm arrives. Clouds, dark and swollen with rain, blanket the sky above us and the already strong wind that rolls off the sea is ruthless as it slams into the aging house. There is a coarse howl whipping by the windows, their antique nature making them rattle violently within their frames. I don’t even have to look outside to know the pitiful little herb garden I’ve been willing into existence has been torn, roots and all, from the wet earth.

“Hmm. The Bristlebrines are hatching early this season.” Luna’s gentle lilt carries, despite its softness, and I glance over to see her leaning off the bed and watching the storm rage by through the nearest window. 

“The what?” By now I’m very aware of her menagerie of mythical creatures and her propensity for mentioning them at the oddest of times. I fought her for a long time on the decidedly fictional aspect of their existence but it’s been too many years and too many losses to waste the time and energy. These days I humor her just for the sake of conversation. 

“The Bristlebrines! You’ve got a whole family of them nesting in your attic,” she explains. Unfortunately, we don’t have an attic. “Their eggs usually only hatch during summer thunderstorms.” Her face catches the waning light as she tilts it upward to look at the ceiling. “Yours are odd, though. Perhaps it’s the death energy in here.”

To her credit, more than a few people have died in my former dining room. “Perhaps.”

“Bristlebrines are very in tune with that sort of thing.”

“Of course.” I lead her back into bed and sit beside it, propping her right leg up on my lap. “What kind of curse was it again?”

“A pretty one. The blue was very lovely, and the spark of yellow when it hit me was wonderful.” Despite the obtuse description, I’m fairly certain I know which spell she’s speaking about. The skin of her lower leg resembles a piece of jerky left to rot in the sun. It’s as if every last drop of water has been pulled from it, leaving nothing but leather and bone behind. I’m sure the pain is unbearable but Luna just prattles on about Bristlebrines as a means to cope. 

I apply the appropriate salves and dole out the wand work necessary to render them effective. It’s tedious work, wholly uninteresting, and I wonder once more why Moody insisted I be a Healer when medical work was never my speciality. “Have you had much luck translating the runes in the journal?”

“Hmm?” She’s staring out the window, detached and distracted. 

“The one Ginny brought back from France, remember? She mentioned you would be the one translating it.”

“Oh yes, that one.” Her fair features go taut as she frowns. “Somewhat. I was never very good at non-Germanic Ancient Runes.”

“It seemed rather tricky,” I respond, catching her eye as I look up from her leg. “I could help, if you’d like.”

“No thank you.” From anyone else it would be dismissive and rude but I learned long ago that Luna is generally incapable of both. “I’m not allowed to show you on account of your accident.” To which one she’s referring I can’t say but, were I to hazard a guess, I’m sure it wouldn’t be the one that left me physically mangled. 

“Did Moody—”

“You’re very sad today, Hermione.” She pivots quickly, searching my face with those big, silver eyes. “Is it because of Draco?”

“What? Why would I be sad because of Malfoy?”

She sighs and looks towards the doorway. I follow the glance, half expecting him to be there even though I know he’s wrapped up in the living room, nose buried in The Picture of Dorian Gray. “He’s sad, too.”

“Of course he is,” I say automatically. “His arm—”

“He misses his mum.”

“Yes, well, so do I.”

“You should talk to him about it. You’re a very good listener.” In my life I’ve been called many things, donned many unwanted titles and roles, but none of them would be ‘good listener’. 

I shake my head, winding the last of the bandage around her leg. “No, I’m not.”

“Hmm,” Luna hums once more. “Okay.”

The silence is continually undercut by the howling wind. “The runes—”

“Does the cold make your leg hurt?”

My fingers find the gnarled flesh, tangible even beneath the thick material of my pants. “It does.”

“It makes my fingers hurt, too.” She raises her right hand, the two stumps on the end wiggling in time with the three remaining ones. “Harry says it’s because of nerve damage. It’s not. It’s because of Willowy Slithersnaps. They’re attracted to missing limbs.”

“What do they look like?’

“They’re invisible.”

“Naturally.” It’s still difficult, if only a little, to take her seriously. She’s otherwise brilliant, equal parts perceptive and clever but my old prejudices towards the fanciful linger still. “You’re all done.” I tap the white bandage once more, sealing in the moisture of the salve, and scoot back, allowing her room to stand.

“Thank you, Hermione! It feels much better.” She twirls once, before pulling me up and into a hug. 

“Try and be more careful please, Luna.”

“Don’t be silly,” she pulls back, smiling at me. “I can’t be careful at war. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a war.”

“I—”

“Can I see Draco?” 

There is an audible click as my jaw slams shut and I falter a moment before responding. “You—why?”

She shrugs and the straw yellow braid slips from her shoulder. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Did you used too?”

“Of course! I saw him everyday at Hogwarts. He was always so mean, probably on account of the Humdingers. Plus, I was there when we rescued him. He was less mean, then.”

“You were?” It occurs to me how little I know of the circumstances surrounding that event, even months out. 

She nods emphatically. “I helped keep him calm when we interrogated him. I promised him I would check up on him when he was better.”

“Okay?”

That’s enough of an answer for her and Luna drifts around me, ephemeral in her motion, and disappears into the living room. I immediately want to follow, my curiosity begging to be sated but I falter. One one hand, it’s not my business, but on the other, he’s gotten into altercations with everyone brazen enough to engage with him. Luna is tough, far tougher than anyone would believe, but I don’t want her subjected to his vitriol when all she offers is kindness. In the end I linger just outside the doorway, and listen carefully for raised voices.

“What…mean…for me?” The storm drowns them out, leaving me with bits and pieces I cannot puzzle together. 

“You told me…when…mum.”

“I did…stupid fucking…carry me?!” 

“She…” It’s useless. With a huff, I disillusion myself and peak my head around the doorframe. Malfoy is sat upright in his chair, face cast in profile. Luna hovers above him, smiling. They go back and forth some more, but it’s meaningless noise.

“Tell…want with Granger…please.” My surname in his mouth is familiar, though, and I pick it out easily. He looks annoyed, but not furious, whereas Luna just grins. “No…”

“Yes! When…spell…promised…dungeons.” At this, he droops and hangs his head a moment. 

“Fine…started it…Moody.”

“Okay!” Luna sings out and angles her body towards me. “Hermione?” I pull back, end the charm, and step inside. “I’m leaving now.”

“Did, er, the two of you talk?” I look between them and their contrasting expressions. 

“We did. I reminded him of a promise he made me.”

“What promise?” Despite my stare, Malfoy continues to face the window, and the line of his shoulders is too vague to discern. 

“You’ll find out,” Luna responds and, to my horror, wraps her arms around Malfoy, the motion awkward in its execution. He is stiff, frozen, more ice than person and yet, just as she pulls back, I see the slip of his hand from around her back. “Good bye!” She waves once and vanishes in a whirl of Apparition. 

In the aftermath, the storm rages and I wait for him to look at me. “Malfoy.”

“Don’t,” he warns. 

“Since when were you and Luna—”

“I said, don’t.” He stands and the set of his jaw is hard, definite. 

“You—” I start, but he rushes past me, refusing to make eye contact. Before I can stop him, he’s up the stairs, door slamming shut. “What?” I say out loud to the empty room and only the wind howls in response.

That night, thanks to the torrential winds and rain, the power goes out. 

Muggle technology has never paired well with magic, but I’ve done my best in the last year to get them to come to a begrudging understanding. Nothing magical runs on electricity and, in turn, no spellwork is used on the various switches and outlets. As long as I keep them deliberately separate, the truce holds. Or rather it did, until tonight.

It’s late, several hours past the awkward dinner I ate alone, when the lamp at my bedside table flickers twice and goes dark. A few moments later, the gentle push of heat coming from the floor vent stops too. I wait a few minutes, hoping it will return on its own accord but when the room grows uncomfortably cold in the interim, I admit defeat and get out of bed to investigate. 

I’m very intelligent, of this there is no doubt, but at this point in my life, I am far more witch than I am muggle and my understanding of electricity is vague at best. There is a circuit box—I believe that’s the term—in the upstairs hallway that remains just as confusing as it always has when I pull it open. The mess of wires and switches reveals nothing to me, of course, and my extremely short list of ideas runs out.

I make a cursory trip around the cottage to confirm the power is out everywhere and, on my return upstairs, huff to watch my breath coalesce in the air before me. Despite the old adage that heat rises, the first level of the house is much warmer than the second. This, coupled with the benefit of having a fireplace, sets a plan in motion. I hurry to my room, pulling on a jumper and an extra pair of socks, before taking some extra blankets from the closet and heading to Malfoy’s door. 

My knuckles hover just above the wood as I take a moment to center myself. The last time we ran into one another in the middle of the night, I was in an extremely compromising position and it takes me a few seconds to get my heartbeat back under control before I knock twice. “Malfoy? Are you awake?”

Some shuffling, a soft curse, and then the door is pulled open. He greets me, platinum hair stuck out at odd angles, with narrowed eyes. “It’s fucking freezing, Granger.”

“I know. The power went out.”

“The what went out?”

I gesture at the dull hallway lights. “The muggle power that keeps these lights and the heater on. The storm took it out.”

“Rather shit design flaw, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.” I shove the bundle of blankets into his arms. “Get your pillow and follow me. We’re going downstairs.”

“Why?” He asks, even as he reaches back into the room to gather his pillow and another sweater. “What are we doing down there?”

“Sleeping.”

The usual creak of the stairs is completely drowned out by the storm and the only indication I have that he’s behind me is the way the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I wonder if he is aware of how looming he is, even half asleep.

With a quick wave of my wand, I start the fireplace as we step into the living room. The light and heat are an immediate balm and I begin to defrost as I set up a small area to sleep. Malfoy lingers, just at the edge of the light. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because it’s freezing upstairs and seeing as this hearth is the only source of heat still viable in the house…” I trail off, becoming preoccupied with building something cushy enough to actually sleep on. 

He stays where he is, essentially as far as possible away from me while still benefiting from the heat of the fire, and begins to do the same. Eventually, the old blankets are as fluffy as they’re going to get and, with a groan, I sink to the floor, burying myself under the threadbare layers. 

“Why not just cast a heating charm?” Malfoy eventually asks, once we’ve both settled in.

“We both know it’d just run out once I fell asleep.”

“I meant on the muggle power.”

We’re lying on our backs, an uncomfortably miniscule five feet between us. “Muggle technology and magic don’t work well together. Until the storm passes, hopefully in the morning, I won’t be able to fix anything.”

“Seems like an awfully big excuse just to have a sleepover,” he snarks. 

“I can promise that you are the very last person I’d ever have a sleepover with.”

“Mhm.” He sounds unconvinced but I can’t bring myself to care. “Can’t imagine Moody would be all that fun.”

We lay there, listening to the rattle of the windows and the continuous thud of the rain, and while I want nothing more than to sleep, it eludes me. Probably because of the increasingly weird situation I’ve found myself in. Even though he’s harmless, I am careful not to be vulnerable around Malfoy. His ability to see right through me is unnerving and coupled with our semi-permanent proximity, it’s growing more and more difficult to be careful around him. Despite my less than friendly nature, I am a somewhat social creature. I do better among my loved ones, even if I’m not actively seeking their company. Only now, my loved ones are across the North Sea, as far from me as they’ve ever been, and I am alone. Totally alone, except for Malfoy. 

I want to hate him, I should hate him for all the pain and suffering he’s caused. It would be exceptionally easier to harbor nothing but cold indifference towards him but that is no longer the case. You can get used to anything, should you encounter it often enough, and it appears I’ve begun to grow used to Draco Malfoy. Beyond his assimilation into my daily life, we’re actively having conversations, several of which don't end in an ugly standoff. I’ve told him about my efforts with the Shield Potion, something I’ve yet to tell anyone else and it didn’t even occur to me until much later how significant that choice was. 

Furthermore, he deliberately seeks me out. Even when I don’t ask, he offers annoyingly helpful suggestions for my potions work. We eat dinner together nearly every single night, an uncomfortably intimate act for two people who are supposed to hate each other. We aren’t friends, I’m not even sure I’d call us acquaintances. In truth, I don’t know what we are. Somehow more and less than the sum of our parts. We’re becoming. What, I cannot say, but I am confident all the same that we will come to some nexus point. I just wish I knew what it was. 

“I’ve never had a slumber party.” The words tumble out of me, filling the darkness with their unwanted intrusion. It is so dangerous to be vulnerable around him and yet, my strength falters the moment the opportunity presents itself. “I’m an only child and in grade school, I didn’t have a lot of friends.” A month ago he held a midnight confessional with me on the old back porch. I suppose it’s only fair if I return the favor. “And once I got my Hogwarts letter, it just didn’t seem to be all that important anymore.”

“The dormitories are a bit like one endless sleepover, I suppose.” To my surprise, he doesn’t immediately take the easy and cruel way out. He makes no barbed remark about my lonely childhood. I wish I could say whether or not he was being genuine. I wish I could say anything definitive about him at all. 

“That’s true. Merlin knows Lavender did her very best to make it one. I let her braid my hair just once and, when I broke her hairbrush, she stopped badgering me about it.” I wait for him to comment on my hair, call it a harpy’s nest or something equally hurtful but he doesn’t.

“I never had one either.” The dark makes us bold.

“Why not?”

In my peripheral he shrugs, letting the blanket slip slightly from around his shoulders. “It wasn’t appropriate. Some archaic and stupid Pureblood custom, I’m sure.”

“You seem to have a lot of those.” It’s the first time we’ve spoken about his heritage and the blood purity cult he belongs to. 

“Yes, they do,” he responds softly. It’s not lost on me the way he’s distanced himself from them at this moment but I’m drifting into uncharted territory and elect to say nothing. He steers us back into safer waters. “Did the essence of Daisyroot work?”

“No. It reacted poorly with the powdered dragon claw and now I’m out of both.”

“Have you considered just going out and getting your own? Daisyroot is hardly what you’d call rare.”

“I have.” It’s true, I really have considered it. The fallout of Moody’s anger or Harry’s disappointment holds me back. “But I can’t leave the clinic unattended.”

“You sometimes go days without treating anyone Granger, surely you can step out now and again.”

“It’s a risk, going out into the field. I’m the most famous mudblood in Wizarding Britain. The Death Eaters would stop at nothing to capture me.” My thoughts drift to the last time we were caught unawares by them, and to the place they dragged us. Did someone clean my blood off of his floor, or did Malfoy catch a glimpse of it every time he walked past the drawing room?

“As if you’d let them take you alive.”

“No,” I say quietly. “I suppose I wouldn’t.” The silence grows heavy as I wrestle with things unspoken.

“Besides that—”

“Why did you lie that night?”

“What night?” As if he doesn’t know.

“At the manor. You lied and said it wasn’t Harry even though you knew it was.”

“I—I couldn’t know for sure,” he stutters. I turn to look at him, his sharp profile silhouetted perfectly in the firelight. “The Dark Lord doesn’t tolerate potentialities like that.”

“Malfoy.” His face tilts slightly, barely meeting my eyes. “You knew.”

“I’m not a good person, Granger.” He says it so forcefully. “I didn’t lie because of some stupid tender-hearted notion. I lied because…because I was tired of being scared in my own home. I was tired of the Dark Lord and his fucking war. It was selfishness. Nothing more.”

I roll over to face him. “So why did it take you so long to leave? Harry told me that Dumbledore offered you safety. Why didn’t you take it?”

“I—I wanted to but in the end it was—it was too late.” He swallows thickly. “I couldn’t leave, Granger. Not without Mother.” 

“What changed?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” 

“Is that by design?” At this he turns to me fully for a moment, and where I expect to see the clouding of Occlumency, I am met with something far more sincere and raw. “You usage of Occlumency—”

“No. It’s not,” he says. “I’d never willingly let myself end up here, with the Order.”

“But surely this is better than the alternative.” I am suddenly desperate for him to confirm this. “I know you’re trapped here, but this must be preferable to Tom and his Death Eaters.”

He’s quiet for so long I wonder if he’ll even respond at all. “The view is better.” It’s a cop out, but I’ll take it. “Food’s worse, though.”

“I never implied I was a good cook.”

“Oh I know. That was never in question.”

We grow still and the lull of the storm suspends me in a state of almost but not quite sleep. It’s warm, comfortable even, despite the hard floor and screaming wind. My leg is going to be awful come morning, but I can’t bring myself to focus on that, not right now. Once upon a time, I used to love thunderstorms. My dad and I would go up to the attic, with its big window, and watch the rain. We’d eat butternut squash stew and when mum would bring us hot chocolate, she’d read aloud from her favorite book, Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, and we would enjoy the shelter we’d built from the storm as one.

“I obliviated my parents, the summer before seventh year.” Another confession leaks out of me, thin as seawater. 

“Why?”

“To protect them. I had no idea what the coming war would look like and I was afraid the Death Eaters would find them.” My eyes sting as I blink away tears. “They’re living very happy, very real lives in Australia.” I feel the heat of his gaze on me but I can’t bear to let him see me cry, not so brazenly, not again. 

“I—for whatever it's worth, they were never a target.”

I let out a slow breath. “That—that’s good. I’d rather be over-cautious than regretful.”

“Is it reversible?”

“The longer it persists, the more dangerous it is to undo the spellwork.”

“It’s been over three years, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I sigh. “It has.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

A crackle of lightning illuminates the house and for a single heartbeat, we make eye contact. The bewilderment at our candid confessions is a mutual burden and as the darkness rushes back in, it’s an odd comfort to know he is just as unsure about what we’re becoming as I. 

Conversation lulls into silence and the whisper of sleep carries me out to sea. 

Chapter Text

Despite my efforts to the contrary, these continued visits with Moody are undoing my mental welfare brick by ugly brick. Boxes untouched for years are now sagging beneath the weight of the horrors they hold. For  all his training in the arts of Occlumency, Snape apparently never stopped to consider the upper limits of my skill. I may be a natural, but even nature falls apart in the end. 

Ultimately, though, it's my own fault. I know well and good the dangers of abusing Occlumency; I was just being willfully arrogant about it. A recurring theme, it seems. In my defense, the things I saw and heard were literally horrifying. Furthermore, it's not as if I'm trying to forget them. I'm just rendering the trauma inert for the sake of my mental stability. Stability that, thanks to Moody's prodding, is now fracturing anyway. 

It goes without saying that I'm plagued by nightmares, but as of late, they've grown beyond their usual ephemeral borders. What were once foggy snapshots and whispers of fear are slowly mutating into vivid and visceral jaunts through the darkest parts of my psyche. They're nearly impossible to wake from willingly, and whenever I'm lucky enough to pull myself out of the deep, I lay paralyzed in bed, utterly without control. And this is all assuming I don't scream myself awake first. 

It's brutal and horrifying, and what's worse is Granger’s awareness of the situation. The violent way I wake is loud enough to reach her ears, even through two locked doors. I know this because she does the dreadfully compassionate thing of asking after my wellbeing. As if it matters. As if she actually bloody cares. 

"I'm fine," I snap through a mouth half-full of her less than stellar rendition of spaghetti. 

"You've woken up screaming the last three nights, Malfoy. That's hardly fine." She even manages to make requisite concern sound condescending. "I can start giving you some Dreamless Sleep, although persistent use of the draught substantially lowers its efficacy."

"Something you're plenty familiar with, obviously."

She flinches, just enough to knock the food from her fork. Our eyes meet across the dinner table from our unofficially assigned seats, and the very air around us is charged. "Being horrible to me won't make your nightmares go away."

"But it will improve my otherwise miserable waking life."

"No," she sighs, "it won't. As we've already discussed." 

She's right, of course. "Then what do you suggest, O wise Healer woman?" I aim for snide, but my desperation thwarts the attempt. 

"Talking about it is a good place to start." The look on her face tells me she's thinking the same thing as me: the uncomfortable night we spent sleeping on the living room floor. While it caused its own onslaught of horror, none could be attributed to my nightmares, namely because I had none. Neither did she, if our six hours of uninterrupted sleep are anything to go by. 

"I've no interest in confiding in you, Granger." 

"Nor am I suggesting that you do." She pauses, face overly thoughtful while she chews. "There's always Luna."

Something sharp and demanding digs into my brain. My remaining hand trembles, and my fork clatters against the ceramic bowl. "I told you, don't."

"Why?" 

"Because it's none of your fucking business. Now piss off!" The rest is left unsaid, being that I do not wholly remember what it even was Looney Lovegood was talking about. She made me some promise, appealing to the vulnerable state I'd been in when Potter found me, and I cannot recall it for the pathetic life of me. There is also the matter of the time we spent together that ugly summer before seventh year. That particular box of violence is old, buried beneath the floorboards as it rots with water damage. I'm already so untethered that, should I bother actually unearthing it, I'm sure to be subsumed by the tidal wave carefully building within me. 

"I just cannot imagine a situation in which you and Luna of all people have a shared history."

"It might be a shock to hear this, but the world doesn't revolve around you."

She narrows bright eyes at me, and I get the distinct feeling that there’s a fourteen-year-old inside her inventing new and exciting insults comparing me to a ferrety prat. "Did you bully her as well, then?" 

"No need to be jealous, Granger. We both know I had only enough space in my withered black heart to hate you." It's an odd territory to step into, serving as just another reminder of the ties between us that bind. 

"Lucky me." 

We finish our meal in tense silence. My undertaking to become indispensable to her is failing, just like every other sodding mission in my life. Feigning cordiality is impossible when she's so frustratingly aware of my efforts to lie. Brick by brick, it goes and so too does my sense of self drift away.

Normally, I retire to bed and leave her to handle the mess alone, but she steps into my escape route, blocking the doorway with her bushy hair more than her slight body. "I'm not your maid, Malfoy."

"This again?" 

She huffs. "Yes, this again. You've learned manners, I'm sure. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to employ them? The very least you can do is carry your dirty plate to the sink." Slender fingers outstretched, clinging tightly to the faded porcelain. When I stare at it, she gestures rudely. "Take it." 

"Unbelievable," I mumble, pulling the plate from her hands. I make a childish show of placing it delicately into the sink, exaggerating if only because it so clearly does her head in. Oh, how I love to irk her. 

"Thank you." She's hardly appreciative, but it's not as though I care. "Was that so difficult?" 

"Tremendously so." I stop before her, waiting expectantly for her to move. 

"Had."

"What?"

"You said you had enough room in your withered black heart to hate me."

I tug aggressively at my hair, running my fingers through it. "So what?" 

"Does this mean you don't hate me anymore?" It's not vulnerable, for all the ways I apparently wish that it was. Instead, her question is just that: a question. An inquiry for inquiry's sake. Her voice doesn’t even have the decency to quaver.

I don't know how to answer her. On one hand, I could lie and say yes. Merlin knows it'd be the easier option. It's assuredly the one I wish was true, for all that's worth. I'm most certainly still capable of hatred, if my feelings regarding Potter and his sycophants are anything to go by. And yet for Granger, it's so…ill-defined, even as I attempt to drawl the words with the trademark lazy disdain that has abandoned me to this minging seaside. "You're the clever one. You tell me." 

She folds her arms, peering up into my eyes with a searching look. Almost without my awareness, I lean down ever so slightly. For a time, we just stare at one another. The proximity  makes me itch. Still, this is a challenge I cannot afford to throw and so I stay the course. After several lifetimes, she straightens up. 

"Well then?" I inquire when she fails to immediately speak. 

"It appears you're not so heartless after all." And even though I was the one trying to leave, it is her that turns on heel to walk away. 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" A man with more of a deathwish than Crabbe and stupider than Goyle might have described my tone as bewildered.

Granger turns, her face unguarded. "It means that I don't hate you anymore, either. Even though I should."

"Even though it's expected," I respond. 

She nods. 

"This doesn't mean anything. We aren't going to be friends at the end of this, Granger. Just because I'm too exhausted to waste the energy hating you outright doesn't erase how miserable you make me." 

"You make yourself miserable, Malfoy. You always have." 

Fuck that sodding bint. Fuck her and her fucking perceptiveness. "You're just as self-sacrificing. At least I have the dignity to sabotage myself for selfish reasons." 

Granger scoffs. "Do you hear yourself? Do you hear how twisted that sounds?" 

"You're the one—" 

"I'm the one trying to make it out of this war with more than just air in my lungs. Hollow yourself out anymore, Malfoy, and you'll be nothing but a husk at the end of things." 

"So what?!" I snarl, pushed far past my fragile breaking point. "What do you care of the state I'm in? What, your friends keep you at a distance thanks to your instability, so you latch onto me instead?" 

Even in the low lamplight, the sheen in her eyes is visible. "How—" 

"I'm not a thing for you to fix, Granger. I'm not a bloody pet project. Stop pretending to give a shit just so you feel better about the fuck-up you've made of your own life." 

"You speak of pretending, as if you're anything other than a fraud." 

"Takes one to know one, doesn't it?" I mock. We glare at one another, her composure holding despite the tears. "Still think this is worth it?" My arm shakes as I gesture at the cavern between us. "Still think your precious efforts at peace are anything other than fruitless?" 

"I already told you, no matter how hard you push, there is nowhere for either of us to go! You can bite the hand that feeds all you want, Malfoy, but I'll still make sure you're fed all the same. I refuse to treat you like you expect me to. I won't become a monster for you just so you can sleep easy at night knowing you'd rather ruin me than see me as a real person."

"Why?!" 

"Because I'm miserable!" She screams it at me. "I'm miserable and I'm exhausted and I don't want to live in a constant state of hatred just to appease you, you absolute bellend."

"That's not what I want." Nor is that what I wanted to say, but my mouth belongs to other parts of me now. 

"Then what is? What could you possibly want from me? I can't let you go. I can't save your mum. I can't bring your hand back."

"I—" and I falter because what I want is beyond even me. It's a feeling more than an action. I want peace, I want to sleep without screaming myself awake. "I want this to end. I want to go home." A thousand blessings to the candlelight and the way it hides my face in shadow. 

Granger's expression melts, her mouth twists, her eyes glisten and I hate it. I want to hate her. At that moment there is nothing I want more. "You can never go home again, Malfoy. Not in the way you want."

"The manor—" It's feeble even to my ears and all she does is shake her head sadly. Silence smothers us. Even the sea is without sound. Something warm and wet slips down my cheek, and as she tracks its movement, I know she’s right. There is no going back. The war is barreling onwards, and we've no choice but to be swept along in its wake. 

Thankfully I’m spared the time to properly ruminate on my inevitable ruination because all hell breaks loose the very next day. I’m searching through Granger’s bookshelf for my next bizarre muggle read while she mothers her endlessly bubbling cauldrons, both of us deliberately ignoring that the other exists. It’s so similar to our time at Hogwarts, I can even pretend that we’re merely visiting the library at the same time and not playing house thanks to an unending war between good and evil. In truth, the entire atmosphere could even be classified as awkward, were I of a mind to actually care about it. And I don’t care, obviously. Even if the tension in the house is exceedingly unbearable. Perhaps it will dissuade her from attempting to know me. 

I’m not so stubborn as to ignore the value of what she proposes, even if the thought of her company makes me ill. Having Granger on my side in the weeks to come is definitely a good idea, especially once Moody realizes I’ve little to no valuable intel left—not that I had a particularly remarkable amount to begin with. It’s just not in my nature to play nice. It never has been. Spoils of being an only child, I suppose. Or maybe I was just born selfish. I’m sure if I asked her, Granger would have a fifteen point outline detailing precisely why I am the way that I am. She’s insufferable even in absentia. 

This is all to say that things in the house are tense when the reality of war comes crashing down upon us. Her precious Order makes themselves known so often that at first, I barely register their arrival. The bookshelf, and more importantly me, are both positioned away from the doorway, providing me ample opportunity to slink away whenever one of them pops ‘round. As such, after the static pop of Apparition, they’re presence fades from my attention. Or rather, it should. This time, though, their arrival is heralded not by Granger’s shitty lying and awkward shuffling, but instead by literal screams.

“Oh gods, what’s happened?!” The demand of her tone rises above the yelling and captures my attention immediately. Her surprisingly pristine copy of Hard Times is left half pulled from the shelf as I quickly press myself to the wall and peer around the door frame. The scene before me is chaos.

Two Order members have come careening into the house, covered in gore and clinging to a shape that could technically be described as human, were one feeling generous. I’m not. They deposit their writhing mass of flesh and blood onto the kitchen table and step away, gesturing at it and trying to speak over its howls. 

“What?” She asks again but if they answer, it’s lost to the cacophony. Granger immediately goes to work, but the moment she begins her spellwork, something skin colored flails and goes sailing through the air. It takes my brain several seconds to register that a finger has landed just to the left of my foot. Bile rises with my stomach in bitter revolt but as I go to step away, the scent of it all finally hits me.

They say that smell is the strongest sense tied to memory and as the cloying miasma of sickly sweet putrescence rolls over me, I am transported back to the Manor, to the very first time the Carrow siblings used this curse. The Dark Lord had all manner of people at his disposal and knew exactly how to employ them to the best of their ability. When it came to the Carrow’s, it was curses, the darker the better and, in this case, I’d watched them cast this one repeatedly on whichever unfortunate muggles they’d captured, all in an effort to perfect it. If the rapid blackening of this person’s extremities was anything to go by, I’d wager a guess that they’d finally got it down. 

“Neville, what happened?” Her bushy hair is practically vibrating as she attempts to put the victim back together again.

“A curse, I don’t know,” Longbottom stutters out. “We were—we were looking for George. She—she shoved me out of the way…” 

Granger shakes her head, mumbling to herself. “I don’t know what this is,” she finally admits. There is another scream, low and guttural, and something wet hits the floor. “Fuck.” That’s a first. “Please pick up her foot.”

“Her—Hermione,” Longbottom begins

“Neville. I need her foot.” She doesn’t even look up at him, too occupied with the impossible task before her. He blanches and as he bends down to gather the detached part, I catch a proper glimpse of the familiar horror.

She’s monstrous. What used to be a girl is now just a body hurtling towards advanced decay, even as it still cruelly clings to life. Any exposed skin I can see goes black, skin and bone sloughing off at every joint. It’s so horrific, it’s abject. She’s not even a person, she’s just an abomination. Her face is largely unaffected, even though her expression is a ruin of animalistic agony. I tremble as her wide, green eyes meet my own and though there is nothing I want more than to run, I am frozen in terror.

“Her blood is…” Granger trails off as the victim screams again. Another thud, a hand curled in on itself like a dead spider. I swallow puke and will myself to blink. “I can’t—”

Another pop of Apparition and one of the Weasleys materializes on the other side of the table. “Penelope!” His wail is pure anguish as it rips its way out of him. “Oh gods no, no, no, no.” 

“Percy, stop!” Granger tries to stop him, but it’s too late. He reaches for the remaining hand and it comes apart at the barest touch. The woman writhes and howls and I regain enough control to tear my eyes from the gruesome sight, only to meet Granger’s searching gaze from across the monstrous body. 

She looks at me, a mirror of my own terror and it shocks me so much, the spell finally breaks. With fear clinging to my every motion, I turn tail and run. 

It’s hours later, far past the setting sun, and I am still wide awake. The macabre cacophony of that girl dying went on for what felt like several lifetimes and the nervous energy thrumming through me has me endlessly pacing my room. Occlumency barely helps. I cannot read or sleep or fucking leave so I just tread the old blue rug back and forth, reciting various potion recipes in my head to keep myself together. The bloodied images of what’d I just seen settle in amongst the other gruesome traumas and I know I’ll need to compartmentalize them away as soon as I am capable. My nightmares are bad enough already without reliving the agonizing torture of a person I don’t even fucking know.

Eventually, the house is still long enough for me to chance venturing forth. I need out of this room, away from these four walls. I pause at the door and listen, waiting for any telltale sounds. When I am met with only silence, I pull it open and slip into the hallway. While I never heard Granger partake in her nightly shower-and-breakdown combination, her bedroom door is closed, so I safely assume she’s tucked away inside. 

Every third stair creeks as I slink downstairs, something I’d usually be mindful of were I not so thoroughly rattled. I’m not even sure where I want to go, just away; out. The back porch is the furthest place, as it always is, and so it'll have to do. As I pass by the darkened living room, however, the clink of glass on wood stops me in my tracks. 

"Who's there?" I demand of the darkness, as if anything about me is still threatening. 

"The boogeyman," Granger says matter of factly. 

Peering through the door, my eyes adjust enough to discern the outline of her sprawled across the couch. "What?" 

She laughs, far too loud. "Never mind." I wait for her to carry on but she just giggles a few more times to herself and goes silent. 

"What are you doing down here anyway?" My feet carry me further into the dark. "Isn't it past your bedtime?" 

"Isn't it obvious?" She shifts, pushing herself up onto her elbow. "Wallowing." When she gestures wide, her hand catches the empty potion bottle on the coffee table and sends it crashing to the floor. It thuds mutely when it hits the rug before rattling slightly as it rolls under the couch. "Oops."

I lean into the back of my usual chair, and take a second to reassess the scene before me. "You're drunk."

Another laugh, half shouted from the hollow of her throat. "If only," she says wistfully. "No, no, there is no alcohol here. Constant vigilance, remember?" 

"What?" 

"Never mind." Granger runs a hand raggedly down her face. "What do you want?" 

"From you? Nothing." It comes out distracted as I try to count the empty bottles littering the space around her. "How many potions have you had?" 

She snorts. "That's none of your business."

"Yes it is," I insist. "If you overdose and do something annoying like die, they'll blame me and I'm not getting killed because of your carelessness." 

She glares at me. "I'm not going to overdose, don't be dramatic."

"Right." 

"Shut up, Malfoy. Who are you to judge me?" Unfortunately for her, she slurs the last bit and robs me of my need to respond. “Whatever. It’s been a challenging day.”

Despite myself, because when it comes to Granger it is always spite, I nod. “Massive fucking understatement.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles and we both turn to the window and the sliver of moonlight spilling through the ragged curtain. “She died.”

“I assumed.”

“It was…” Granger takes a shuddering breath and I wonder if I should count this towards the humiliatingly long list of times we’ve cried in front of each other. I’d say I was surprised I’d started keeping track but that’d be a lie. “Indescribably horrible.”

“I’ve, uh, seen it before.” I wish I could say this need to confess to her was some intentional effort to manipulate but the ugly truth of it all is that I’m breaking apart at the seams and Granger is just the one unlucky enough to discover the mess. 

“You have?” Her voice breaks and I cannot meet the searching look she gives me.

“The Carrows. They’re very…gifted at what the Dark Lord has them doing.”

“Did—”

I stop her, “and before you ask, no, I don’t know the counter curse. They probably didn’t even bother creating one.”

“I was going to ask,” she says carefully, over-enunciating to hide her inebriation, “if you ever used it.”

“What the fuck, Granger? How can you even ask me that?” I am incredulous. “Do you really think I tortured people?”

She shrugs. “You tortured me.”

“I—” I falter because she’s right. She’s always fucking right. “It was hardly the same.”

“I suppose. Still, I’ve no idea what you were capable of.”

I am actually insulted which just furthers the derision in my voice. “Right, because how could I forget? I’m just a monster to you.”

“And that’s your fault!”

“We were children!”

“So what? You still managed to break my heart. I was eleven years old, Malfoy. You cannot imagine the shock and awe I’d felt learning I was a witch. The day that letter arrived was and remains to be the singlest greatest moment of my life. I was…” She pauses, searching while I cling to every word. “Euphoric. Untouchable. And you ruined it,” she snarls.

“Is this where I prostrate myself before you? Make some grand fucking apology and beg for forgiveness?”

“You wouldn’t mean it anyway.” 

It’s disgusting how unsure I am of that. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“I’d want to.” The tonal shift of her attitude leaves me reeling. Granger lets out a sad little laugh. “Merlin, how pathetic.”

“Your words, not mine.”

She stands and immediately wobbles and only because I’d spent nearly a year playing nursemaid to my ailing mother, I take a cautious step forward. We both have the grace to say nothing, despite the embarrassment. Some things are too much, even here, even now. “I need to go to sleep.”

“Good luck.” There is no point in pretending we aren’t both intimately aware of the others' nightmares. The walls in this cottage are so humiliatingly thin. 

She lightly crashes into the bookshelf on her way out, but I manage to not move and she manages to not fall and we manage not to touch. When she passes by, the sweet aroma of pain potions follows her. I’ve never seen her so undone. As she reaches the staircase, I turn to leave. The back porch still beckons, its rickety wooden bench the only salvation to be had on a night as wretched as this. 

“Malfoy?” Once more her voice, in the dark.

“What?”

“I don’t really think you’re a monster.”

“You should.” I’m right and she knows it and so she says nothing at all.

Chapter Text

It takes three days and several cleansing spells to get the smell of rot out of the kitchen. Dark Magic lingers like the after image of the too bright sun; a sting when your eyes are open and a shock even when they're closed. I completely destroy and transfigure the kitchen table a dozen times before it feels clean enough to use once more. We take our meals in the living room, the food cold and mostly uncooked. Any amount of time spent before the stove is nauseating until I'm able to properly purify the space. 

It took Penelope twelve minutes to die. Percy's screams of anguish held fast the entire time and, in the end, the corpse they took with them had decayed beyond recognition. I'll never forget the look on her face, that small island of still living tissue, when her hand came off into Percy's desperate grasp. I thought I'd stomached enough to handle anything but life is an endless parade of unwanted surprises. I tried to end her suffering early, but it was no use. Whatever had been done to her had been engineered to run its course, stoppable only through the killing curse and once was enough for me. 

Harry refuses to mention it when he comes to see me a few days later. He speaks only of Percy and only when I pester him. If they had a funeral for whatever remained of Penelope I was not informed and certainly not invited. Ron's elder brother is fractured, probably beyond true repair at this point. They are taking care to never leave him alone but he was always cleverer than they gave him credit for. If he wishes for release, I've no doubt he'll see it through. 

Despite my posturing and incessant need to remain strong in the face of all this misery, I find myself slipping. Malfoy's discovery of me, that vulnerable and stupid state I was in, those are things I thought I'd left in the past. Normally I stick to my two pain potions at a time, numb enough to dull the sting but conscious enough to manage the ache. The situation with Penelope was unprecedented in its horror, though, and my careful house of cards came tumbling down.

I wait for days for him to say something, to make some snide remark about how weak and foolish I am but it never comes. He makes inquiries about the Shield potion, mocks whatever novel he's reading at that moment in time, and complains endlessly about the food but makes no mention of the curse or the gruesome event that unfolded on our kitchen table. My kitchen table. 

I'm not sure as to the nature and true purpose of his almost kindness. Every time I begin to think we've moved beyond the ugliness, it tends to resurface but it's been well over a week now without a proper argument. I've never wanted to know him but the war cares not for me and my wants. Were Harry to find out my distinct lack of hatred towards our childhood nemesis, I'm sure his disappointment would be the final push I'd need over the proverbial edge. Nothing good can come from this charade, Malfoy has said so himself and yet, we find ourselves drawn to one another. To be fair, we are utterly without any alternatives but at times, for just a moment, the pretense that thrums between us vanishes and we are just two people in a cottage by the sea. 

It's proximity and that insistent bit of humanity that demands for companionship, it must be. He made my life hell for years. He was, up until a few months ago, on the wrong side of an evil war. He's given no indication he no longer considers me subhuman due to my blood status. In any other situation, this would be beyond the pale. And yet. 

And yet. 

"Are you stirring it clockwise thrice before twice counter clockwise?" 

"Yes, Malfoy." The glare I give my cauldron is unquestionably for him. 

"You're sure? Because the bitter root should have turned by now." 

"Of course I'm sure!" I snap. 

He makes a small noise of doubt. 

"Fine, do you want to come try it then?" I step back, gesturing at the potion. Malfoy pauses, looking for the hidden deception. I roll my eyes and that appears to answer his unspoken question. With measured steps he moves into the space I've made, taking the wooden spoon from my outstretched hand. 

Minutes tick by while he assesses my work up close, fiddling with the heat and direction of the sun hitting the surface of the bubbling liquid. Finally, "do you have any Abraxan hair?" 

“Are you mental? Do you see any winged horses around here?”

He shrugs. “You’ve gotten your hands on African sea salt somehow. That’s hardly common.”

“Yes but it keeps for years and used to be purchasable in significant amounts before…” I trail off, leaving us both to endure the unwanted war reference in awkward silence. “Why Abraxan hair?”

“It’s an amplifier,” he says. “In truth, a Granian hair would be preferable but that’d be impossible to get ahold of.”

“And Abraxan is any easier?”

“There are some wild herds in France.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

His jaw clenches, a telltale sign of some repetitive and unknown inner conflict. “We have property in Northern France. It’s where—” He stops so suddenly, his teeth clash.

“It’s where, what?”

“Nothing.”

“Malfoy—”

“It’s nothing, just drop it.” He turns back to the cauldron. Instead of pressing the matter, I take the opportunity to study him. Normally he slouches, a futile attempt to minimize his presence in a room as if he’s not the first thing that draws the eye. At this moment, however, he’s standing straight, his spine a rod in perfect perpendicularity to the breadth of his shoulders. He was such a menace of my youth, I never took the time to see him as a real person. Now, after all these months, he’s nothing but a person to me. There is a gravity to him that I used to attribute to my reflexive hatred that I know now is something innate, an ephemeral aspect of his design. He’s unavoidable to me, so familiar now that I am with his existence. I’ve never truly lived with another person in this regard before and it dawns on me here, in the late afternoon light, how unique our situation is.

“It’s where you wanted to go,” I finally respond.

“What?”

“When you left the Manor. That’s where you were trying to go.”

Malfoy’s breathy laugh is bitter as the root he stirs. “So fucking clever, aren’t you Granger?”

“It was hardly a challenging assumption.”

“I don’t recall inviting you to try.”

“I don’t recall bothering to ask.”

He raps the wooden spoon against the edge of the cauldron, casting droplets of muted yellow potion into the air. “You never do.”

He’s not the first to accuse me of overstepping my bounds. I’ve never known when to let sleeping dogs lie, as my father would say. There is just this bottomless pool of hunger within me, an incessant drive for knowledge. I have to know, need to know. This voracious tenacity is more curse than boon, but it’s kept my loved ones and myself alive for this long. It kept the Order safe, especially two years ago, even if it cost me dearly. 

“What is it?” He pulls me from my thoughts and my vision refocuses enough to let me know I’ve been staring openly at him.

I blush as if I’ve done something inappropriate, and yank the spoon back when he offers it. “I was lost in thought, that's all.”

“Care to share with the class?” He snarks.

“Only if you do,” I counter.

Malfoy steps away, allowing me to stand before the cauldron once more. He doesn’t go far, however, electing to lean against the wall beside me, head tilted towards the ceiling. “I’ve nothing interesting to say.”

“Sure you do.” I flick my wand above the potion, carefully letting it swirl in the clockwise motion. “You just don’t feel like saying it.”

“Why are you so bloody nosy?”

I shrug. “I’m more tenacious, I’d say.”

“That’s because you’re pretentious.”

“You have a house in Northern France, Malfoy. The only pretentious twit here is you.”

The corners of his mouth curl up, ever so slightly. “We have three, actually.”

I laugh, short but sincere. “You’re only proving my point.”

“It’s not pretentious to be wealthy, Granger. It’s just uncouth to brag about it.”

“Merlin knows you’ve never bragged a day in your life, right?” I glance at him as his grin widens.

“Never.”

“Liar,” I say lightly but it still manages to sour the moment. His mouth goes slack and he turns back to the ceiling. 

For a time, we’re just there, close enough to not be considered alone. I work at the Shield potion, even though I know this batch will fail. Malfoy lingers, back pressed tightly against the faded wallpaper, his left hand tucked into the pockets of his trousers. The fading sunlight casts him in stark shadow, the sharp edges of his face illuminated by the coming dusk. I force myself to look away.

“Did you know that Malfoy and Luna have some sort of history together?” I ask over the rim of my teacup. 

The spatter of freckles across Ginny’s brow vanishes as she furrows it. “What do you mean?”

“She was here a few weeks ago and—” I hesitate, as if I’m sharing something with her that isn’t mine to give away. 

Ginny looks at me expectantly.

“And she wanted to speak to him in private.”

“What about?”

“I’m not sure.” The teacup rattles as I set it down.

“Did you ask her?”

“I didn’t have a chance to, but when I asked him, Malfoy got all weird about it.”

She scoffs into her drink. “Of course he did. It’s not like he’d ever tell you anything.”

“Right. Of course not.” And even though I should agree with her, I can’t. I won’t. 

The thing about pain potions is that they’re not brewed according to a rigid, singular recipe. Pain is too ambiguous to group under one solid set of ingredients. This is especially true when you are deliberately treating only the pain itself and not the underlying cause. Essence of Dittany and Essence of Murtlap both contain trace properties related to pain control, but function far better as ingredients used to heal. Long before I’d been sent here to be the primary Healer for the Order, I’d dabbled in potioneering specifically related to healing and pain management. Every Healer I knew or studied had their own formula for it and I generally relied on an amalgamation of the most popular ones.

When everything with Ernie happened two summers ago, I found myself needing to manage a type of pain I knew full well could not be handled by Dittany and Murtlap alone. The muggle side of me is acutely aware of the dangerous territory I found myself in, but pain demands to be felt and I’ve always hated being told what to do. My research led me through several different ingredients and technically unsafe potion recipes before I eventually crafted the concoction I use now. 

It’s an excellent potion, in my opinion, especially for use in the short term, even for otherwise traditional pain. Little to no impact on mental ability while muting the body in a way that doesn’t render you utterly inert. A bit of brilliance I am not nearly humble enough to deny. The major drawback—and there is one because everything demands a price—is it also significantly inhibits muscle growth when taken in large quantities. Used in conjunction with other healing potions and especially healing spells, it’s not too much of a hindrance. All the same, I keep a far less potent supply on hand for my patients, lest I risk their chances to heal. For myself, it’s easier to take two very strong ones than several lesser ones. That being said, the stronger a single dose, the more dangerous the side effects. Seeing as I’ve no raw data to test it against, I cannot say for certain that it has hampered or even prevented my leg from healing but it’s clear that such a threat was never enough to stop me from using it.

Every night I lie in bed and promise myself I’ll stop using it the next day. Morning comes and I’ll try and tough it out for roughly the duration of breakfast before something small triggers me into a spiral that ends only at the bottom of two glass vials. It’s been this way for months, years at this point. The longest I’ve stayed truly sober was the two weeks it took to get my living arrangement here figured out and the catalyst for that was wholly my fault. I took that curse to save Harry’s life, this is true, but there was far more at play than just bad luck and worse timing. 

The second longest time I’d stayed sober was because of Malfoy. 

I’m cutting tomatoes for dinner when it happens. 

Malfoy is on the couch, outside my field of view, reading 1984 . It’s the next day, a rainy Thursday, with no sunlight to speak of. The ocean has been particularly violent as of late and I’m distracted staring off into its writhing gray waves when I hear the thud. Immediately I know it’s the sound of a hardcover hitting the stone floor, having dropped my fair share of books in my life. I wait for the sound of retrieval only to be met with him swearing. “Fuck.”

Images of broken bookbindings and cracked spines fill my head and I heave myself towards the living room with a heavy sigh. “I know Orwell can be a bit droll, but literary violence is absolutely unnecessary. You shouldn’t throw—” I halt in the doorway. Malfoy is standing, ghost white, staring into the middle distance. Panic grips me and I immediately look around for signs of invasion. “What’s wrong?”

Whatever fear has captured him loosens when I speak and he turns to me, wide-eyed and trembling. “My arm hurts.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, closing the gap between us. Aside from quick glances whenever the sleeves of his clothing roll back too far, I haven’t properly seen his wound in a few weeks. It’s healed, of this I’m sure, but I’m far too intimate with phantom pains to dismiss him outright. “Let me see.”

Malfoy paces, a wolf in a cage, and it’s only after I ask a second time that he yields. I hold out my hands and he shoves his left arm into them. As I push up the sleeve of his jumper, he shakes, but doesn’t look away. “It burns like—like he’s summoning me.” 

With deft fingers, I prod gently at the rounded edge where his wrist should be. The black ink of the Dark Mark lingers still, but is inert, the charm having faded once the image was broken. When I’d stitched him back together, I’d done what I could to coax the remaining tattoo out of his skin, leaving an indecipherable black mass radiating out from the end of his left arm, the original shape having dissolved along with the original spell. I’d checked several times for any residual Dark Magic but I was sure then, as I am sure now, that there is none. “There’s no change.”

He snarls and wrenches out of my grasp. “I’m not fucking imagining things, Granger.” There is no one else to attack and so, like he’s Ginny, like he’s Ron, I force myself to take the blow. “I know what this feels like.” 

“I’m not doubting that, Malfoy, I am just saying that medically it’s fine.” He shakes his head, fear as plain as day on his face. My stomach twists. I’ve never been good around people in pain; I acknowledge the irony. “When he calls, you have to come or you’ll die, right?” Logic has yet to fail me.

“Yes.” His voice trembles as he speaks. The clouding of Occlumency flickers but fails to take hold within the depths of his gray eyes. “Yes,” he repeats.

“Right. Well, you’re not dead and you would be by now, so that is a good sign.” I keep my tone neutral, careful not to stray too far into concern lest it chase him away. “Do you feel compelled to go anywhere in particular?”

Malfoy takes a moment to seriously consider my question, even amidst his consuming terror, before shaking his head.

“Excellent,” I say. “It is probably phantom pain.”

This immediately sets him off again. “I told you, I’m not imagining—”

I cut him off. “No, you aren’t, I know that. But phantom pains do not need to be deliberately imagined to manifest.” 

“This is dark magic, it’s the darkest magic there is! Your Muggle diagnoses don’t mean shit―” He carries on yelling but I tune him out, and focus on leading him over to the sofa. I pull him down beside me, our knees knocking. “I’m not fucking mental, Granger, I’m not fucking―”

“Draco.” It stops him immediately and I make my voice as calm and as serious as I know how. “You are not crazy.” This doesn’t appear to placate him at all. “But you are having a panic attack.” He immediately tries to stand and I hold tightly onto his shoulders, keeping him in place. “This is normal, it’s expected. Most importantly, it is temporary.”

His gray eyes are wild as I force him to maintain contact. “My chest―”

“I know.”

“It’s—my lungs—I can’t breathe—”

“You’re not dying, I promise.” 

“Granger—” It’s strangled, cut off by his fear.

“I can give you a sleeping potion, but it will only prolong the inevitable. First hand experience dictates that the best way out is through.” Old memories rush to the surface but I shove them back down into the murky deep. “I can help you through this. Do you trust me?”

He nods, sending strands of platinum hair into his face.

Tentatively, I place a hand over his heart and feel it racing beneath my palm. He doesn’t even register the contact. “Focus on my voice, okay?”

“Okay,” he croaks.

I lead him through familiar breathing exercises, my body having long since memorized the motions. His right hand digs into the skin of his thigh and he lets his left arm hang lamely at his side. Whenever he opens his eyes, I hold his gaze with efficiency, and when they are closed, I talk him through the panic. I lack the fingers necessary to count the amount of panic attacks I’ve dealt with the last three years, both for myself and others. Harry was the only person who ever knew what to say when I was as far gone as Malfoy is and so I channel his kindness into this moment.

Minutes tick by and I keep my palm pressed securely over his heart, marking carefully as it slowly begins to resume a normal rhythm. I let my focus drift, as he comes out of it, to the pattern of his breathing, and the color that begins to flush his sallow face again. In the end, once I am sure that he’s stable, I take my hands off him and look him in the eye. “Does your arm still hurt?”

“No.” His voice is strained but sure. 

“Good.” I stand up, needing to get him a Calming draught and to physically distance myself from him, to breathe.

“Granger—” His trembling fingers reach out, wrapping themselves around my wrist.

How far we’ve come, in so short a time, and how much further we may yet go. I glance down at his hand, the tether we’ve made out of one another. His look is pleading but for what I cannot say. At this moment all I can give him is dignity, some empathy, even if it’s all coming from the person he dislikes most. “Malfoy,” I say. “You’re safe.” As gently as I could ever hope to be, I slowly detangle myself from him and retreat into the kitchen. 

It takes a minute or two for my heart to stop racing and my conviction to return. Stepping back into the living room, Calming draught in hand, I find him sitting at the edge of his cushion, staring blankly at the faded green rug. When I give him the vial, he drinks it without hesitation. 

“Come with me.” This gathers his attention enough for him to finally look up. The clouding of Occlumency is so dark, his eyes are black. I frown, but withhold the lecture. 

“Where?”

“Upstairs. You need rest.”

He’s so far gone, he doesn’t even bother to protest and instead follows me mutely as I carefully lead him up the too narrow stairs and into the security of his room. I wait until he’s safely sitting on his bed before making my escape. Just before I close the door, I glance at him, and something ephemeral takes root beneath my heart. 

In the morning, he is sitting at the kitchen table. It’s the first time he’s ever come downstairs before me and certainly the first time, possibly in his entire life, he’s made tea for someone else. When I arrive, he gives me yet another pleading look, but this one is crystal clear. Sleeping dogs, my father would whisper, and so I take the cup and we drink it in silence, together.

I don’t realize until after dinner that two vials of light blue liquid lay undisturbed on my nightstand, their presence signifying something I cannot yet begin to understand.

Chapter Text

There is a faded bruise coloring Moody's cheek. He's droning on about possible schedules and raids used by the Death Eaters as if I know fuck all about them. I should be paying attention, of course, but the ugly mottled yellow bothers me. Who punched him and why? Does Granger know? More importantly, can I shake their hand? 

"Mr. Malfoy?" His cadence is pointed enough to steal my wandering attention. "Do you agree?" 

"With what?" 

With a face like ground hamburger you'd think he'd be crap at micro expressions but the slight twitch of his upper lip betrays his irritation. 

"With what I've been saying, regarding Tom's planning methods?" 

My Occlumency is still fucked and so my usually excellent memory is almost nonexistent. Still, I rack my brain for its recollection regarding the last few minutes. "I've told you before that I was hardly in his inner circle."

"Yes but you're a perceptive young man, Mr. Malfoy and furthermore, you possess an irritating sense of self-preservation," he responds. What an absurdly incorrect read of my character. "I sincerely doubt you gathered no data regarding their comings and goings. Your peace of mind depended on it." 

He's right and it just darkens my already foul mood. "The implication that I experienced a single fucking second of peace is absolutely mad."

"You were safe—" 

"By what fucking measurement? There was and still is nothing safe about the Manor. Nothing." I usually try to refrain from letting my self control slip but I am exceptionally tired and Moody is exceptionally wretched. "Hence my continuous request to rescue my mother."

"We're doing what we can, but an assault on Malfoy Manor is no simple undertaking. Especially," he leans forward, the hulk of his body filling the otherwise empty living room, "without the diadem." 

He gives me a pointed stare and I yawn. "Am I supposed to know what that is?" 

Instead of responding right away, he studies me. The unnatural jerking of his fake eye is deeply unsettling. "That remains to be seen."

"I wait with bated breath, surely." I give him my very best adolescent sneer, for all the good it does. 

"How are you adjusting to life here?" 

The change in topic throws me off balance as he so obviously intended. "Oh it's been a bloody walk in the park, obviously." 

"Miss Granger’s weekly reports are exceptionally thorough." 

Of course they are. "And what's the verdict? Have I earned top marks?" I think back to Granger’s warning after my little spat with Ginny Weasley and I wonder at the merit of her concern. 

"Your usefulness is still up for debate but she seems certain that you pose no threat."

"She's too kind," I drawl. 

Moody narrows his eye at me, head tilting ever so slightly to the right. "Don't mistake her cordiality for friendliness, Mr. Malfoy."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Since when are you sending reports to Moody about me?" I have enough self-control left to refrain from asking her until dinner, after everyone has gone. 

Granger looks up at me, frowning. "Since the very beginning. You know this." 

"I must have forgotten," I sniff. She goes back to her meal and the sea crashes restlessly in the dark night. "What do you say about me in your little letters?" 

This time, she grins. "Why? Worried I'll remind everyone what a prat you are?" 

"No." It comes out too fast, too close to desperate. "I'm just curious is all." 

"Yes, well you know what they say about curiosity and cats." 

I give her a blank look. "What are you on about?" 

She shakes her head, the action underlined by the motion of her massive hair. "Never mind. It's a muggle turn of phrase," she says. "Anyway, why do you care about what I, of all people, have to say about you? My opinion has never mattered." 

"That is woefully untrue." 

"Pardon?" 

"You've already warned me once that your opinion is what stands between me and death by proverbial wolves."

Her face twists. "What?" 

"Wolves. You said Moody would feed me to bloody wolves, remember? Or was that another one of your charming muggle-isms?"

"Merlin," she mumbles and sets her fork down definitively. "I warned you to stop alienating the people who've elected to save you." 

"They didn't 'elect' to do fucking anything. I'm just another tool to be used, same as you." It's been ages since our last proper fight, too long in truth. 

"Being useful is not the same as being used, Malfoy." Her eyes are so bright when she's mad. 

"Seems to me the difference between the two would be consent. Something that I never gave." 

"Moody gave you the choice, Malfoy." It must sound weak even to her because her mouth twists as she says it. 

"Ah yes, voluntary imprisonment or certain death. Quite the array of options, don't you think?" It's vile but I'm not actually trying to make her feel guilty even though it's clearly the only thing written on her face. "Tough choice, that." 

"It's war, Malfoy. The only choices to be had are tough." 

"And what about you, Golden Girl?" I lean forward, elbows pressed into the dark wood. "Was it a tough choice for you?" 

Granger holds my stare, a shining example of her Gryffindor courage. "Was what?" 

"Choosing to come here, in self appointed exile, and play a role you hate?" 

I wait for the fire and the flood but it never comes. "Who said I ever had a choice?" 

"Surely the Weasel wouldn't let his girlfriend be sent away without a fight?" It dawns on me as I say it that I've yet to see the little ginger fuck among the revolving cast of assholes that come by. 

Granger finally glares at me and it's all I can do not to smile. "Ronald has no say over my actions," she snaps. "And he's not my boyfriend."

"Oh really?" How delicious. The best thing I've had to eat in months. 

She falters, self-conscious of all things, and clears her throat. "Not that it's any of your business but no. He's not." 

"What happened?" I press. "Trouble in paradise?" 

"I'm going to bed." She stands so abruptly the dishes rattle. Usually we get in a few more minutes of verbal assault before one of us inevitably caves and I suddenly find myself disappointed at her immediate defeat. 

I look at the clock. "It's barely half past seven." 

"I'm tired." Granger has shut down so fast it's alarming. "Good night." 

"Granger, wait–!" 

There is no response save the slamming of her bedroom door. It takes no small amount of effort not to chase after her and instead, I force myself to finish the meal alone. 

When I wake up for the fifth time in as many nights, I know truly that something is wrong. Normally my nightmares end in blood and screams, my unconscious mind forcing me awake just to stop the suffering. This tried and true method appears to be changing as of late, however, and I don't fucking like it. 

Where I'd usually wake screaming, covered in sweat and lingering fear, now it's slowly, carefully, never all at once. There is a voice, annoyingly familiar, that whispers intelligibly into my ear each time the nightmares get to be too much before something firm and warm presses itself to my chest and gently guides me back to awareness. 

At first I thought someone was sneaking into my room but there's no way. Granger is quiet but she's not that fast on her feet, not anymore. No, it seems that some small part of my brain has been altered somehow, possessed maybe. 

The weight of her hand over my heart is seared into the surface of my thoughts, an island of stillness on a writhing sea. When was the last time someone comforted me? When was the last time I'd been deserving of such an act? It's as if she knew what it would do to me, her kindness. How it would plague me to wonder at her sincerity. She's seen me undone so many times now, I can't even muster up the will to be humiliated. Instead I lay in bed at night, reeling not from the trauma of nightmares but from the warmth of her words, breathy and ephemeral against the noise of my mind. 

Brick by brick. Day by day. Wave by endless fucking wave, I am going, going, and soon to be gone. 

“You look particularly sour today,” she comments, hardly bothering to look up from her notebook. We haven’t talked about the panic attack and all that came after, or her reaction to my questions about the Weasel. Avoidance swims between us like an unspoken agreement, one that I am grateful for even as it unravels me.

“Oh are we discussing appearances now, Granger?” I ask as I walk past her to my usual spot, half collapsing into the chair’s surprisingly plush cushion. “Because I have to admit, that jumper is fucking dreadful.”

She snorts, ever the undignified sort. “You’re wearing nearly the same one.”

I glance down at the knitted gray monstrosity I’ve unfortunately taken a liking to, if only for its extra long sleeves. “Yes but I have enough dignity to know it’s utterly outside the realm of what I’d usually wear, whereas you,” I looked pointedly at her light blue top, “have always had the fashion sense of a blind bat.”

Granger pulls gently at the hole that has formed along the bottom seam. “It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.”

“Clearly,” I drawl before turning back to the book I’ve opened on my lap. Misery, it’s called. How apt. “Have you truly read all of these?”

From my peripheral I see her turn to look at the bookshelf. “Give or take a couple, yes. Some of them belonged to my mum. They were one of the only things I bothered to take from home the night I left.” Sadness looks worse on her than even the blue jumper. 

“You’ve been lugging around a small library, Granger.”

“I’ve a bag with an illegal extension charm on it.” She turns back to her notebook. “It's been quite handy these last few years.”

I give her a mildly appraising look. “Those are illegal.”

“Hence the ‘illegal’ portion of the name, yes.”

“Since when do you break the rules?”

Her weird muggle quill goes still when she looks at me. “Just because I respect the systems that contribute to a functioning and just society does not mean I just blindly follow the law. And while it may very well be illegal, the Ministry doesn’t even exist anymore so I’m not too worried about it.”

“So your illegal extension charm was an act of defiance against an unjust system then?”

“No, it was merely a tool in the whole ‘being on the run for my life from a psychopathic madman’ thing.”

“Right.” I feel awkward as if I was the one chasing her. “Where’s the bag now?”

“Upstairs.”

“Moody let you keep such a valuable war asset?” I tease.

“Moody doesn’t know I have it.”

“Keeping things from the commander-in-chief, Granger?” Despite my tone, she doesn’t take the bait and returns to her bloody notes. 

“Why are you pestering me? Don’t you have one of my Muggle novels to read and poorly interpret?” She eventually asks.

“Who says I can’t do both?”

“Your reading comprehension,” she says matter-of-factly and the small curl of the side of her mouth is a mirror to my own. We grow quiet, slipping into our daily habits. The routine we’ve developed is just this side of uncomfortably peaceful, but it’s not like I’ve any other options. She was right, of course, about it being easier to play nice than it is to pick fights, at least in the long run. My energy is mostly spent trying to work on my Occlumency efforts, anyway. Getting into shouting matches with her does me no good in that regard, even though I long for the simplicity of our past. It was easier, in a way, when we just hated each other. Now we’re…something and it’s tremendously fucking uncomfortably trying to figure out what. Not quite friends, not quite enemies. Flatmates, I suppose, although that’s dreadfully pedestrian. Maybe I’ll die in my sleep soon and save myself from this weird little prison of my own design.

At one point she gets up and wanders over to her cabinet of ingredients. I track her with my eyes, wondering for the hundredth time what happened to her leg. Despite her weird proverb about curious cats, I can’t shake the desire to figure it out, try as I might. Not that I can ask her, though. To do so would just allot her the opportunity to go rooting through my own dark past and I’ve spent too long shoving it into metaphorical boxes to let her do so. 

“More experiments with rewriting the fundamental laws of potioneering?” It appears I’ve developed a complete fucking inability to not talk to her.

“No.” She carries a handful of plants back to her work station. “Just a new batch of blood-replenishing potion.” As she says it, the floral scent of fluxweed drifts past me. 

“You hardly have patients, Granger, why do you even need this many?”

“I send them in bulk back to headquarters with Harry whenever he drops by. They use them in the field, mostly, or whenever needed.”

“So why don’t they just brew them themselves?”

The line of her shoulders goes taut. “There’s no room,” she lies.

“Or is it just some pathetic attempt on their part to keep you relevant to the cause?” 

“Stop it.” Her voice is low, forced almost and for some reason, I find myself angry. 

“How fucking insulting, honestly.”

She gives me a bewildered look. “Excuse me?”

“I mean honestly, Granger, truly, this is degrading.” I drop the discarded book on the coffee table before me, my attention wholly consumed by something else. 

“How dare—” she begins, but I cut her off.

“You fuck up your leg and the Order just ships you off like some kind of Squib? What the hell, Granger?” I gesture wildly at the length of her as she stands, half facing me in the morning light. “You’re not an invalid, clearly. How can you let them treat you like this?” I demand, angrier than I have any right or reason to be.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Malfoy. None. I chose this, remember?”

“You said you had no choice.”

“I—” She turns from me for a moment, throat bobbing as she swallows. “This was the only choice, okay? This,” her arms swing wide as she gestures at the house around us, “is what I get. It’s what I deserve.”

“Because you killed someone?” I can’t quit now, not when I’m this far gone. She marches over to me as I stand, the anger palpable in the air. 

“Don’t,” she warns. “Don’t you dare bring that up. You cannot begin to imagine—”

“You’re Hermione Granger! What else could it be? You’re the brains of the trio. You’re undoubtedly the reason they’re all still alive. What could possibly be worth throwing you away?” I match the volume of her tone, yelling at her as if I’ve any stake in this fight. My actions and their purpose is far, far beyond me. 

Her mouth hangs open, the weight of all I’m saying too painful to bear outright. “What is wrong—”

There is a knock, loud and deliberate, at the front door. It shatters the tension between us, rebuilding it into something neutral, familiar, even. We both turn, staring in shock towards the offending sound. In all my time here, no one has ever, ever knocked on the door. “Expecting someone?” It occurs to me as I ask just how close we’ve found ourselves. 

“Shut up,” she hisses and yanks me down by the hand. We crouch awkwardly beside the coffee table.

“This doesn’t seem like the usual protocol.”

“Shut up.” Her expression is severe, calculating. I wish for my wand for the first time in weeks, as if it could do me any good. There is a shadowy, faint movement from beyond the curtains of the front window, their figure impossible to decipher.

“Maybe Potter―”

“Malfoy.” Her hand squeezes my own and I realize we’ve yet to let go of one another. The heat of her palm against my chest, a soft whisper in my ear. My heart races in fear, but of what danger I refuse to say. “Stay here.”

“Why?” She ignores me and, in the absence of her fingers wrapped around my own, I shiver against a sudden cold. Staying low to the ground, she shuffles over to the living room window, and I catch a glimpse of her wand clutched carefully at her side. Without a word, she casts a disillusionment charm on herself and it’s only by virtue of having seen it that I can still pick out her shape against the fading gray light. 

Another knock and I try not to flinch at the sharp sound echoing through the still cottage. For the first time since arriving I realize how woefully, almost comically, defenseless we are. There is one wand between us, a wand that only she can wield, and our ratio of working limbs to people is shit. We are so fucked, should the war make its way to our doorstep.

The briefest flutter of the curtain as Granger peers out into the overgrown front garden. The breath I’m holding threatens to burn its way out of me, but I hold fast. Fingernails dig into my palm as I tighten my first and run through every conceivable escape route should hell come bursting through the front door. 

Suddenly, the space before the window ripples and her form is visible again. Before I can ask, she’s on her feet and rushing to the front door.

Every thought of escape is left to wither as I chase after her. “Granger, what―”

She pulls the door open, pausing just long enough for me to see her forced smile, before wrapping her arms tightly around Ronald fucking Weasley. 

"Ron." The muffled cry of her voice is barely audible as she buries her face in his thick neck. 

"'Mione," he breathes. My lip curls. What a horrible fucking nickname. 

Granger pulls back, clinging to his arms as she looks up at him. There is something irreverent on her face and all at once the intimacy of this moment hits me like an ocean wave. I should not be here, should not bear witness to this private reunion. I can't stand these people, especially should they start snogging like teenagers. If the look on the Weasel's face is anything to go by, it's not far off. 

"I can't believe you're here," she says, slightly strained. I bet he doesn't even fucking notice. "Why on earth did you knock?! No one knocks! That's completely against protocol." 

He turns the same shade as his stupid hair. "I thought it'd be sweet. A nice surprise or something."

"Why would—" Granger stops herself and I frown. "Please don't do it again. You scared us half to death." 

"Us? Who else is here?" He looks beyond where she stands in the doorway, uncomfortably blue eyes analyzing the very dust in the air. I'm still where I stopped short, standing halfway between them and any valid means of escape. He passes completely over me, as if his oafish brain cannot comprehend my presence. When it finally catches up he fixes me with a dead stare and I watch in real time the warmth of Granger’s presence go cold. It's delicious the way he immediately unravels and I feast upon the abject hatred. 

"Malfoy?!" He cries. 

"Ronald, didn't—" She tries but it's too late. 

"What the fuck?!" 

I dip my head at him, making a mockery of this unwanted reunion. "Cheers, weasel." 

He practically foams at the mouth. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?!" He snarls, shoving his beastly form between Granger and I as if I'm the dangerous one. 

"Didn't Potter tell you?" I grin, alive with how it feels to infuriate him. "I live here."

"Are you fucking—" 

"Malfoy is staying here—" Granger starts once again. 

The weasel marches towards me, his face cherry red in raw anger. "You should be locked up!" He advances a few more feet forward. I'm privately grateful for Granger's presence; she'd never let her dog outright kill me. I think. 

"And you should be off playing war hero but you've never been very good at knowing your place," I say with disinterest. 

His patience snaps and he lunges for me. "I'll hex your bloody bollocks—" 

"Ronald!" She pulls at his arm but he jerks out of her grasp, and the distance between us shrinks considerably. I've never been particularly concerned with my height, generally adopting a feeling of neutrality about it, but as he towers over me I'm acutely aware of every missing inch. 

"I should kill you," he threatens and it's a testament to my Occlumency that I hold fast in the face of his unbridled fury. 

"You could try." I slowly slip the rest of my left arm into my trouser's pocket. "Greater men have." 

"Say that to—" 

"Ronald, stop!" Her careful fingers curl around his shoulder, stopping his persistent advance. The weasel stills, even as his eyes burn with hatred. I meet the intensity with a trademarked sneer. 

"Best listen to your girlfriend, mate. She's always been the smart one." 

He raises his wand but her hand slips to his arm and she pulls it roughly back down.

“Stop it!”

He turns from me to her, the edges of his violence going soft. My stomach tightens and I force myself not to look away. “What are you doing, ‘Mione?”

“Malfoy is my patient and furthermore, he’s under Moody and the Order’s protection.”

“What?”

“Didn’t Harry tell you? Or Ginny?”

“They failed to bloody mention this!” He gestures carelessly in my direction with his wand and I flinch. “How long?”

“Four months and three days,” she says. I suspected it was something along those lines but to have it confirmed is bittersweet.

“He’s supposed to be here for four months?!”

“No, he’s been here for four months.”

“And three days,” I add helpfully not that the look she gives me is anywhere close to grateful. 

“He’ll be here for as long as Moody demands.” The impatience in her tone is blatant and it’s a testament to her foolish kindness that she tolerates his idiocy at all. He was never the brightest, and what she sees in someone so clearly beneath her is beyond my comprehension.

He turns fully away from me, blocking her body from my line of sight. “Why didn’t you tell me? Four months, Hermione! Four months. How could you keep this from me?”

“Pray tell when it was that I was supposed to do that, Ronald, because I haven’t seen you in an age. It’s not like I can just send you an owl whenever I’m feeling chatty.”

“That’s not fair, you know I’ve been busy with strategizing. Lupin has me working day and night on the mission.”

“And I’m not? Contrary to your assumptions, I don’t just sit here and wait patiently for your attention. I have work to do, same as you,” she insists. “Keeping our loved ones alive another day.” 

“I never said that.” He drops his voice. “I know you’re doing what you can to help. I’m just frustrated, I’m sorry.”

“Then take it out on Harry, or Ginny. Scream at Moody, then. You’re privileged with choice.” It’s selfish, but I take a small amount of satisfaction at her defiance towards him. “It’s not my job to keep you in the loop. Merlin knows you don’t extend such a courtesy to me.”

“You know I’m not allowed too,” he admonishes. 

“And what a rule-follower you’ve always been.”

“‘Mione—”

“No.” She puts her hand up and steps around him. Her usually open features are tight with frustration and I brace myself for the onslaught. “Malfoy, can you—will you give us some privacy?” Her polite exhaustion was not what I was anticipating and I blink at her like a loon. Only a month ago I was fighting with her friends and she’d scream me out of the room. Now she requests where she used to demand and it’s far harder to swallow. Her shoulders sag with defeat and I am torn between posturing for the sake of infuriating Weasley and letting her vulnerability make me fucking soft like it apparently has been doing for weeks. In the end, I don’t trust myself to speak and so I just nod, throw another sneer at the idiot for old time’s sake, and leave.

To my pleasant surprise, Weasley doesn’t follow me up the stairs to berate me some more. Instead he lingers at Granger’s side, of course, for the entirety of the day, and I spend it in my room like a child sent to bed without dinner. Speaking of, when our usual meal time rolls around, a knock on my door pulls me from my latest novel—Wuthering Heights—and I open it to see a bowl of pumpkin soup waiting for me, with Granger nowhere in sight. I didn’t even hear her hobble up the stairs.

Eventually nature calls and I’m forced to take a trip to the bathroom. The one upstairs has the shower, but the one downstairs has the working toilet. This cottage is a fucking joke. A cursory glance down the stairs tells me nothing about the whereabouts of Weasley so I do my best to move silently and I make it to my destination unbothered. That good luck runs out, of course, the moment I exit the loo and open the door to see Weasley looming in the darkened hallway.

“Wea―”

“You need to leave.”

“Gladly, if you’d get out of the fucking way.” 

“I mean here, the cottage. You need to leave.”

“Oh interesting, I had no idea Moody died and left you in charge of this merry band of fucking wankers.” I try to step around him, but he’s nearly as wide as the hallway is and I’m trapped. My palm itches with apprehension, and I look around for an exit that does not exist.

He crowds me into the bathroom door. “She’s too nice to say this, so I’ll say it for the both of us. You aren’t wanted here. You don’t deserve to be here, safe and alive, do you understand me? Leave.”

“Or what?” I channel my panic into anger.

“Or I’ll come back and fucking kill you myself.” It’s not an empty threat and I know it. 

“As if you could.”

“Hermione told me about your little accident.” He nods down at my left arm, at the ugly, scarred, blunted end of it. “How you’re handless and weak and can’t even cast a simple light charm. You’re defenseless, Malfoy, and all alone.”

My jaw clenches until my teeth creek and I am a creature of shame; shame for the truth he wields; shame at myself for letting him affect me; shame at the whole fucking situation. “I doubt Moody wants―”

“I don’t give a right fuck what Moody wants. I’m indispensable, you aren’t. We don’t need you. No one needs you.” His face is so close to my own, I can smell the pumpkin on his breath. “Leave.”

“The only person that needs to leave is you, Ronald.” Granger appears from nowhere and I distantly wonder how it is that she has suddenly learned to move silently. Weasley backs away from me immediately and I fold my arms to keep from trembling. 

“‘Mione―” he starts but she silences him with a withering scowl.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“With me?!” He’s incredulous and red faced and I cannot believe I was just saved, again, by Hermione Granger. “What’s wrong with you? You’re defending him again!”

“Of course I am! You’re being a bully.”

“Me?! He’s the bully! He’s always been the bully! How could you forget―”

“I’ve forgotten nothing Ronald,” she rubs absently at her left arm. “But these petty squabbles are for children. Whatever happened at Hogwarts―”

“Oh, you mean him trying to bloody kill Dumbledore?”

“He failed!” I’ve died. I must have. There is no way I’m standing here, silent, as two-thirds of the Golden Trio run the laundry list of my adolescent mistakes. “Harry told you Snape did it. Snape was always supposed to do it.”

Weasley scoffs and the disgust he was directing at me is pointed slightly back at her. “I can’t believe you.”

“I wish I could say the same.” 

“He’s―”

“He’s my patient. And my guest.” It’s not nearly as much of an afterthought as it should be and I don’t know how to process it. I don’t know how to process any of this. “And since you fully supported the Order’s decision to trap me here, you don’t get to question whose company I choose to keep.”

Weasley doesn’t know which harsh truth to tackle first and if he was only slightly less of a massive wall, I would squeeze around him and get the fuck out of this conversation. “He’s your―you didn’t―trapped? You aren’t trapped!” Every bloody week she has this argument with these people. I’m starting to see the appeal in her dishonest placations whenever they come around. 

“Yes. I am.”

“This is for your―”

“Ronald, if you say this is for my safety one more time, I’m going to hex you into next year.”

“But―”

She sighs with her whole, tired body and gives him a pleading look. “Please leave.”

For a moment more I think he’ll continue whinging on but instead his face goes dark and he steps completely out of my way. “Fine. But I’m coming back.”

“Ronald―”

“I am.” He glares at me. “As long as he’s here, I’m coming back.”

“Bit obsessed there, mate.” Somehow, my voice betrays none of the emotional havoc being wrecked inside my body. “Gonna be coming back quite a lot, then.”

“If you touch one hair―”

I roll my eyes. “I have no interest―”

“I am not a doll! I’m more than capable―I’ve beaten both of you at duels, on multiple occasions!” With her hands on her hips, and the nature of the conversation, I can almost pretend this ugly hallway is just one of many in Hogwarts, and we are children fighting over something trivial and harmless.

“That’s not―”

“Go home, Ronald.” What a foreign sentiment that is; home.

“Fine,” he repeats like the oaf he is. I look away when she pulls him in for another hug. The sum total of her interactions with every bleeding-heart Gryffindor that’s shown up here can be reduced to hugging and lying. I suppose, thanks to the war, those two things aren’t all that distinct anymore.

Weasley gives me another cold, hard look that I match with a sneer just as hateful, before nodding to Granger and vanishing with a Pop!. The effort I am employing to stay indifferent fails me and I sag into the door frame. Granger chews her lip and looks over at me like I’m some sad, woebegone puppy. 

“I’m sorry about that.” She’s so fucking sincere about it, I’m ill. 

“Yes, well, Weasley’s always been a beast, you just used to do a better job of leashing him.” Drained of energy and bereft of interest in interacting with her any longer, lest I lose my bloody mind, I head for the stairs.

“He was lying,” she calls out. I falter at the bottom step, but refuse to turn back towards her. “I’m not―you aren’t―I don’t want you to leave. Not―not in the way Ron implied.”

First I’ve lost my monstrosity and now this. “You should.” 

When I hear her ritualistic sobbing in the shower later, it plucks at whatever is left of my heartstrings so violently, I blink away tears of my own once again. This cottage is wearing me down and I don’t know if I can handle what will remain when she strips me bare of my last line of defense and sees the blackened, bitter ugliness rooted in place beneath my ribs.

“I’ve been considering what you said.”

“Oh?” I inquire. “And what’s that?”

Granger’s plate clinks lightly against the porcelain sink as she sets it down. “About the Abraxan hair, and France.”

“Another brilliant suggestion, of course.”

“It was, actually,” she admits.

“Careful Granger, that almost sounds like a genuine compliment.” I step around her to leave my own dirty dishes to soak. The counter is warm when I lean against it, leftover from where she’d just stood. 

“Everyone’s entitled to one of those now and again,” she sniffs. “I’m a compassionate woman, after all.”

A laugh bubbles out of me. “Delusional, is more like it.” I say it without malice because I’m weak and foolish. 

“So you’ve reminded me.” This is usually the point in the evening where we say good night and trudge up the stairs silently to disappear into our rooms for our usual private breakdowns. Instead she picks at the skin of her thumb and stares into the middle distance. I want to prod but Granger will take all the time she needs to formulate a response and so I bite my tongue. “I think I’m going to try it.”

“Where will you get it?”

The determination on her face slips. “I’ll ask Harry, or perhaps Ginny.”

“Oh yeah, because that always ends well.”

“Will you stop doing that?” She snaps.

“What, pointing out the obvious?”

“Tearing them down. They’re my friends, Malfoy. I care about them.”

“Yes, because you’re a tender-hearted fool.” 

“Don’t call me—”

“I’m right and you know it,” I say matter-of-factly.

She glowers at me. “It’s not foolish to love people.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I shrug. “Besides, in war, it’s a weakness.”

“No, it’s not. It’s a source of strength, of hope. If we’re going to make it to the end of this, a little compassion and kindness is vital to maintaining our humanity.”

“How you’re still so idealistic after all you’ve seen is fucking mental.”

Granger looks away, chipped nails making a mess of her careful fingers. “Yes, well your brand of bitter cynicism is no better.”

“Sure it is,” I say. “Expect nothing good, experience no disappointment when nothing good happens.”

“That’s no way to live, Malfoy.”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” 

“Breathing and being properly alive are worlds apart.”

“And the deciding factor is love, is that it?” 

“Yes,” she insists, her tone emphatic. “Of course it is.” When did we get here? How have we moved so far beyond immediate aggression in a manner of weeks? “Otherwise what’s the point of fighting at all?”

“You sound naive.”

“And you sound jaded.”

“After all that I’ve seen, Granger, you’d be just as disenfranchised.”

“You aren’t the gatekeeper on traumatic experiences. I’ve gone through just as much horror. And I’m still here, still fighting.” The set of her jaw is defiant, as if I’m still the personification of everything wrong in her world. Maybe I still am and she’s just gotten better at hiding it.

“The drive to survive is far stronger than you give it credit for.”

“I fight for the cause, Malfoy, not just my own skin.”

“Well you could stand to be a tad more selfish, Granger. Merlin knows your friends are.”

“Stop it! You can harass me all you want but please, just stop attacking them.”

“Why?” I crowd into her. “Does the truth still hurt?”

“It’s not the truth! You don’t have the full picture. You don’t know the whole story.”

“Then enlighten me.”

She glances down at my left arm. “You first.”

I shove away, practically drowning in the presence of her. “The cause isn’t all there is.”

“Of course it is,” she whispers in my wake, “it has to be.”

“Why? Because then all your quiet suffering will have been for naught?” Anger, again. Forever indignant, apparently. “Do you really think your stupid little mates won’t jump at the first opportunity to properly comfort you?”

“It’s not like that, Malfoy. I can’t—I can’t distract them. I can’t worry them.” Her voice wavers and I glimpse into the heart of it all. “I won't. Not again.”

This is getting nowhere and my emotions are overwhelming. She’s dangerous, far more so than the Dark Lord ever was. How dare she humanize me. How dare she refuse to hate me. “Whatever.” I turn to go but I can’t leave. “Self-sacrifice only works if it's truly useful, Granger. And this,” I gesture at the misery around us, between us, inside us, “is not useful or worthy enough for that kind of sacrifice.”

“I—”

“You’re the Golden Girl. Fucking act like it.”

That night, for the first time in four months, I don’t fall asleep to the sounds of her crying softly in the shower.

Chapter Text

When Harry makes an appearance two days later it takes me a considerable amount of strength not to scream at him. Our already strained friendship has been bruised enough thanks to him finding out about Ernie and the worst thing I ever did in the name of the good and the light. I cannot risk further damaging his opinion of me, not when it's already so low. 

So instead, I approach with as much tact as I can. "Why did no one tell Ron about Malfoy?" 

Harry rubs the back of his neck and takes a sudden interest in the faded pattern on his cup. "It must have slipped my mind." 

"It's been four months." 

He clears his throat. "I know."

"You and Ginny both have had ample opportunity." 

"I know." 

"It's not like he's not in the inner circle." 

"I know." 

"So then why did I have to spend an evening fielding his anger and frustration when it wasn't my job to tell him?" I try not to sound as angry as I am, but it's hard. 

Harry sighs and finally looks me in the eye. "I'm sorry. In truth I just… I just didn't want to deal with it. Neither did Ginny. He's been so stressed trying to plan our next move that we couldn't handle adding to that."

It's an honest answer and an understandable one at that. Ron has come a long way from the hot-headed boy of our youth but there are some things time alone cannot change and his visceral hatred of Malfoy is one of them. "Of course. I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry, Hermione. I should have told him. I would have, honestly, had I known he was planning on coming by." 

"He knocked on the front door," I say and the shock on his face makes me smile, just a little. "Said he was trying to do something nice." 

"Merlin," Harry groans. "All that tactical skill and he's still an idiot when it comes to you." 

I wince. "Yes, well…" 

"Did you really kick him out?" he asks, his tone deliberately non-judgmental. 

"I did, yeah. He was being impossible about Malfoy." 

Harry gives me an indecipherable look. "He said you sided with Malfoy." It's not an accusation but it's also not a question. 

“I didn’t side with anyone. They were both just,” I gesture uselessly at the air before me, “being obtuse about the whole thing.”

“Obtuse.”

I give him my best withering glare. “Excuse me for not wanting to stand around while the two of them tried to kill each other.”

“Not that long ago…” Harry begins.

“Not that long ago,” I parrot, “Theo Nott was a nobody Slytherin who mocked you just to fit in and now he's an undercover errand boy for the Order."

He snorts. "That is hardly the same thing. He was never as bad as Malfoy."

"People change." I say it with too much conviction and my face grows hot beneath his immediate scrutiny. 

"Malfoy is not 'people', Hermione. He's a monster." 

"No, he's not." 

"How—" 

"He was an idiot child bully. He's not Tom. Tom is a monster. Malfoy is…" 

"What? He's what?" Harry sounds almost desperate. 

"He's not a good person but that doesn't mean he's a bad person. He's misguided, I guess. He's made mistakes." I clear my throat. "We all have." 

We sit in an uncomfortable silence, the weight of my mistake hanging heavy between us. Our tea has gone cold and sits untouched on the table. 

"Hermione, about Ernie—"

"No," I respond immediately. 

"We can talk—" 

"No, Harry. We can't. Not—not now. Not yet." My hands rattle the cup as they cling to it for support. "It's too much to talk about still." 

Harry frowns, his big green eyes bright with concern. "You could have—you could have told me about it. When it first happened." 

"I was forbidden." I swore no Unbreakable Oath but Moody's punishment for breaking protocol would have been just as torturous. Still is, honestly. "Moody wanted this done completely off the radar."

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter now. It's done, leave it at that." 

But Harry is stubborn, he always has been. "Is this why…why you—" 

"Yes. No. I don't know." The blood is sticky against the pads of my fingers but my nails continue to dig in. "It's not important."

"Hermione—"

"How's Ginny?" 

His frown goes crooked as does my heart. "Will you stop it?" 

"Harry," I plead. The careful grip I have over my self-control is slipping like blood through my teeth. "Please." 

He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "I should get back."

We stand and to my absolute relief, he pulls me into a hug. His arms wrap fully around my shoulders and if I bury my head in his chest and take a few shuddering breaths, he has the grace not to mention it. 

As we pull away, he squeezes my hand. "Please talk to someone, Hermione, before it's too late." 

My eyes sting. "And if it is?" 

He shakes his head. "It's not."

"How can you be so sure?" 

"Because I know you." Harry gives me a small smile. "You're too stubborn to go down so easily."

There is nothing easy about it, not then and not now. He means it as a compliment, a reminder of his unwavering support and belief in me. A few years ago, this was all I needed to justify the suffering but now it just falls short. Another slight grin and he's gone. I stand in place and wonder who it is that he expects me to talk to. 

"I'm leaving," I announce, breaking the calm silence between us. Malfoy looks up at me from my copy of Heart of Darkness and frowns. 

"What?" 

His accusation in the wake of Ron's departure has been weighing on me for days. He's right, unfortunately, and his cruel accuracy is even worse. How it is that he sees straight through me I don't know, but I loathe it. All this careful work and he's destroying it like a sand castle caught beneath a deliberate wave. I want nothing more than to disregard his every word but I can't, not when they sting so much. 

And what's worse is that I'd spent several nights wrestling with the source of my frustration at Ron's surprise visit. After dinner last night, Malfoy and I had had a particularly engaging discussion involving the medicinal properties of wormwood and it hit me. It wasn't just Ron's lack of tack or warning or basic understanding of the person I've become. It was that he interrupted the careful balance that is my new normal. I've been a creature of habit all my life and the routine I now prefer involves Malfoy, his presence, and the fragile friendship we've fostered between us. It's a truly frightening realization and it leaves me uncomfortable to the point of panic. 

In an effort to stave off the discomfort, I've made a decision. 

"If I want this Shield potion to stand a chance, I need access to more ingredients, better ingredients and if that means going out to get them myself, then so be it." I've been ruminating on this possibility for months now but Malfoy's demands for answers I don't have has pushed me over the edge. 

He gives me an appraising look. "Well, well. Look at you," he drawls. "Are you coming back? Because I'm not playing nurse while you're away. I'll lock the bloody doors."

"You're coming with me." It's somehow even harder to say than I was anticipating and his heavy gaze makes me fidget.

"A midnight tryst, Granger, really? What makes you think I even want to run away?" 

"We're not running away, you smarmy brat. We're coming back." 

"...but?"

"But nothing. We're coming back," I say firmly. 

He looks unconvinced. "And you're just blindly assuming that I want to come along?" 

"Are you saying you'd rather turn down the opportunity to be free of these four walls for even an hour?" 

His careful mask of indifference slips at the mere hint of a change of scenery. "What's to stop me from fleeing the moment we get out of this shit hole?" 

The thought had crossed my mind, obviously. "Nothing. Although if you want to try and go it alone without so much as a canteen of water, be my guest." 

"I could overpower you." It's more an observation than a threat. 

"You could try, sure, but that's always been an option. A stupid one, of course, but available all the same." 

He weighs the logic of my words carefully even as the desperation to leave is blatant on his face. "And Moody?" 

"What about him?" 

"I highly doubt he would approve of this little field trip." 

I shrug, feigning ambivalence. "Who says he has to know."

He narrows his eyes.

"Okay, forget it. If you're gonna be this annoying about it, you can just stay behind." My patience is thinner than usual thanks to the stress of this decision and the last thing I want to deal with is his obstinance. 

"Oh don't get your knickers in a twist, Granger. I'm just making sure you've thought this through. Merlin protect us should your disobedience be discovered." 

"It won't, so long as you keep your mouth shut." 

"I know the value of a secret," he says, mouth curled up into a wolfish grin. 

I roll my eyes. "Lovely. We're going after dinner." 

"What if one of your dim little mates comes by looking for a bandage?" 

"They won't." 

"Awful certain of that, aren't you?" 

"History supports it."

"Bit of a gamble if you ask me." 

"I'm not. Wear something warm, it'll be cold where we're going." 

"And just where is that?" he calls after me as I head to the kitchen. 

"The Forest of Dean." 

"You still haven't told me what we're doing there," he says a few hours later. "Last I checked there aren't any Abraxan herds milling around the center of Britain." 

"Who said anything about Abraxan herds? We're looking for foxglove." 

"Foxglove? Why? It's poisonous." 

"I'm fully aware of that. But it's also exceptionally potent at neutralizing other poisons as long as you don't ingest it." 

"Oh good thing you aren't using it for a sodding potion then," he snarks. 

"Has anyone ever told you that you complain too much?" 

"Never." 

"You're impossible." 

"And I take it we're going to Apparate there?" 

"We are." I watch his face for any sign of disgust at the prospect. "Is that alright?" 

Malfoy shrugs and if there is anything other than thinly veiled excitement in his reaction, I cannot find it. "I haven't Side-Along-Apparated with someone since I was a fifth year, how fun." 

"I won't splinch us," I reassure him. 

"Of course not. You're too perfect for that." It's not a compliment but it's also not nearly as biting as I was expecting and when I glance at him he glances away. 

"I'm hoping to only be gone for an hour at most," I carry on, dragging us back through the awkward silence. "But just to be safe, we'll leave a note." 

"In case we get lost and starve to death?" 

"No. In case we get captured and I'm forced to kill us both." It's a grim truth, his reaction is visceral, and the whole idea makes me nauseous. 

"You'd kill us?" There is a childlike lilt to his voice. It softens the rougher parts of me. 

"I'd have to. The Death Eaters will torture us without provocation for just a chance to learn what we know." Despite the logic, he's still pale. "You're a traitor, Malfoy. Surely you have realized this. They'll arguably be worse to you because of it. I couldn't live with myself if I let that happen to you. It's a fate worse than death." 

"I—I never considered…" he trails off as the rippling implications of his decision to defect take hold. 

"You can stay behind. I'd understand." 

The gentle suggestion needles him where I'd hoped it would have soothed and he turns his self-hatred onto me. "Save your pity, Granger. It's demeaning." 

"To you?" 

"No," he snaps. "To you . You're a shit liar and inauthentic kindness is just embarrassing." 

"I'm not lying."

"Fine." It's clear he doesn't believe me but the lengths I'd have to go to to change that are still beyond my reach. "I'm still going with." 

"Alright." 

Malfoy showers before we leave, as if the foxes will care what he looks like. I pack and repack my illegally extended bag, ultimately settling on two extra sets of clothing, expired rations, several vials of healing potions, and the tent we lived in the summer before seventh year. By the time Malfoy trudges downstairs, I'm practically pacing in anticipation to leave. 

"Merlin Granger, take a breath. You're making me nervous." 

"Good. This is not a field trip. Being nervous means you'll stay aware of your surroundings," I say. "Ready?" 

He glances at me, at the comfortable three feet of space we keep between us at all times, and closes the gap. We avoid eye contact as I offer him my arm. His own is an anchor, warm and solid, that links us together. I shuffle closer, knowing that the less distant between us, the safer it'll be. As we move, I catch the scent of his body wash; strawberry. Once upon a time he would hex me for standing too close to him in class. Now our skin is scrubbed raw with the same cheap soap and I wonder if it leaves him as breathless as it does me. 

I look over at him, his gray eyes clear, his expression drawn. I nod, he nods back, and with an uncomfortable tug at the back of my navel, we fold into ourselves and disappear into the void. It's difficult to keep the specific clearing I'm aiming for in the Forest of Dean at the forefront of my mind and ensure that we don't become untethered in this liminal space. His fingers dig into my arm, the heat of them bleeding through my sweater. I focus harder and, with a swallow, pull us back into reality. 

Gravity hits us too fast and we land gracelessly, a tangle of limbs and wool, on a bed of rotten leaves. Everything smells damp, earthen and rich. The air is colder than at the cottage, but the lack of wind almost makes me sweat. As awareness returns, I look up at Malfoy, immediately conscious of the weight of him above me. 

"Uh," I start. He panics, shoving off with his right arm to roll away, leaving me to shudder in his absence. 

For a moment we stare straight up into the clear, black sky. The stars twinkle, the moon is half full, and there isn't a cloud in sight. I take a deep breath and try to pull myself to my feet. Malfoy beats me to it and when he offers me a helping hand, I accept it and am deliberate in my unwillingness to ruminate on it. 

"Excellent form, Granger," he says. 

I step away from him and the full force of what we've done hits me like a wave. Despite the burn of my leg, I spin in place, drinking in the new scenery like a mad woman. "We did it," I laugh. 

Malfoy must forget himself because he grins back at me and it's as true as it's ever been. "Yeah, we did." We stare at each other like loons until the cry of a distant owl pulls us back into the present. 

"Come on," I take in the somewhat familiar trees, and see the clearing of wheatgrass through the trunks. "This way." 

We trudge along in silence for a while, the underbrush soft as it crunches beneath our feet. As we approach the clearing I stop and lean down to look at the rock in front of us.

"What are you doing?" 

"Checking to see if these are deer or boar tracks." 

"Since when could you read animal tracks?" 

"'I am large. I contain multitudes.'" I quote automatically, focused mostly on the task at hand. 

Malfoy snorts. "I doubt Walt Whitman had this in mind when he penned that."

I stop and stare up at him. "You recognized…" 

"You have two copies of Leaves of Grass, Granger, and the quote is underlined in both." 

All at once it hits me how intimate it is that he's reading my books. Ever since I was an odd, lonely little girl, I'd turned to reading as my source of companionship. Books have been for me what friends and siblings are to others and when I abandoned my parents to their new lives, these novels were the one thing I couldn't bear to part with. In all my life I cannot recall ever sharing them, really sharing them, with anyone else. Until now. Until him. I burn with something indescribable and turn away. 

"Yes well…it's a good quote," I lamely respond. "Let's keep going." 

The sights and sounds of the forest engulf me and I am transported back to nearly four years ago, freshly eighteen and on the run for my life. The flashbacks have me on edge and the muted rustling of the world around us is suffocating. We work through the clearing, back into the forest, as I follow the bloom of moss towards the desired stream. 

"When were you in the Forest of Dean?" Malfoy breaks the silence and I am inwardly grateful. 

"During seventh year." 

"Wait, but you lot—oh. Well, that clears that up, then." 

Moonlight glances off the rushing water as we break through the trees onto the muddy shore. Foxglove grows along the banks, but the most potent specimens are those close to the source. There is a lake north of us and I steer us towards it, stopping now and again to gather the river lichen and smoothed pebbles we come across. 

"Any other burning questions from my time on the run?" 

"Where did you sleep?" 

"In a charming tent." 

"How'd you shower?" 

“Expertly applied cleaning charms.” I wipe my muddied hands on my jeans. “And very uncomfortable dips in cold streams such as this.”

"Merlin you lot must have been rank." 

"Excuse us for valuing our survival over our hygiene," I say. "We were acceptably clean." 

"Yeah you, maybe. But the other two? Not a chance." Malfoy lingers as I bend down once more to gather ingredients. In truth, my leg is aching and I need a break but if he notices, he does not comment on it. "Who was worse?" 

I don't want to answer because it's a stupid, childish question but I can't help myself. "Ron." 

"I knew it!" Malfoy's laugh is sharp and I flinch as it echoes through the swaying trees around us. I should chastise him but I hold my tongue, if only because this is the second time in memory I've ever heard him laugh so purely. 

With a huff, I stand and we continue on. The water babbles softly beside us and despite the dangers, it's peaceful. Nice. 

"Please tell me you at least waited until after he'd had a shower to shag him." He's caught up to me and I can't help but glower at him. 

"Don't be crass." 

"It's a fair question," he defends. 

"Hardly." I turn away, my hair a careful curtain between us. The obscurity makes me bold, bolder than I have every right to be. "In truth, I waited a lot longer than that." 

"Oh?" 

"I guess you could say," I swallow, uncomfortable but not enough to shut up, apparently. "I'm still waiting." I don't stick around for his reaction, taking two quick steps forward and over the small incline. The lake, black and still, looms beyond. 

"Are you taking the piss?" Malfoy calls after me. "Fuck you, you've shagged him." He tries to get in front of me, to stare me in the eye. I won't relent and keep marching forward. "I can tell when you're lying." 

"I'm not lying." 

"I beg to fucking differ." 

"Keep begging, then." 

"Are you seriously telling me that you never slept with him? Not once? In all the years you've been mooning after him—" 

"I am not mooning after him!" I snap, and the heat in my cheeks gets even worse. I half stumble down the slope, the ground giving way to more lakeside mud. 

Malfoy catches up to me, matching his long stride with my own. "Performance issues?" he whispers conspiratorially and I punch him in the shoulder. 

"Merlin, you're vile." Still, when he grins at me, I struggle not to grin back. "Hold this." I pull the glass jar out of my bag and enlarge it to its normal size. He takes it as I shove it into his grasp, not bothering to check if he can hold it with one hand. He's made no concessions for my leg, so I won't feel bad. I won't. 

"I'm not hearing a no, Granger." 

"You're not hearing anything, because we are no longer talking about this." 

"It would explain all his posturing, honestly. Always strutting around—" 

"Ron does not strut!" 

"You'd know," he sniffs and looks away, smug as the fox in the henhouse. "Still, he—" 

"We are done discussing this, thank you very much." I do my best not to slip as I crouch besides the still lake and gather the foxglove that has taken root there. Without looking at him, I hand him the flowers and to my surprise, he takes it without complaint. 

"You're being such a baby about this, you know."

"Glass houses," I murmur, focused on pulling the foxglove out without damaging the roots. 

"Your muggle expressions sound mental." 

“As if the Wizarding world has any room to talk. Some of the naming conventions are―I mean honestly Hogwarts? My father thought we were being pranked when my letter arrived. Don’t even get me started on the N.E.W.T. and O.W.L. acronyms.”

“I don’t have too, you’re already ranting.” He snarks, but there is no bite to it. After a time, he carries on: “Admittedly, some things do sound a bit ridiculous.”

Finished with my gathering, I grin victoriously up at him and hand over the last of the Foxglove. “Glad you agree.” He hands over the now full jar and sneers half-heartedly at me.

We carry on in silence for a while after that, Malfoy meandering alongside me as I lead us back along the stream before deviating into the woods. I’d spied some wild mint growing there and my supplies have run low enough to justify the collection. He says nothing, just falls in step beside me. As I crouch to gather the herb, though, my leg gives way and I hit the ground with an undignified grunt. When he offers to help me up for the second time in less than an hour, it’s harder to remain impartial to the kindness.

“Thank you.” 

His fingers don’t linger, and the heat in their wake is an afterimage that tingles. I flex my hand and quickly pull up the mint, careful to get all of it. Before I can store it in my bag, however, he snatches a leaf to chew on.

“We should probably leave,” I say, leading us back through the woods and onto the bank of the stream. “We’ve been gone long enough.”

Malfoy makes a show of looking forlornly at the trees around us. “But it’s so nice out.”

“Just wait till we get home. Then you’ll really miss the silence.” 

“With you around, Granger, there is no silence.”

“Oh shut—”

Something small and pink bursts out of the mud beside him and I shriek. Before he can even react, I shove Malfoy to the ground behind me and cover us both with a shield charm before shooting a hex at the intruder. It explodes almost immediately, partially coating me in viscera. I take a few shuddering breaths, forcing myself to calm down. Adrenaline drains out of me, leaving me hollow in its wake. 

“Are you okay?” I finally ask, turning to look at Malfoy. He’s still sprawled on the ground, fist shoved into his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “Oh, piss off.” 

He’s too busy wheezing to respond and I step around him, investigating the remains to discover it was a Murtlap that startled us. I gather its remaining tentacles—they are useful in most potion making—and add them to the small arsenal I’ve amassed in my bag. By that point, Malfoy is composed enough to pull himself back up onto his feet.

“Fucking hell, Granger, that poor thing never stood a chance.”

“Shut up,” I growl, picking small chunks of blood and bone out of my hair.

“Downright annihilated it, you did. Good thing, too. Merlin knows how dangerous Murtlap can be.”

I round on him, sticking my wand in his face. “I’ll have you spewing slugs for a week, Malfoy, mark my words.”

He opens his mouth to retaliate but something unseen breaks a branch off in the distance and whatever mirth that had bloomed between us dies quickly.

“We should go.”

“Yes. Yes we should.”

I loop my arm through his, more concerned with our safety than our closeness and, clutching the fabric of his sweater tight, send us careening through space and time.

Our landing back at the cottage is far more graceful, with neither one of us ending up on the floor. He pulls away immediately and I step back, once more installing that careful three feet between us. “I’d say that went well.”

“Tell that to the Murtlap you eviscerated.”

“Next time I’ll just let whatever mysterious beast crosses our path eat you.”

“I hope it’s not a bunny rabbit. They’re bloody vicious.” There is still a lightness to his words that is mirrored in my chest.

"Positively feral," I deadpan. All at once, weariness hits me like a train. "If you're going to shower again, do it now because as soon as I get these ingredients put away, I'm taking the bathroom over." 

"It's all yours, Granger." He eyes me, deliberate and intense and to my surprise, reaches out, pulling a small chunk of pink flesh from my hair. The strand uncoils, stretching the distance between us, before snapping back into place. I flush for the second time today and it only makes it worse to see it mirrored on the pale flesh of his neck. We stare at the piece and then at each other. The clock strikes twelve, we flinch, and come crashing back to Earth. 

"Thank you for coming with me," I say, like he had much of a choice. 

"Well someone has to keep you alive," he responds. "Maybe next time you'll even manage not to murder another innocent murtlap." 

I roll my eyes, fighting off another grin as if he and I have anything to truly find joy in. As if we're deserving of levity in so dark a time as this. Someone we know and love could be out there, bleeding into the night, as we stand here, falling head first into a proper friendship. It sobers me and I say good night quickly, needing an escape from the gravity he commands. 

In the shower, I scrub dried mud from my skin, watching it mingle with the remaining bits of blood and flesh still attached to me. It all swirls together in a whirl of reds and browns, shockingly bright against the pale yellow tub. My gaze catches on the mangled flesh of my upper thigh, lingering on the dark, twisted scar that mars my otherwise blemish free skin. 

I am sent back in time, to that dreadful night. The scent of burning wood, so soaked in blood it steams as it burns, invades my senses. Smoke filled the air, making it impossible to see as I careened through the destroyed house. My vision swims in pain, panic gripping at the frayed edges of my sanity. Harry screams my name like a curse through the dark, and the glance of moonlight off my exposed femur pushes me wholly beyond the pale. 

With careful, practiced breathing I reorient myself back into the present, focusing on the crash of the shower and the subtle scent of strawberries. My stomach churns and my eyes burn, but I force myself to hold fast against the coming tide. It takes a few minutes but I'm eventually able to wash the remaining soap from my hair and get out. 

Sitting in bed, I finish up my nightly braid, down my usual pain potion, and will myself into an empty sleep.

I dream of foxes and murtlaps and the smell of mint as it washes over me, exhaled outwards through lips of strawberry red.

Chapter Text

It's raining the day I lose my mind. Granger is prattling on about potions measurements over a plate of roasted potatoes, doing an excellent job of holding my attention despite her dull choice of topic. I'm just about to challenge her utterly pedestrian views on the usage of metal vs glass instruments when I feel the familiar cold slick of scales slither across my feet.

"Fuck!" I shove back from the table, practically toppling out of my chair to get away. "Fucking hell."

"What?" Granger's eyes are wide. "What is it?" 

"It's—" No. It's impossible. 

"Malfoy?" 

I go numb with fear and even though it defies logic, I have to look. I have to know for sure. With trembling legs I bend down just enough to peer underneath the table. It's empty, barren, utterly devoid of ghostly snakes with a penchant for the flesh of man. 

I swallow, take a shuddering breath and force myself to stand back up. Granger is staring at me and the look on her face burns. 

"What is–" 

"Nothing. It's nothing. I—" My voice catches, splintering alongside my basic grasp of reality. The hiss fills the air and I shut my eyes, unable to cope. 

The shuffle of Granger’s wool socks on the stone floor drowns out the retreating sounds of Nagini slithering away into the black ether. Careful fingers brush against the sleeve of my sweater and I flinch so hard, the chair I'm half leaning against screeches backwards. 

She stills and says nothing while I wrestle my rapidly deteriorating mental state back together. I'm nothing but sour luck and fading skill inside. The threads have begun to snap and it is only a matter of time. 

The clock ticks endlessly and after a few minutes of terse silence I feel stable enough to rejoin the world. Blinking into awareness, the first thing I see is Granger, standing far too close, occupying the entire space I'd created between myself and the table. Her big brown eyes bore into mine, concern or possibly something worse rolling off her in waves. 

"Malfoy?" 

"It's fine," I croak. "Let's drop it."

"Drop what? I don't even know what's going on!" She says. "What's happened?" 

My hair, far too long now, catches against my cracked fingernails as I run them through my hair. "I'm just…I'm tired. That's all. It's making me…I just need sleep." 

Granger is the picture of skepticism. "Did you see something?" 

"No," I say too quickly. 

Her eyes narrow. "You saw something." 

"No, I didn't." I force a sneer and step outside the bubble we've both inhabited, needing to breathe. Needing to be alone. "You're mental." Ironic, I know. 

"Mal—" 

"Mind your fucking business, Granger. Your manners are abysmal enough as is." 

"If you're hallucinating—" 

The cold shock of seeing my Mother having conversations with people who were never there rushes through me like the tide. My remaining hand shakes and I shove it into my pocket, lest she see the physical manifestation of my cascading insanity. "I'm not bloody hallucinating!" 

The cruel softening of her features at the sound of my choked voice is too much. I am so fucking through with breaking myself open before her. I'm so sick of allowing the carrion bird of her mind to pick through the rotting remnants of my former self. It's been months of this. Weeks and days of this seemingly endless experiment of pity and abject fascination. I can handle it no more. 

Dinner is abandoned and when I retreat to my room with nothing more than a withering glare, Granger says nothing even as her expression betrays it all. 

Thankfully—although it's hardly a positive sign—the more days I put between myself and the Nagini Incident, the easier it is to convince myself that it was nothing. Simply the misstep of a tired mind and not my absolute abuse of Occlumency finally rearing its ugly head. Granger attempts to pester me about it for a while but when it comes to annoying her I can be exceedingly stubborn and she eventually gives up. We return to our usual routine to my disgusting relief and I let myself move forward on false hopes. Not that it matters, of course, because life has a way of tossing me head first into absolution. 

"Draco?" Luna calls after me. 

I cringe and try to sink further into the chair. The moment she'd arrived, I'd vanished into the living room, praying to the gods she would forget I even existed. Obviously, they've chosen not to listen. 

When I say nothing, she tries again. "Draco? I know you're in here, I can see your aura." 

I groan because in some ways, we are still who we once were at Hogwarts, and wait for her to find me. She flits into frame, more whimsy than person, and gives me that dreamy smile of hers. 

"Here you are." 

"Here I am," I say. 

"How are you feeling? Are the Grumbly Bits still bothering you?"

She is so fucking earnest, it's impossible to be mean. At least, it is now. Once upon a time, she was just another lamb to slaughter but then we both spent a few months suffering under the same roof—albeit from different floors—and it appears that the trauma of it all has bonded us. By the time Granger and her suicidal friends showed up, I was smuggling Luna food and water several times a week because I am a fucking idiot who has never, ever known when to stop. 

"No, they're not." 

"Oh, good!" She beams. "And your heart? Is it still broken?" Before I can respond she leans all the way forward to stare intently at my chest, as if she can see straight through me. "Hmm. I think it looks better." She straightens up. "You've been opening up to Hermione, like I told you to. It's a good idea, Draco. Your heart needs something gentle." 

"My heart is withered and black, Luna. Haven't you heard?" 

"Harry said as much but then I reminded him of Snape's promise and he shut right up. He gets so lost sometimes." She glances my way before staring back at the ceiling. "You both do." 

An ugly laugh bubbles out of me. "Saint Potter and I have nothing in common." 

"He said that too." She looks cheeky. 

All I do is scoff and turn away. 

"Hermione is worried about you. She's worried about Harry, too, but she's especially worried about you." 

Something electric races through me and I am far too weak to ignore the bait. "Why'd you think that?" 

"Her aura is yellow."

I feel disappointment which is just so fucking ridiculous it nearly shifts into anger. "Right. Obviously. Her aura." 

Luna either doesn't notice or doesn't care about the blatant skepticism in my voice. "Keep talking to her, Draco. I would hate to have to fulfill my promise." 

Ahhh yes, her promise. I still have no fucking clue what it is that she's talking about. On her last visit she kept asking after my health, insisting it was because I'd wanted her too. Apparently she'd been there, when the Order of the Idiots rescued me or kidnapped me or whatever the fuck you choose to call it. In my half-alive state we'd spoken and she'd made a vow. A vow she is hesitant to reveal. 

"Of course, because fulfilling it would be…bad?" I venture a guess. 

"Ah ah, no. That was part of the deal," she says. "Don't worry, Draco. I'd never hurt you. You've already hurt yourself enough."

"Brilliant." 

"You think so?" Luna looks over to the doorway, where Granger ostensibly lingers, out of sight, pretending not to eavesdrop. "You should tell her." 

I glance over, grateful a pair of brown eyes aren't waiting for me to avoid. "She's fully aware how clever she is. People tell her everyday." 

"No they don't, not anymore. Not since the accident." 

"Pretty fucked up if you ask me," I say. Luna turns back to me, confused. "That you lot tossed her out just because her leg is fucked." 

"Why would you ever think that?" 

"What?" 

"The accident has nothing to do with her leg, Draco."

"But I thought…" I trail off, realizing all at once how ignorantly I've assumed things. 

"You should ask her." 

"No." I want to know desperately but Granger is a woman of equality. She demands what she gives, at least with me, and I cannot afford the price. "It's not my business." 

"It will be, before this is all over." 

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Luna just smiles broadly. "You'll know."

When she's gone, Granger corners me in my hurried attempt to disappear upstairs. 

"Luna really wanted to speak to you." 

"Is that supposed to be a question?" 

She picks herself apart at the fingertips. "She won't tell me why." 

"It's not your business." 

"I—I know." Yet the look on her face is pure surprise. "I just…" 

"What? You just assume you're entitled to my life just because you've saved it?" 

Granger flinches, because that was all my words were ever meant to do. "No. I am just worried." 

"Why? For who?" 

"You." So fucking honest. 

"I never asked for that."

"I know." 

"So stop." 

"That's not how friendship—" 

"Good thing we aren't friends then, right?" I'm horrible to her. I've always been horrible to her. The only thing I'll ever be is horrible to her. No matter the wretched pleading of my ever softening heart. 

Her face hardens, the gentle tilt of her head stiffening alongside the set of her jaw. "Right. How foolish a thought that would be. How terrible."

We don't speak for the rest of the day. 

"We should go out again," she says. I'd seen the earnest light in her eyes at the success of our first foray into the outside world and knew it would only be a matter of time before we left once more. "I'm running low on Gurdyroot and Moody failed to include any in the supply drop." 

"An honest mistake, I'm sure," I say. 

Granger glares at me until I stop smirking before carrying on. "Unfortunately the lake I'm familiar with in the Forest of Dean is devoid of them so we have to go on a bit of a trek." 

"I didn't sign up for a bloody walk about, Granger." 

"You didn't sign up for anything," she replies. "And besides, it's not as if you've anything better to do." 

"How presumptuous of you." 

"Merlin forbid I disrupt your daily ritual of whinging and whining." 

"Whinging and moaning, thank you." 

"How could I forget?" 

"Why don't you just grow the Gurdyroot yourself? It's hardly a challenging plant." I gesture to the front garden barely visible between the curtains. "The climate is rather tailored for it, don't you think?" 

"The rain water is too high in salt, thanks to the sea. It leeches the roots." 

"Just use a water repellent spell on the soil."

"I tried that, but it doesn't work." 

"Did you do it right?" 

Another glare. "Yes Malfoy, I did it right. I'm brilliant, remember?" 

"Modest, too." 

"Shut up. We'll leave after dinner again, alright?" 

"More Side-Along, goody." 

Granger sets down her pen. "Do you have a pair of boots?" 

I look at her incredulously. "Are you joking? Granger I barely have a pair of fucking—what'd you call em— trainers. They're a size too big and garish as hell. No, I don't have any bloody boots." 

"They're too big?" 

"I dunno who they belonged to before but they had monstrous feet." 

"They're Harry's." 

I scowl at her. "Fucking hell. Of course they are." 

She glances down at my socks. "Truthfully most of your clothes used to belong to him or Neville." 

"Oh, no Weasley then? I figured he'd have left at least some trousers behind." 

"Don't be ridiculous," she says. "Ron's far larger than you." 

"I'm six foot two, Granger!" 

"And Ron's built like a bear." 

I gag. "Merlin, please don't. The last thing I want to hear about is Wesley's—" 

"Not that!" She flushes red. "I meant his—his frame. He's got nearly fifty pounds on you." 

"Calling your boyfriend fat?" 

"He's not my boyfriend!" 

It touches a nerve, like it always does, but I've come to enjoy the admonished look on her face too much to stop bringing it up. "Sure." 

She opens her mouth but stops short before flinging any proper insults. Instead she summons the shoes from where I've left them by the back door and tosses them at me. "Put 'em on." 

"Why?" 

"Will you just put them on?" 

I want to press further but she looks miffed and it's too close to dinner for me to risk her taking retribution out upon my meal. With an exaggerated groan, I lean forward and toe on the ragged gray trainers. "Happy?" 

"No." Granger leans forward and taps her wand on the tip of each shoe, shrinking them down perfectly to fit me. "You should have told me they were the wrong size." 

"Why?" 

"Because I—you don't need to keep playing the martyr just because you're too stubborn to ask for help." 

"Who said I needed any help?" I don't need to look at her face to know she is staring at my left arm. The softening of her expression sours my fragile mood. "Fuck you, I'm not a crying child for you to comfort." 

"I never said—" 

"You didn't have to, I can see it written on your face, clear as day." 

Granger sighs. "It’s okay to ask for help, Malfoy.”

“Oh yeah?” I sneer, leaning forward. “How would you know?”

“That’s not the same—”

“Sure it is.” The headache that slumbers persistently behind my left eye throbs and something slithers just out of sight. I focus on Granger’s frown to keep myself from following the tip of black tail that curls around the doorway, leaving nothing in its wake. We share a few more barbs, but my interest has waned as energy drains out of me like seawater. She eventually returns to her work and I stare unseeing at the pages before me, doing everything I can to ignore the soft whisper of scales on stone.

The ancient clock strikes nine and Granger gathers us into the foyer. Wordlessly she bends down and transfigures my newly sized shoes into sturdy boots, the leather brown and dull with imitated use. “Couldn’t you at least have matched them to my darling jumper.”

She eyes the faded red wool monstrosity. “You’re right.” Another flick of her wrist and the brown gives way to an obnoxiously bright goldenrod. “What a sight you are in Gryffindor colors.”

“You’re a fucking menace.”

All she does is grin and hold out her arm. I roll my eyes for good measure—just to ensure my displeasure is apparent—before hooking myself through the crook of her elbow. She is warm, the heat of her body bleeding through both layers of wool and into my skin. I look away, jaw clenched to keep the shiver from racing up my spine. Granger clears her throat.

“Shall we?”

I gesture vaguely with my left arm, the excess sleeve emulating what I cannot. 

“Hold on.”

Something beyond manifestation takes hold of my naval and we are wrenched into the unknown. Lights slide past us, the swirl of magic deafening as Granger navigates us through space and time. My hand clings tightly to her upper arm, fingers digging into the fabric, too frightened of severing to bother with propriety. We jolt, just so, and for a heartbeat our eyes meet in this liminal place. Her features are striking, perfectly in focus against the backdrop of chaos around us and I notice the pale scar running the length of her jaw. The insane urge to trace it nearly overcomes me but she blinks, saving us both the humiliation, and we tumble back into reality.

More leaves, greener than our first go round, act as our cushion and I manage to land beside her this time, bouncing once upon the ground. I grunt, and try to brace myself with my left hand only to go sprawling in its absence. Frustration wells within me like ice and I clench my remaining fist to keep from crying out. There is a shuffle of movement before slender fingers materialize in front of me, an offering I am unable to reject. She pulls me to my feet and then busies herself with brushing imaginary dirt from her pants, extending yet another offer as I take a few seconds to wrest control over my emotions once again. 

“We’re farther south than last time, and the river in question is about an hour's walk to the east.”

“Why didn’t you just Apparate us there?”

“Because I’ve never been there. It was Harry who told me about it a few years ago. He used to help scavenge, back before the Order was all that organized.” She gestures to the overgrown path before us and together we march forward. 

“I must say, it’s quite the operation you lot have,” I say, needing to fill the silence lest the lurking snake does it for me. “I had no clue you were all so…put together.”

Granger scoffs, more amused than insulted. “What’d you think we were doing? Just running around in the dark, grasping at straws and hoping for the best?”

“As if that isn’t what you three did for six straight years.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh?”

“We brought a torch more often than not.”

“Cheeky.”  

This time she laughs. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Truthfully, the first year was a bit of a madhouse. Lots of running for our lives and living out of abandoned Muggle buildings. Did you know that the easiest food to conjure is grapes?”

“Grapes?”

“Grapes! I thought it would be bread or water. But no, it’s grapes. Perhaps it’s something to do with their biological make up. Hmm.” She trails off, losing herself in thought. I allow her the respite, if only to give myself a chance to breathe. Ever since we’d arrived, the threat of abject hallucination has me decidedly on edge. Granger doesn’t notice, thanks to her silent musings, and for that I am grateful.

“What changed?” I eventually ask when the quiet grows oppressive once again.

“Hmm?”

“Why’d you lot finally get your shit together?”

“Oh!” She clears her throat again. “We found the estate and it became our headquarters.” Before I can inquire about their homebase further, however, she barrels forward into uncomfortable territory. “Did you know Peter Pettigrew?”

I nearly trip on an exposed root. “What?”

“Peter Pettigrew, did you know him? He was there, that night, at—at uh, the Manor.” She pales and tugs anxiously at the sleeve of her left arm. The echoes of her screams were particularly hard to bury into boxes afterwards, often acting as a fucked up siren song beneath several nightmares. 

“I’m familiar with him.” He used to leer at Mother and make crude hand gestures when the Dark Lord wasn’t looking. It took some… persuasion but I got him to quit. I don’t say that, though, because then she’ll ask how I stopped it and there is only so much I can share before the Occlumency struggling to hold me together, shatters.

“Er—well I don’t know if you remember it but he had a, uh, his hand was—”

Her point hits me like a curse. “Absolutely fucking not Granger,” I snarl, shoving past her.

“I’m not saying it’d be anything like that!” She retorts. “I’m just pointing out that the possibility—”

“No. Never.” That ghostly silver of his hand would glitch whenever the Dark Lord grew angry and I took to using it as a fucked up litmus test to the day I was going to have.

“It wouldn’t be his—”

“Granger.” I whirl around, stopping her in her tracks. “No.”

“Don’t you want—”

“No, I don’t. It’s an exercise in fucking futility. What good would a fake hand do me, hmm? Fill out my shirts? Make me easier to look at?”

“It wouldn’t just be a prosthetic, Malfoy. It could be fully articulated with the right charms.”

“So?”

“So you could, in essence, have a functioning left hand again.” She says it so definitively, all hope and potential. It’s sickening. “You could use magic again.”

I take a deep breath, using the moment to reel in the urge to scream. “I have no wand, Granger. I have no fucking wand!” Oh well.

“We could—”

“What? We could do what? Take a cheeky jaunt down to Diagon Alley, pay good old Ollivander a visit?” I spit the words at her. “Oh wait, that’s right. We can’t! Because daddy dearest blew his fucking shop up! Not to mention held the man hostage for the better part of a year in our ancestral dungeons!”

Granger crossed her arms, glaring up at me defiantly. “Keep your voice down!”

“Fine.” I dropped down into an accusatory whisper. “There is no fucking way I’ll ever have a wand again, Granger. So stop bloody mentioning it.”

“We have it.”

I stutter. “W-what?”

“Well not me, but the Order does, I’m sure. When this is all over…” 

“When this is all over, Moody’ll have me strung up for war crimes and burned at the stake.”

“He absolutely will not.” She has the decency to actually look appalled. “You’re no one's scapegoat, Malfoy, not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Please stop it with the heroics for once in your life. No amount of bleeding heart pleading on your end will stop that bastard from doing whatever he wants.” I give her a pointed look. “Clearly, if your current imprisonment is anything to go by.”

“I never said I didn’t agree to it.”

“You also said you didn’t have a choice.”

She scowls and steps around me, carrying on further into the forest. “I just wanted you to know there are options.”

I eventually catch up with her but let the silence ring out for a while longer. “If you’re such an advocate, why not use a cane?”

“I don’t need a cane,” she says it automatically as if repeating a line.

“It couldn’t hurt. I’ve seen the way you wobble about the house.”

“I do not wobble!” Granger looks hurt and guilt pulls at my insides. “When this is all over, I’ll take the time to properly heal. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t believe that.”

It’s her turn to stop and glare at me. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really? I think I know a little bit about being an invalid.”

“Will you stop using that word? It’s offensive and dehumanizing.”

“By your metric, maybe. As far as I’m concerned, my life was over the moment you cut my hand off.”

“It’s a disability not a death sentence, Malfoy. Merlin, you are such a pessimist.”

I scoff. “You don’t get to dictate how I feel about this, Granger.”

“I’m your healer—”

“Oh come off it, no you’re not. I haven’t needed medical attention in months.”

“My job isn’t just to keep your body alive.”

“Your job has nothing to do with my well being. If it did, you’d have thought to fucking consult me before you cut off my fucking hand!”

The look of somber understanding that washes over her just makes me angrier but I can’t scream at her lest we risk discovery so instead I stalk off into the underbrush, pushing forward with a vague sense of direction.

Granger follows, falling into step beside me. For every inch I have on her, you’d think she’d be less adept at catching up. “Malfoy, I—”

“If you apologize Granger, I’ll kill you.” It’s an empty threat but she’s gracious enough to heed it. So fucking accommodating.

More silence, though if the slowly thinning forest is any indication, our destination is near. In the distance, I hear the rush of water, and she maneuvers us towards the river. The bank looms and, as we break through the tree line, the telltale green onion-like Gurdyroots dot the muddy landscape. She goes over, pulling them carefully from the soil, and deposits them into her bag. I hover awkwardly at the edge of the space she occupies, useless as always. 

“I was just trying to help,” she finally says.

“You always are.”

“It’d be a lot easier if you’d just let me in.” There is something raw, vulnerable, to the tone of her voice and it plucks at my withered heartstrings.

“It’d be a lot easier if you’d just stop trying.”

“I know.” Perhaps she does, but she gives no indication that she’ll stop. A pathetic part of me doesn’t want her to but I’m too stubborn to yield to such base demands. Still, something fragile and precious has taken root in the cavity of my chest and if my father ever saw what she’d begun to cultivate there, he’d burn it out of me like weeds from the vine.

We arrive back at the cottage a few minutes later and the moment my feet touch the ground, I step away from her. The heat of her body is too intoxicating in the drafty cold of this ugly little house and I’m already half-mad as it is.

“Thank you for coming along, Malfoy.”

“Someone has to keep you alive,” I snark halfheartedly, thoughts drifting to the solace of my room. Granger must notice the desire because all she does is dip her head slightly in response and disappear into the kitchen to sort her spoils, I’m sure. I make the trek upstairs, clinging to the banister for support. 

“Good night,” she calls, voice ringing off the bare wooden walls. 

“Good night,” I respond, unsure and uncaring if she can even hear me. 

With a soft click, I lock myself in and, after an embarrassing struggle pulling off the muddy boots, I crawl into bed. The bedding is threadbare, hardly a blanket, but it’s familiar and smells like earth and sea and magic. And strawberries, if I wish to feel particularly stupid about it.

Sleep beckons and I chase it, seeking soft oblivion and I nearly reach it when something rasps and whispers and hisses on the night air.

‘Rest easy, little one. I’ll be here, watching, waiting, for you to open your eyes.'

Scales sticky with old blood slither in the dark and the peace of sleep abandons me, leaving me to rot with a demon of my own design.

Chapter Text

Something is very wrong with Malfoy. His usual baseline of sarcasm and disinterest has become buried beneath a layer of irritation and often outright anger. It's odd to deliberately acknowledge how familiar I've become with his manners and moods, but it's as if we've gone backward in time four months to the start of all this. Where I could once depend upon his biting but ultimately helpful suggestions regarding my efforts with the Shield potion, he now barely responds if he even acknowledges the question at all. I've come to rely upon the quiet rhythm of our days to carry me through the harshest moments of my daily life and without him there, I feel adrift. Some small part of me knows that I should loathe this dependence on Malfoy of all people but regret is a privilege I no longer have space for. To say that I miss him travels too far into territory I as of now refuse to contemplate but it toes the line and that is enough for me. 

I believe he is seeing things. After his initial outburst at dinner, he's become withdrawn and often stares off into the middle distance with this look of subdued terror on his face. All my prodding, both gentle and direct, is met with evasion if not scorn but I cannot ignore it any longer. I'm sure it's because of his alarming dependency on Occlumency, especially since I've yet to see him engage in it after this shift in behavior began. I want to do something, anything, even just to get him to talk, but it's proving useless. The last outing seemed to perk him up somewhat but it's been several days since then and he is worse now than he was before. I am concerned, for all the disbelief he places on it, and totally ill-equipped to deal with this. Unfortunately, we are all the other has and so my shortcomings simply must be enough. 

Despite all the misery, he caused me and my loved ones, I am now more than ever incapable of sitting idly by while he suffers. Helping is my nature, even if it's not requested, and being unable to do anything for him is a challenge I am unwilling to break beneath. Malfoy is stubborn, glacial in his forced solitude, but I am nothing if not tenacious. I'll fix this, fix him, it is only a matter of how and when; not if. 

"There's tea on the stove," I say, grateful my words are not carried off with the wild sea wind. Malfoy startles, halfway out the back door, and gives me a wide-eyed look. It's been a while since I've interrupted the late-night vigils he holds on the back porch and for a second I think he'll retreat. It's obvious by the expression on his face that he wants to, but in the end, he surprises us both and stays the course. 

"Uh, alright." He disappears inside for a moment, truly a perfect opportunity to bolt, before reappearing with his own tea, hand clinging tightly to the handle as he shoves his way back out. 

We sit for a time, and I take solace in the mutual quiet. For all the years I spent alone, both before and during the war, I've always cherished shared moments of silence and Malfoy being what he has slowly become for me is no longer exempt from such things. Ever since that first excursion, it's as if something inside me has fractured. The value of such a shift is difficult to ascertain but change is generally important solely for the sake of it and so I privately appreciate the fact that I am not beyond growth. 

For several minutes it is just the synchronous rhythm of our breathing and the muted crashing of the sea. The sky is surprisingly devoid of clouds, allowing the blanket of stars to shine through. I take a sip of my tea and a moment later, Malfoy stiffens, softly shudders, and stares pointedly off to the side. 

I look at him, hoping he'll defy his new protocol and break but it doesn't work and so I move along to plan B. "Pain potions inhibit muscle growth." 

His attention shifts instantly. "What?" 

"Pain potions, when used long term, inhibit muscle growth." 

"No, they don't." 

"They do if you swap out the dandelion milk for black bark." 

He looks at me finally, face contorted in confusion. "Why would you, though? To what end?" 

I shrug and force myself to pick at the chipped ceramic of the mug and not the barely healed skin of my fingers. "Black bark doesn't come with the added side effect of mental fog." The confession is a struggle but I hold firm, even as shame beats violently against my ribcage. Malfoy is adrift in treacherous waters and, thanks to the circumstances we've inevitably found ourselves in, I am the only one capable of towing him home, regardless of the danger. 

Realization, like a gray dawn colors his features. "That's clever," he finally says. 

"It's also stupid." 

"Unquestionably but those are your words, not mine." 

"Furthermore it's dangerous. Black bark is famous for its addictive properties." 

He narrows his eyes. "Why are you telling me this?" 

"Because I want you to know that self-destruction comes in many forms, oftentimes draped in good intentions. It's not just suicidal ideation that we can use to break ourselves down." 

"I made a choice, remember? You threw a fit until I did." 

"We both know that choosing not to kill yourself isn't the same as avoiding oblivion."

Malfoy scoffs, turning forward once more. I trace the edges of his profile with my eyes and follow suit. "Spare me the lectures, Granger, I'm too tired for this." 

"You're not sleeping." In my act of self-sabotage, I forget to form it as a question. 

"How could I when you've got me suffering on that torture device you call a guest bed?" 

His sarcasm is a return to form and one I take some relief in.

"I assure you mine is no better." 

"Of course it's not. You're hardly used to the finer things in life." 

"Well, we can't all be born with a silver spoon in our mouths."

"You and your fucking muggle phrases. That makes no bloody sense you know." He smirks slightly at me. 

"Perhaps you're just uneducated." 

"Compared to you, Merlin is uneducated." It dances too close to a compliment and he clears his throat. "No wonder your hair is so big, it's got to cover that massive brain." 

"Well if hair size is an indication of mental acuity then at least yours matches up." 

"What is that supposed to mean?" 

"That helmet of slick-backed hair you sported throughout first and second year wasn't doing you any favors." I snark. He looks so genuinely offended it makes me laugh. 

"I was twelve! And you're one to talk!" He responds. "Really Granger you've no business making fun of another person's hair." 

I wrap an errant curl around my finger. "I've come to quite like my hair, honestly. It's distinctly me." 

Malfoy scoffs. "Well, that's for fucking sure." 

"I've tried taming it. I look like a drowned cat, in truth." 

"Of course you do." 

I chuckle again and the conversation lulls. Still, he is less tense and his attention is once more on the roaring ocean before us and not whatever imaginary nightmares he's hallucinating. 

Eventually, the throbbing in my leg reaches a pounding too intense to ignore and I know I have to rest. I stand, downing the remaining dregs of my tea. "I'm off to sleep."

"Hope you rest easy in that nice little bed of yours."

"I'll leave a sleeping draught out for you," I say, forcing myself to sound casual. 

Malfoy looks at me and I see the fear creeping back into his expression. He wants to retaliate almost as desperately as he wants to relent. 

"Just in case," I add. 

When he says nothing, I bid him good night and on my way to bed, leave a vial outside his door. He deposits the empty bottle in the sink the next day and mumbles a thank you as he walks by. 

Moody comes by for another visit and I am gripped by inexplicable panic. Perhaps it's because of Malfoy's deteriorating mental condition, or maybe the threat of our midnight outings being discovered. Either way, I am wholly on edge when Harry joins me in the kitchen to wait out his intrepid leader. 

"Still no sign of George." 

I am scrubbing the empty vials he has brought me, as well as the small mass that I have emptied. At his confession, my fist squeezes in reaction and the soap goes flying. Harry catches it, ever a Seeker, and tosses it back to me. "Thank you." I take a second to compose myself. "He's really still missing?" 

Harry nods. 

"But it's been months!" 

Harry looks grim. "I know. And with Penelope's death, Percy is soon to follow." 

"What do you mean?" 

"He's got a death wish, Hermione." 

Truthfully most of the Weasleys do. Losing three siblings and a parent will do that to a family. "Can't Molly talk to him?" 

"Molly is…" 

Worry compounds into visceral concern within me; the taste of my anxiety thick and bitter. "Molly is what? Is she okay?" 

"She's alive if that's what you're after," he says with a sigh, nimble fingers slipping beneath his glasses to press roughly into his eyes. "But that's about it. Ron can't get her to do much other than eat. Ginny is gone more often than she's home and the other two. Well."

The other two referring to Charlie and Bill. Fleur gave birth to a baby girl exactly nine months after she'd married Bill and the small family of three disappeared from their home the next day. Bill wrote letters for a while, apologizing for their leaving. There was just too much risk to their newborn because of the war and he felt that their choice to hide was the best one. Most were sympathetic, knowing the current climate was no place to raise a child. I was decidedly less understanding. How nice it must be to run and hide; to shirk the burden onto others and let them die to give that baby a better world. If Tonks and Lupin could bear the danger, so could Fleur and Bill. I withheld voicing my judgment, however, because Harry supported their decision and as his best friend, it was my role to stand at his side. The fact that we must act on pretense in times of war is utterly asinine but I'm no longer in a position to criticize such things. 

As for Charlie, last I heard he was trying to tame dragons for the Order to use in raids and made himself scarce to anyone that wasn't Ginny. 

The war comes for us all but it has been particularly ruthless to the Weasleys. 

"Merlin." My heart is heavy and I want to be there with them, shouldering the seemingly impossible burden. I've lost that privilege, though, and I've no one to blame but myself. "Does Moody have a plan in place to find him?"

Harry sighs, bearing the weight of the world upon his back. "Ron has thrown some strategies together but Moody and Lupin are adamant that the Diadem is the first and only priority." 

"This all or nothing mindset isn't—" 

"I know, Hermione. I know." It's an old argument, one we've had time and again and so I drop it. "How've you been? How has it been with Malfoy?" 

"Fine. It's been…fine." I have no idea how to answer such a question. The truth isn't an option. Harry wouldn't—couldn't—understand the way things have evolved. He's always been bad at seeing the forest for the trees as my mum would say. He's a big picture person and the nuances of my…relationship with Malfoy would be lost upon him. 

"Just fine?" Unfortunately, Harry is also annoyingly perceptive. 

I rinse off the dish I'm holding to stall for time but when I finally turn to look at him, he's watching me with careful green eyes. "It's complicated, living with someone." 

"Complicated how?" 

"We—we are constantly together. This cottage isn't that big. It's not built for solitude."

Anticipating the venom in his reaction doesn't make it sting any less. "So what? You're mates?" 

I snort. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Then what?" 

"Like I said. It's complicated. We had to come to an agreement of sorts; an effort at neutrality. Otherwise, we'd have killed each other." 

"Hmm," he hums. Harry doesn't look all that convinced but to my relief, he abstains from pressing the issue.

I steer us back into familiar waters, asking after our friends and families. Anything to keep him off the topic of Malfoy. Be it my skill, Harry's silent understanding, or something else entirely, the look of soft mistrust slips from his face and by the time Moody reappears, Harry and I are sharing a laugh at something innocuous, forgetful, safe . Moody's gruff features are as impassive as a stone and, once they've gone, I'm forced to use Malfoy's mood to measure how the meeting went. 

As I step into the room, he's not crying nor is he facing away, hunched into the back of his chair, both decidedly good signs. Instead, he's staring out the window, sharp features cast in stark profile. At my entrance though, he turns, and had I not already been staring I'd have missed the cloudy look that quickly vanishes from his gray eyes. 

"Granger." 

"How'd it go?" I normally don't ask and it inspires suspicion. 

"I didn't let him in on our little field trips if that's what you're wondering." 

I wasn't but it's an excellent cover. "Er, good. Thank you." 

Malfoy scoffs. "I didn't do it for you. We both know he'd blame me for it anyway." 

I shuffle awkwardly in the doorway, leg stiff with overuse. I've had to start taking an extra dose at night now that we've been trekking through forests, not that it's working. I should stop but when is that not the case? 

"What'd he want to know about this time?" 

"Why the sudden interest, Granger?" 

"Who said it's sudden? Maybe now I just feel confident enough that you'll actually answer." 

"You're a presumptuous swot, you know?" 

"So I've been told." 

Malfoy twists his neck, popping it. "The usual bullshit. Have I ever seen so-and-so talking to the Dar—Tom? Do I know of any secret hideouts? What exactly do the Death Eaters know about the Order?" 

The last one sets me on edge, hands balling into fists to keep from picking. "What do they know about us?" 

"More than you'd like but less than you'd think," he says. "For a while, they were sure you were somehow operating out of the Ministry." 

I scoff in disbelief. "What? Why would they ever think that?" 

"Bad intel, I suppose." 

Something dark and awful occurs to me. "Do they have any—any more spies in the Order?" 

Malfoy gives me a peculiar look. "Any more?" 

That blank expression on Ernie's face, blue eyes glossy and unmoving. An entire living person rendered inert, empty. I shudder despite myself, tasting the raspberry jam I had for breakfast. "We had an…incident a few years ago. It has since been handled."

"Granger—"

I shake my head. "It doesn't matter."

"But—" 

"Are there any more spies?" 

"Not unless you count me," he says with an exaggerated grin. 

We can both see it for what it is, his intentional effort to lighten the mood, to pull me back into safer spaces. I tingle all over and allow myself to think it's unrelated. 

"If that's the case, then you're a terrible spy," I say. 

"Maybe you're just a terrible judge of character."

"People were never my strong suit."

"Too busy being brilliant and annoying about it, I'm sure." 

"I'm going to choose to take that as a compliment." 

He rolls his eyes, gaze trailing off along with his attention. "Yeah, you do that…" 

I watch his features darken, watch the fear he's no longer able to hide crawl across his face. "Malfoy," I say. "What is it?" 

His body shudders as he takes a deep breath, grasping at anything his jagged nails can catch. "Talking to Moody is exhausting." 

I slowly make my way to the couch adjacent to him, sitting down with a silent groan. There is so much I want to say but even for all my efforts, Malfoy is still a feral thing. I've had to learn patience in spaces where I would otherwise demand. 

Eventually, "Moody is still ignoring my questions regarding mother." 

"Just outright ignoring or playing coy?" 

"Both, I guess." He glares at empty air and slips trembling fingers into his lap. "He's a fucking monster." 

"He's brutally pragmatic. War is an ugly thing and kindness won't lead us to victory, not when it matters most." 

"And you're okay with that? What happened to the value of being humane amidst all this fucking violence?" 

I shrug slightly. "That still holds true for the rest of us. Moody is just…he's given away his gentler natures in the name of the good and the righteous. When this is all over, I shudder to think of what he'll do. How he'll cope." 

"And what about you, Golden Girl? How will you cope?" 

The weight of his gaze makes me fidget. "I hate it when you call me that."

When he smiles in response, I can't tell if it's just an excuse to bare his teeth. "I know." 

Still, he waits and I fill the silence because any conversation with Malfoy is better than no conversation at all. "I'll just be grateful to be alive, if I'm alive, in the end. I just want everyone I love to—to come out the other side of this still in one piece." 

"Lofty ambitions there, Granger," he says. "But you didn't answer my question. How will you cope after Saint Potter saves the day? At some point, you'll have to stop—" 

"I know." 

His eyes linger on my leg as if he can see in perfect clarity the ruin that hides beneath. "Is it beyond fixing?" 

"I used to think nothing was." 

"And now?" 

He has such a striking face; all sharp bones and pale skin. He could be beautiful if not for the cold fear lurking just beyond the surface. I wonder if he knows. I wonder if he cares. 

"I suppose I still do." 

"Then you're a fool," he says, with all the gratitude in the world. 

It's so fascinating to me, the elasticity and depth of human understanding. The weight we ascribe to otherwise worthless things. For the six years I attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I used the same quill every day. It was the first magical item I ever bought, completely unremarkable in every way. I cherished it like it was made of gold and whenever I misplaced it, I'd have a minor panic attack. Three weeks into running for our lives during what should have been our seventh year, it was snapped in a rush to pack one muggy August morning and I didn't even have the energy to care. 

Since I'd learned of their existence, pain potions were just another thing, just another drop in the ocean of knowledge I'd been absorbing since age 11. Two little words and a decade later, they've become a third arm, a second mouth, a full set of teeth. They're inextricable from me, rooted totally in the fabric of my identity. Malfoy suggested a cane as if I'm somehow without a crutch. It's disgusting, frankly, and my dependence on something so monumentally unimportant is such an insult I struggle to accept it. 

Still, I spend so much time and energy on the welfare of others that it's easy to use that perpetual exhaustion as an excuse not to try. I'd never let someone I love be so weak, so disinterested in their wellbeing. Hypocrisy has always been a flaw of mine and I've hardly the time to remedy that. At least that's what I tell myself as I down my fifth pain potion of the day and lapse into semi-consciousness, chasing sleep. 

An Order member died in my dining room this afternoon, his self-inflicted wounds too severe for my clever magic to overcome. He couldn't cope with the weight of it all, the hopelessness. A shock of red hair had me reeling, convinced it was Percy, only for the blood to wipe clean, revealing the face of a man I didn't know. So much death and I felt actual relief in the wake of all this violence. 

The thing with coping and the mechanisms therein is that they're predictably unstable. To cope is not a natural state of existence and you either break beneath it or break free. This man whose name I never learned chose option A. For people like Harry, and Ginny, and Malfoy, and I, we keep picking the latter. It's far easier to give up but we can't. At least I hope we can't. Codependency is another tool in hand to get through the dark nights. I wonder if Harry still sleeps with his wand in hand. I wonder if Ginny sleeps at all. I know that Malfoy and I do not. 

It's raining, the crash of water muted but relentless as it slams into the cottage, and I wander downstairs to sit by the dying fire. The flood of manufactured numbness moving through me makes me needy and cold. When Malfoy inevitably follows me into the dark, we sit beside one another on the coarse rug and I draw strength from the heat of his arm pressed into mine. It won't solve everything, but it provides an anchor sorely needed and it's easy to pick him when I've no other choice. As time marches onward, however, I find myself considering the fact that, even in the face of other options, I’d still choose him anyway.

Chapter Text

Another fucking day, another jagged crack.

“Did the extra cup of pond slime help?” I ask. Granger’s hair—the only visible part of her—shakes in response. “Are you sure? It should have thickened the mixture rather significantly.”

“All it did was bind with the rat blood to make a hideous, macabre jelly.”

“Did you stir it for an hour?” 

Her head appears around the door frame, an expression of irritation marring her face. “Of course I did. Now stop bothering me. I have to focus.”

“I’m merely stating,” I call after her disappearing form, “if you’d actually stirred it for an hour, it wouldn’t have congealed.”

“Shut up,” she calls out, the sing-song tone of her voice in no way masking her annoyance. 

I grin at the space she previously occupied. “Your lack of argument proves I’m right, you know.”

She makes a rude hand gesture but stays quiet. 

“Exactly.” I turn my attention back to the book in hand; the faded blue cover of Dracula stares back at me. Muggles, or perhaps just Granger, possess such a penchant for the fantastical, and not for the first time I find myself wondering why. 

‘The only interesting thing about muggles is the way they taste. So rich and moist. All that wet, hot meat, just begging to be swallowed.’ The silent hiss of Nagini’s response is the acid crawling up the back of my throat. The sausage we’d had for dinner revolts in my stomach and I fight off the urge to puke.

Nagini slithers between my legs, ever the phantom at the edge of my vision. All at once, the lightness I’d felt upon waking abandons me, leaving me to drown in a sea of repressed fear. I cannot Occlude, no matter the depth of desire I possess. The veritable warehouse of boxes I’d stored beneath the surface of my thoughts has been set ablaze, defiled utterly by this new friend I’ve made. Nagini is a plague of every variety, poisoning the very essence of my daily life. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to make it stop. She chatters constantly, her comments unwanted and horrific. The dreamless sleeping draughts that Granger has been giving me are losing their efficacy and when they go, I fear the last dredges of my sanity will go along with them. Every time I try and shove her away, every effort to ignore and pretend, only contributes to the strength of the hallucination. 

“Malfoy?” Granger’s voice finally breaks through, pulling me to shore. I turn from the middle distance at which I’d been staring to meet her worried gaze. “Did you hear me?”

“I—I’ve gotten too good at tuning you out.” My voice cracks, nothing about me exuding the cocky aloofness I wish to embody. “What are you whinging on about?”

Her mouth twists and even though I want it to be concern, I’m sure it's disappointment. That's all I fucking am; a disappointment. “I wanted your opinion on something.”

“Yes, you look dreadful in white.” I reach desperately for the Draco I should be, need to be. 

Granger sighs. “I’m not even wearing white.” 

It’s true. Her jumper is emerald green and it compliments her skin rather nicely. Not that I’d ever admit such heresy.

‘No need to admit what is written all over your fool face, fool boy. What an embarrassment you are, lusting after a mudblood.’

I shudder so bad the book slips from my grasp, falling quietly to the ground. Nagini hisses out a silent laugh, the spider-like tip of her tongue tickling the back of my ankle.

“Will you please stop it?” Granger asks.

“It’s just a fucking book.”

“This isn’t about the book!” The desperate edge to her voice draws me in, and I force myself to look at her again. “Can you please just stop pretending this isn’t happening?”

I lack the strength to play stupid so I just sigh and dig jagged fingernails into my palm to keep from crying. 

“Malfoy,” she starts, closing the space between us to hover at the edge of the couch. “What is going on?”

“I’ve lost my mind,” I confess. “Gone absolutely mental. Batty. Insane.” 

“You—”

“Just like dear old mum. It must run in the family.”

“What happened to your mum?”

It’s still just flashes of agony intermixed with the acrid burn of dark magic. I reach for things repressed or forgotten and only to be met with cold scales. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re not crazy.” Granger sounds so sure of herself that it's ridiculous.

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” I snap, already stretched too thin. “Because you’re the fucking picture of mental health.”

“It’s the Occlumency. You know it’s—”

“Yes, I know it’s the fucking Occlumency you absolute harpy!”

She reels as if slapped but doesn’t relent. “Then why aren’t you doing anything about it?”

“I don’t know how. I—I have no fucking idea how to—to fix this!”

‘Just give in, boy. Stop fighting me. I’ll be quick. You won’t feel anything past the first bite.’

“You have to talk to someone, to me. You’ve got to address whatever it is you’re avoiding in the first place.”

“Easy for you to say,” I sneer. “You’re the Golden girl. All your skeletons come with the caveat that you did it all in the name of the good. The light.” I gesture at the space I fill. “I’m just a fuck up. There’s no redemption for me, Granger. No secret, soft fucking heart hiding at the rotten center of me.”

“This isn’t about redemption, Malfoy, it’s about survival. I don’t care what you did or didn’t do the last three years. It’s war. We’ve all had to do ugly things to survive.” Granger pauses, wringing her careful hands together. I want to grab them, to grab her, to force them to stop. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No.” To the best of my knowledge, it’s not a lie, and yet it feels like one.

“Well, I have. So if we’re weighing hearts for the sake of sin, then it’ll be me who sinks.”

“But you’re—”

“No, I’m not. I’m just a person, same as you.” She takes a deep breath and I watch in rapt fascination at the careful rise and fall of her chest. “You made a decision, Malfoy, and there is no going back. We either march forward together or not at all. So please, please, will you talk to me?”

I cannot handle the weight of her gaze, the earnest truth of it all burning through me like fiendfyre. Nagini whispers something vile and unholy and I shake my head ever so slightly to keep the words from taking root. “I don’t even know what to say. Where to start.”

“What happened between you and Luna? Why—why are you so close?”

I look for clinical curiosity in her eyes but I’m met only with determination. When Hermione Granger sets her sights on something, she’ll stop at nothing to see it through. At some point along our fucked up trajectory, that razor-sharp focus has fallen upon me, and I cannot begin to understand how I feel about it. 

“When she was captured, back in seventh year. Bellatrix wanted me to play jailer, thought it would toughen me up after I failed to—to kill—after I failed to do my part for the Dark Lord.” A rush of stale memories boils within me and I take a moment to weather the storm. “Luna—she was—she’s impossible to hate.”

Granger nods.

“I couldn’t torture her, no matter how badly I needed to. My mother, she’d be the one who was—” I swallow the thought, unable to bear even the mention. “In the end, I had to ask for her help, to pretend like I did. And Luna just—she just fucking did it, without a second thought. After that I—it wasn’t much. I just—food and water and—” 

‘Even you aren’t so stupid, Draco. The mudblood won’t care that you gave her friend moldy bread. She’ll never care about you. Ever. Ever. Everevereverevereverevereverever —’

“I promised her I’d kill her before I’d let them torture her.” Candlelight glistening off of Fenrir’s crooked fangs. The look of feral hunger in his eyes as he listed off all the things he wanted to do to her, should the Dark Lord grant him permission. “I never had to, but—but there was a time—she almost—” The levy breaks, the flood rushes in. 

‘EVEREVEREVEREVEREVEREVEREVEREVEREVEREVEREVEREVER —’

“I can’t—I can’t—” I pull at the fabric of my shirt, desperate for release from this place, this body, this life. 

“Stop. You’re okay. Breathe, Malfoy. Breathe.” Granger kneels before me, those perfect, careful fingers tugging at my own. She places a hand over my heart. I wonder what she thinks when she feels it slam into the cage of my chest. “Like before. Like we practiced.”

I untether myself from the world, from the concept of reality. Nagini screams, demanding my subjugation, but Granger isn’t so easily drowned. I listen to the familiar cadence of her voice, the heat, and the weight of her as she holds me in place. Everything is static, a violent noise over a reel of horrid memory. I cling to the anchor Granger provides and ride out the waves of panic as they move through me. It takes ages, a century, a second, forever, but I am eventually hollowed out, nothing but a trembling mass of limbs to be coaxed into submission.

She takes me to my bed, although I cannot remember the journey. When I wake from a dreamless sleep, there is a glass of water, a pounding in my head like I’ve never before felt, and a distinct lack of scales that whisper when they slither across stone.

Granger doesn’t comment on the spectacle I’d made of myself in the living room. She makes no attempt to address the things I’d said, or ask about my wellbeing. Instead, she just carries on, and maintains our usual routine, demanding nothing but what I’ve already offered to give. Nagini goes silent for days, not long enough to convince me I’m cured, but long enough that the reprieve strengthens my resolve. It’s just a bandage over the gaping wound that is my psyche but it helps, just a little, just enough. And so it goes.

We’re debating the merits of boiling the essence of poppy before adding it to her potion mixture when hell itself comes calling. 

“I’m telling you Malfoy, it won’t work.”

“And I’m telling you it will. You’ve trusted me enough to include me, haven’t you? So stop being so fucking stubborn and listen.”

“I’m not being stubborn,” she insists and has the audacity to stomp her foot. 

“Are you serious—”

Something crashes in the kitchen. “Hermione!” Potter beckons, and immediately she goes. 

I trail behind, watching as they carry some poor sod into the clinic. It’s Potter and a few others, none of whom I recognize. The victim, a boy far too young to be so bloodied, is still and unresponsive when they deposit him on the nearest bed.

“What happened?”

As Granger moves past me, the wake of her disturbs the air and the scent hits me like lightning. I can still taste the bitter almonds Mother made me eat, half-hysterical when she realized I’d been in the room when the Carrow twins had tested their latest curse. It ate through the group of muggles like fire, a spreading plague that went through flesh and bone the way an ember devours a forest. We had to burn the furniture, just to be safe. Even the Dark Lord felt the curse too dangerous to use. If it hit even one Death Eater on accident, his entire army could have gone up in a spray of red viscera. I grip her arm so tightly, that Granger nearly yelps.

“Malf—”

“Don’t fucking touch him.”

“Wha—”

“The curse, it’s contagious.” 

She looks at me, wide-eyed and scared, before turning to Potter. “Don’t touch him!”

“Hermione, what—”

“It spreads through the blood,” I say.

“Harry, stop!” She screams when the boy fucking wonder fails to listen. He hesitates, hand hovering above the whimpering victim’s chest. “Please, stop.”

“I—”

“Blood, it’s the blood. Has any of his blood come in contact with your bare skin?” It appears that included in the requisite Order war ensemble is a pair of pigskin gloves, much to Granger’s relief. Still, they all run cursory searches of their bodies, patting and prodding and praying to the gods. 

“I don’t think so,” Potter finally says. “But what about Michael? We have to do something!”

I’ve yet to let go of Granger’s arm and when she tries to pull away, I hold firm. “Don’t touch him, Granger.”

“Malfoy, I have—”

“Stop being a hero for once in your fucking life, okay? Just stop.” 

My pleading works and the way her face softens is wretched, dangerous. “Okay. I won’t touch him,” she says, slowly pulling her arm away. “But I have to do something. Is there any cure?”

“Almonds. Mother made me eat a pound of almonds. But that’s just for exposure, I don’t think that—” I peer around her, taking in the sight of the rapidly dying boy. He’s barely 18 if he’s a day old. Already blood is pooling beneath his skin, turning it purple. “He’s beyond help.”

Her heart breaks, because of course, it does. “Are you sure?”

I nod.

“Hermione, we have to do something.” Potter is looking between the two of us and the accusation on his face is delicious, a treat even amidst all this horror. 

With a wave of her wand, she summons a greyish-brown potion. When she steps toward the bed, my fingers twitch but I refrain from embarrassing myself any further. She’s a big girl. I don’t care what she does.

‘Liar,’ Nagini whispers, feeding off the memories of torture I’m struggling to repress. 

Granger slips on a pair of gloves and, with careful movements, pulls the boy's mouth open wide enough to pour the entire potion down his throat. It takes a full minute for his heart to stop and none of us have the strength to look away. He’s not the first stranger I’ve watched die and I’m sure he won’t be the last.

“I need your clothes,” Granger finally says to the gaggle of idiots. I step away, possessing no desire to linger for this part. “Everything must be destroyed.”

The scent of controlled burning smothers the remaining miasma of the contagion curse. In the end, she must employ so much magic to render the room and the others clean that the presence of it licks at the skin of my neck, all static and familiar despair. I wait on the stairs, out of sight of everyone, yet close enough to hear everything, just in case. By the time Potter leaves, there is no trace of the boy, not even an errant drop of blood.

Granger stands in the doorway, wearing an entirely different set of clothes. The sheets of every bed in her sad little clinic have been changed and the floor looks cleaner than I’ve ever seen. She’s dipping her wand into a clear, nondescript liquid, and trying not to cry.

“I’m sorry,” I say automatically as if my sympathy is warranted.

She shoves an almond into her mouth and nods. “Thank you for—for noticing.” The crunch of her chewing is almost crass it’s so loud. “Without you…” she finally says, trailing off. 

The implication doesn’t need to be addressed. Something about grace, I suppose, and the offering of it. 

“It won’t happen again. Harry knows what to look for now. He was there when Michael got hit. It shouldn’t…it won’t happen again." Her tone is as insistent as it is desperate.

Her jaw tenses, the faded scar betraying her desire to crumble. I wonder how she got it if it hurt if she hates it. Nagini slithers, having grown fat feasting upon the terrors of the day. Glancing at the clock, I realize it’s only noon and that feels worse, for some reason. All this sunlight left and the only thing we’ve to show for it is trauma and the scent of burnt almonds.

“How many other terrible curses did the Carrow’s create?” 

It’s hardly appropriate dinner conversation, although in truth my appetite is rather nonexistent. I grimace at the thought of finishing the soup congealing in front of me, even as I know Granger will chastise me if I don’t. The spoon clangs against the edges of the bowl and Nagini waits with bated breath as I consider opening boxes that are better left to rot.

“It wasn’t like I kept track. The last fucking thing I wanted to do when those two ghouls played scientist was lounge around.”

She chews her lip, the white of her teeth stark against the pink skin. “I am surprised they waited so long to use this one.”

“The Da—Tom forbid them from it because of how quickly it gets out of control.” I try not to shudder as the snake coils around my foot. “He must truly be desperate.”

“I suppose that's a good thing,” she says with a sigh. “Although it doesn’t seem all that worth it.”

I grunt in response and try to push away the memories of the Carrow siblings and their machinations that threaten to break free. There was just so much violence and blood and senseless death; every day was a veritable cavalcade of the macabre. I don’t regret the abuse of Occlumency because it was unquestionably a necessity but the cost I am paying is pretty fucking steep. 

‘You always knew this would happen, Draco. It was inevitable. You wanted this to happen. You wanted a way out,’ Nagini hisses. ‘Just one bite and you’ll have it. Sweet oblivion.’

“You saved my life,” Granger murmurs in disbelief. 

I cringe into my jumper. “Don’t do that.”

“But you did, Malfoy. You saved my life. If you weren’t there—if you hadn’t stopped me—”

“I was just returning an unwanted favor, nothing more. You saved mine and now we’re even,” I snap. “That’s it.”

She watches me and I long for the distance Occlumency offers. 

‘A tiny pinch from the fangs; a little sting from the poison. A small price to pay for the thing you want most.’

“Thank you,” she finally says and it burns. I burn. “Even if you don’t care, I’m still grateful. So, thank you.”

“Don’t make this into something it’s not, Granger. It doesn’t matter.” 

“It matters to me. I almost died today and you—”

‘No more nightmares or panic attacks. Say the word and let it die. Let it all die.’  

“ —saved me. You didn’t have to.”

“Yes, I did.”

‘You can make it all stop. Even the mudblood. Especially the mudblood.’

I ball my hand into a fist and slam it onto the tabletop. Granger jumps back, nearly knocking her glass of water to the floor. The only sound is my ragged breathing; the sea doesn’t even have the courtesy to crash and writhe. 

“Mal—”

“Stop,” I whisper. “Please stop.”

‘You’ll never be rid of me, boy. You can’t run away from something that doesn’t exist. You can’t run away from yourself.’

Warm fingers wrap themselves around my clenched fist and I look up at her. “You’re the only one who can make it stop, Malfoy.”

“I—I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” she says with all the confidence befitting her reputation. “Tell me a secret.”

‘Tell her how you stood still and did nothing while she was tortured in front of you.’

“You first.”

Granger doesn’t even hesitate. “I think I hate the people I’m supposed to love most.”

‘Tell her how you used to laugh at her. Tell her how you used to make up cruel stories and rumors just to make her feel a fraction of the ugly that you felt inside.’

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone at all,” I confess. “I don’t even know if I’m capable of it.”

She squeezes my hand tightly, my fingers having curled around hers without my knowing. “Maybe you’ve just never tried.”

“You have too much faith in me, Granger.”

“I have exactly as much faith as you inspire,” she says. “My opinion of you is formed from your actions and, as you said, I’m a terrible liar.” When she smiles at me it’s all earnest warmth and even though it sends Nagini slithering into the ether, I am unable to bear it. Instead of grinning back, I untangle our fingers and lean away, leaving the distance between us cold and careful and safe.

“You’re also a shit judge of character, remember?” I stare out the window because if I see the hurt in her expression, it’ll be the end of it all. “And I told you, I’m not a thing to be fixed.”

Her nails scrape lightly against the wood as she pulls back her hand.“Friendships aren’t a binary of fixes and favors.”

“We both know this isn’t a friendship. There’s too much ugliness between us.”

“The past—”

“I’m not talking about the past.” I finally catch her eye and the look on her face is bitter resignation. 

“Fine.” Granger stands, dropping her dirty plate into the sink with a bit too much force. “I’m not going to sit here and be humiliated because you’re too self-loathing to even attempt to get better.”

“I didn’t humiliate—”

“At some point Malfoy, you’re going to have to make a choice and you’re no longer burdened with time.” She is the picture of disappointment. “You want it to stop? Then do something about it.”

“I won’t prostrate myself before you just to satisfy your morbid curiosity.” I lean into the sour turn the night has taken, finding solace in familiar waters.

“When have I ever—ever—made you think that was my goal? Stop looking for excuses, you’re better than that.”

The challenge in her voice is too bold to ignore and I rise to it like the fool that I am. “How the fuck would you know? Stop pretending I’m someone you would care about. I’m not Potter, okay? I’m not a fucking Weasley. I’m not a good person.”

“I never said you were,” she argues. “But I won’t sit here and let you destroy yourself because you’re too much of a coward to face the truth.”

“I never asked for your help.”

“Yes, you did.” She doesn’t even bother to elaborate. “Hate me if you want, but you know I’m right.” 

I glare at her. “And what about what I want?”

“You don’t even know what you want.”

A bitter laugh crawls its way out of my throat. “And you do?”

Granger shakes her head softly and looks away. “I just want to see you get better. I’ve no hidden motivations, Malfoy. I’m not pretending to do or believe anything.” She looks as exhausted as I feel. “We’re in this together, thanks to fate or bad luck or whatever else, and the only way out of this hell is through. So we might as well try to reach the end a little less broken than we started.”

“How could I possibly help you?”

“You already have,” and the sincerity of it destroys me.

‘I feel her inside you, scurrying beneath your skin. She’s burrowed deep but don’t worry, I’ll rip her out, muddy roots and all.’

“Tell me another secret.”

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

Ginny hisses as I tighten the bandage around her torso. "Merlin, Hermione, you're gonna re-break my ribs." 

"Oh hush," I chastise, tapping the fabric once more with my wand to ensure it's secure before stepping back. "You took a bludger to the chest, I think you can handle a little squeeze."

With a groan she pulls her shirt back on, carefully avoiding contact with her ribcage. "How long should I be on bed rest?" 

"In theory? At least three days but knowing you, I'll be surprised if you last until tonight."

She glances at her watch. "Well it's half-past three so I'm nearly there."

"How did you even manage to play Quidditch? What about the concealment charm?" 

"Harry doesn't think that the static dummies we use for combat practice are all that useful. So Ron had the bright idea to fashion a few bludgers and quaffles into some ridiculous moving targets." 

"I bet Seamus and Dean were over the moon." 

Ginny snorts. "A tear or two were shed." 

I hand her another dose of modified Skelli-Gro and a watered-down pain potion. I've changed its color from a pale blue to something less immediately obvious in hopes that she won't comment. Her frown informs me of my failure. 

"How are you holding up? Harry told me about…Michael." 

The bitter taste of almonds floods my mouth and I choke back the urge to vomit. "I'm…fine. It was…it was horrible, Ginny. If Malfoy hadn't—" 

"What the hell does he have to do with anything?" 

I sigh, taking a moment to piece together enough patience to carry on. "He recognized the—the scent of the curse. Without him, we could have all been infected. Harry could have been infected."

Ginny remains unmoved. "So what? That's the absolute least he could do for us after all we've done for him. We saved his life." 

"And he saved mine," I interject. 

"Then he's finally doing something to justify his freedom."

As much as I want to push back, I can't. I understand exactly why she feels the way she does. To her, Malfoy is a series of four-letter expletives molded into a person. He's a living manifestation of who and what the Order has spent the last three years fighting against. To her and Harry and Ron, he's just a one-dimensional monster and a mere five months ago, I would have agreed without hesitation. Now, everything that was once black and white is a sea of muddied gray and I cannot pretend that he's anything less than I know him to be. 

So instead all I say is, "I know," and let her walk away thinking I'm not whatever I am with Draco Malfoy. 

It’s only a day later that Luna stops by, bearing gifts in the form of rations and news. 

“Where’s Harry?”

“Not here,” she says earnestly. “Lupin didn’t say where he and Moody went. They’ve been gone a few days now.”

I fidget with the paper wrapped around the dubiously fresh batch of vegetables. “Ginny failed to mention that when she was here yesterday.”

“She didn’t want you to worry.”

“And yet here I am, worried,” I mumble bitterly.

She stops pulling potion ingredients out of her bag to frown at me. “I told them you’re not made of brittle glass anymore but they’re just not ready to listen.”

“I was never made of glass, Luna.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Just because—”

“Now you’re made of sea glass! The ocean took a jagged thing and made it strong and soft,” she insists, “and Draco helped.”

I glance over at him. He’s perched in his usual spot, staring deliberately at the book in his lap. “I’m sure he’d disagree.” I want him to look at me, need him to, but he is ever the obstinate fool.

“Give him time, Hermione.” 

I turn back to Luna and the sincerity of her expression. “Time for what?”

“To accept the truth.”

Truth has never been my friend, even as I’ve relied upon it in times of doubt. Yet the weight of Luna’s words compels me to believe, even when my nature so vehemently opposes it. The way my hands tingle at the prospect of potential is too much, though, and so I guide us to a different shore.

“Were you able to translate that journal?”

“Yes! It was quite an interesting read. If we’re not all dead in a few months, I’ll tell you about it.”

“I—right. Thank you.” 

“We’re close to something. I shouldn’t say anything more but the sling sprigs are in full bloom and that’s such a great sign,” she beams. “Make sure you sleep with your windows open, that way they can leave you secrets.”

The last thing I need is more secrets. Across the room, our eyes finally meet and he raises the corner of his mouth ever so slightly before looking away. 

In the wake of our last argument, Malfoy seems lighter, less terrified. I still have no idea what he's hearing or seeing but if his lack of slack-jawed staring into the middle distance is any indication, then I can safely assume that for now, it has subsided. Excellent timing, honestly, because we must venture forth once more. 

"What's the furthest you've ever Apparated?" I ask him.

"In one go? Or are you just curious about my illustrious traveling habits?" 

"I am, actually. How familiar are you with Northern France? I know you mentioned a few familial properties, but what about the surrounding landscape?" 

He squints at me. "Why? Looking to finally run away, Granger? And with me, of all people. Scandalous." 

"Can't you be serious?" 

"Who said I'm not? You're the one trying to spirit us away on some illicit holiday." He raises his eyebrows suggestively. 

I groan and drop my head onto the desk to hide the way my face reddens. "I do not want to have some—some illicit tryst. You're horrible."

"And yet, you want to kidnap me." He's in such rare form today, all genial humor and easy demeanor, that it's impossible for me to be anything other than relieved, indulgent even. 

"As if you wouldn't go willingly," I retort, lifting my head to stare down at my notes. When he stays silent for a heartbeat too long, I glance in his direction to find him staring at me with an indecipherable look. With his inability to use Occlumency comes the fascinating introduction to all of these little micro-expressions he's kept hidden for so long. "What?" 

"Nothing. Why do you want to know about France?" 

I am gracious enough to follow his lead. "I want to try using Abraxan hair." 

"You're out of your fucking mind."

"You suggested it!" 

"And? Since when do you listen to me? I give terrible advice," he responds. 

"Malfoy," I start. "Please." 

"Just because I mentioned seeing them a few times in passing does not mean I can successfully navigate us there." He leans forward in his chair. "Not to mention I have no wand with which to Apparate us and if we even set foot on my family’s land, Death Eaters would surely descend upon us like the wrath of hell."

"Yes but I've been to Northern France once, with my parents when I was little." The hazy memory is painful to recall, as is anything regarding them, but the threat of pain is too constant a companion to fold now. "And if I can get us there, I feel as if some reconnaissance and your directions might take us the rest of the way." 

"That's hundreds of kilometers of land, Granger. We can't just spend a week wandering the wilds of the fucking French countryside on the off chance we stumble upon a herd of mystical, winged horses."

"If we use a beast locator spell—" 

"—which are notoriously unreliable—" 

"—it could work."

"Granger," he says, "don't be an idiot. You're too smart for that. You know this plan is fucking mental."

The slam of my notebook does little to hide my petulant huff. "Well, I have to do something! None of the other methods and ingredients and bloody ideas we've had are working. If we increase the duration, the potency drops significantly. If we improve the strength, the user runs the risk of literal blood poisoning. It's maddening."

"It's almost as if—" 

"Don't you dare say it." 

He heeds my warning but doesn't drop the cheeky grin. "Wouldn't dream of it." 

I fiddle with my pen for a moment. "We should still go out." 

"You couldn't afford me." 

"Shut up." 

We touch down just outside of the forest of Dean, right where the tree line meets the rolling hills. Malfoy clings to me, even though we've landed upright, but I'm too busy scanning for dangers to let myself think about it. An owl screeches in the distant dark but it is otherwise a silent scene. 

"What's our purpose this time? Hemlock? Wild birch? More innocent Murtlaps?" 

"Gillyweed, actually. And, if we're lucky, some bark spiders." 

"Bloody delightful." 

Despite the challenge it presents, I still force us to move through the forest, even if what we hunt is in the hills beyond. The cover is too vital a boon to disregard until the last possible moment. Spring is slowly giving way to summer, and that cyclical change has painted the midnight trees in muted greens. I bet it makes for a beautiful sight, were we lucky to ever do anything in the light of day. 

"At what point do you plan on giving up?" he asks, breaking the silence. 

"You'll have to be more specific. There's quite a lot I've got going on." 

"The potion, obviously."

I shrug, careful to keep one eye on the shadows around us. "Until I either solve it or the war ends." 

"That could be years." 

The prospect is bleak. "It could also be days." 

"I could also grow a third foot and learn to tap dance."

I look over at him skeptically. "How do you know what tap dance is?" 

"From a book, Granger, have you never heard of one?" 

"Which book do I own that mentions tap-dancing literally anywhere?" 

"Who said I learned it from one of your odd little muggle reads? Wizards dance."

Memories of the awkward swaying and teetering that had gone on during the Yule Ball surface in my mind. McGonagall had spent weeks trying to teach us a proper dance. The amount of bruised toes proved just how successful she'd been. 

"Of course they dance. But not tap. That's decidedly muggle."

“Bit prejudice of you.”

“I remember the Yule Ball, Malfoy,” I say, navigating carefully over a series of exposed roots. “And there was a distinct lack of tap dancing to be found.”

“Surprised you remember it at all, what with all the swooning you did over Krum.”

“He asked me!” I can still recall the warmth that spread through me as he struggled to get the words out by the lake that day. He was so nervous, and I had been so excited, even if Ron ruined it in the end. “And how would you even know? Weren’t you too busy snogging Pansy Parkinson’s face off?”

Malfoy grimaces. “Please, Granger, I’m not an animal. I don’t snog people in public.”

“Oh?”

“I”ve far too much good breeding for that.”

I chew my lip to keep from laughing too loud. “You’re so pretentious.”

“I’ve always wondered why you didn’t go with Weasley,” he muses, ignoring my jab. “He spent the whole night staring at you like some sort of lovesick puppy.”

"He didn't ask me. At least, not until it was too late." 

"He—really?" Malfoy sounds genuinely baffled. 

The wool collar of my jumper scratches against my neck when I shrug. "He just kind of assumed I'd be available if or when his other choices fell through." 

"Granger," 

"It sounds worse than it was." 

"Really? Because it sounds pretty fucking bad." 

"Oh yes because I'm sure you're the paragon of chivalry." Just the idea of Malfoy being romantic sends me reeling. 

He scoffs, clutching imaginary pearls to express his offense. "You wound me." 

"Good." 

The forest floor gives way to wet grass as I'm forced to take us beyond the safety of cover and into the great wide open. 

"Stay close," I warn. My leg burns as I pick up the pace, eager to finish what we've come here to do. 

"Why a Healer?" 

I glance over at him, annoyed at how easily his long legs keep pace. "As opposed to, what, a chef?" 

"Your talents are much more useful when applied elsewhere, aren't they?" 

A thick fog rolls lazily over the moors, obscuring us. "My talents? I do believe you're complimenting me, Malfoy." 

"Modesty isn't your strong suit." 

"And flattery isn't yours." 

"Whatever," he grumbles. "I was only going to point out what a mistake it is, wasting a valuable resource in times as dark as these."

Somewhere before us, a shallow pool of water catches the diffused light of the moon, twinkling like a beacon. "A moonpool is just up ahead. We should be able to find some Gillyweed there." I quicken my pace. 

"You're avoiding the question." 

"Maybe I'm just considering how best to answer it so that it doesn't lead to you berating me and my loved ones." 

"Are these the same loved ones you think you hate?" His quiet arrogance needles me. 

It was probably a mistake sharing secrets like schoolgirls with him, but his suffering was so profound I just couldn't abide it. "A little grace goes a long way, Malfoy." 

"Merely an observation, Granger."

"Yes, well." We approach the pool and I kneel before it. "It's an unwelcome one." The water is ice cold and a shiver crawls through me as I dip my fingers beneath the surface, searching for the paper-thin blue and yellow plant. 

Malfoy lingers behind me, head tilted towards the foggy horizon. "You've been alone so long, perhaps you need an outside perspective to show you how terrible it all is."

I grip tightly to the slimy leaves and rip the weed out, root and all. Water runs down my arm, dampening my sleeve. "And you're so kind as to be that person, hmm? How caring of you, how selfless, to take on such a burden." 

"Just because you don't like me doesn't make me any less right," he snaps. "They treat you like an invalid child." 

With an undignified grunt, I stand up, shoving the plants into my bag. "There is so much more going on here than you know." 

"Killing someone in times of war is hardly as scandalous as they're treating it." His casual mention of the worst thing I've ever done cuts deep, sawing at taut and fragile things. 

"Please, please, stop bringing that up." 

He looks affronted. "You're the one whinging on about the importance of talking things out."

"That's because you're hallucinating, Malfoy. You need to, for the sake of your health." 

"How convenient for you," he sneers. "You get a front-row ticket to my trauma for the price of absolutely nothing." 

"I pay the toll! For every bit I demand, I return." The sky goes dark as clouds of heavy rain roll in. "And don't act as if you don't take pleasure in learning all the ugly little secrets I keep. You love seeing me laid low." 

Malfoy tenses his jaw and turns away. "You're always so fucking quick to assume the worst." 

"And you aren't?!" I cry. "You think I'm—I'm reveling in your grief, your suffering and I'm not. The fact that you can't believe me is indicative of how truly pessimistic you are." 

"Oh pardon me for being a bit fucking distrusting. My life hasn't been a bloody garden stroll." 

"Neither has mine! And yet here we are."

"What is that supposed to mean?" 

"Look around you, Malfoy." I spin once, gesturing wildly at the emptiness around us. "You could kill me, run away, try to steal my wand. The amount of faith I've put in you here is everything, don't you see that?" 

He stares at me, stuttering to respond when the sky breaks open and a torrential downpour engulfs us. I shriek, pulling the collar of my sweater up in a vain attempt to stay dry. "Granger—" 

"C'mon! We've got to get back to the forest!" The rain is too distracting for me to attempt Apparition. He nods and we hurry off into the stormy night. 

Words would be lost among the cacophony and so we say nothing. Instead, he trudges along behind me, and whenever I glance back, he grimaces a silent complaint. 

The hills were difficult to navigate before the rain but now they're nearly treacherous. My trainers are not made for jogging through muddied moors and I nearly go careening into the dirt when he reaches out, fingers clutching the back of my sweater, to keep me upright. I couldn't thank him, even if he'd wanted me to, but when he pulls away, I quickly grasp his hand with my own and hold tight for the remainder of the trip. 

As soon as we step beneath the partial cover of the trees, I cast a series of drying and warming charms on us both. "Let's go back," I say. 

Malfoy just grunts and takes my outstretched arm. I let the weight of him ground me and, with a deep breath, twist and spirit us into the void. 

We land in a puddle of rainwater and mud, bouncing awkwardly into the hallway wall. Malfoy detangles himself from me, inserting a safe three feet of space between us. 

"I can cast a few more drying charms—" 

"Don't bother. I need to shower anyway." He won't look at me, which only compounds upon my discomfort. 

"Er—right well—try and leave me some hot water?" 

"Sure," he replies. "Fine." And disappears like a ghost upstairs. In his absence, I clean up and try not to wonder what it is that's gone wrong. 

"Hermione!" Harry's voice tugs at the edges of my awareness. I'm adrift on a sea of tenuous dreams, all of them too ephemeral to properly take root. The two pain potions I'd swallowed before passing out are to thank for that, I'm sure. I float weightless, untethered, and revolt against the way reality struggles to pull me to shore. 

"Hermione, please!" The way my best friend's voice cracks is just a hair too real to disregard, though, and so I go still and let the world come crashing back down. 

With the stiffness of sleep wrapped around me, I raise my head from where it has fallen, pressed heavily into the open notebook on my desk. I blink the weariness from my eyes and try to take in my surroundings. It appears I've fallen asleep at my potions station. The sun is low over the horizon and, standing in my doorway, is Harry. 

"Harry? What—" My senses return in full force as the crimson blood coating him comes into view. "Oh my God." I shove to my feet, adrenaline forcing my leg into submission. "Harry! Are you—" 

"Dean. It's Dean!" He turns and rushes into the dining room, and I follow suit. The scene that greets me is a haunting nightmare made real. 

Neville hovers over a still body, blood pooling alarmingly at his feet. Dean Thomas, who I'd just seen a few days prior, is lying prone on the nearest bed, throat slashed from ear to ear. The only indication that he's still alive is found in the shuddering heave of his chest and the horrifying wheeze of his lungs screaming for air. 

"Oh no." I spring into action, shoving past Harry to sink my fingers into Dean's gaping neck. With one hand twisting quickly to cast spell after useless spell, the other is clasped tight around the eviscerated meat of his throat, trying to hold the flesh in place long enough for the magic to knit the skin back together. 

"Hermione, I need to go back," Harry says. 

I turn and glance at him. "What? Why?" 

"The others—they're still—" 

"Go, Harry." I turn back to the macabre violence in front of me. "Be safe." 

"Are you—" 

"Go!" 

Harry touches my shoulder lightly once and vanishes in a whirl of Apparition. Neville chokes back a sob. 

"I need blood replenishing potion!" I cry, unable to look up. Dean is white and growing paler as his blood becomes a puddle beneath my socks. The crimson liquid is too viscous and sticky for me to get a proper grip on his wounds. "Neville!" 

"I—I—" he is mumbling, frozen in fear as he stares down at Dean's rapidly expiring body. 

"Neville," I try again, and in punishment for shifting my focus, my fingers slip and I undo the last ten seconds of stitching I'd managed to do. "Fuck." My mind races, still not awake enough to fully function. I cannot summon the potions because the whole of my spell work needs to be devoted to keeping Dean's blood in his body. "I—Malfoy! Malfoy, please!" 

Something rustles beyond my peripheral and he appears like a vision before me. "I'm here." 

As badly as I wish to stare at him in shock, I cannot. "Blood replenishing potion. As many as you can. The cabinet." 

Less than ten seconds later, he shoves three vials into my face. 

"Neville, I need you to give Dean one of these potions." Neville shakes and I steal a second to look at him. "Just hold his head up and I can pour it in."

"I—oh—" he mumbles but with trepidation and trembling fingers, he does as I've instructed him. The moment he lifts Dean's head from the blood-soaked mattress, however, it rolls unnaturally to the side, the muscles in place to prevent such an impossible position having been reduced to shredded hamburger. The wet squish of gore punctuates the motion and Neville lets go, steps back, and vomits all over the next bed. 

The acid bite of puke mixes with the heady iron of blood and I chew my tongue to keep myself together. The wheeze of Dean's breathing is slowing and I can feel the fragile threads of his life slipping through my fingers. Despair wails within me but I stay the course because this is all I've been tasked to do. 

More spells and wand work but the blood loss has begun to prevent his body from responding to my efforts. For every centimeter of minced meat I stitch together, the previous two rip apart. He needs the potion. I open my mouth to somehow will Neville into composure when a pale hand stops me. I steal one more moment and look up to see Malfoy standing beside me, using the fingers and arms he has left to steady our former classmate's flailing head. I nod and he tilts Dean just so that I'm able to pour the dark blue liquid into his mouth. 

I hope and I pray that his esophagus is intact enough to carry the potion to its destination and for a heartbeat, it appears so. Then he gurgles and I watch in rapt horror as the watery blue liquid begins to leak from a dozen unseen holes in his throat. It pools at my feet, mixing to a vile purple with the coagulated blood and I know then, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Dean is going to die. 

"There's nothing…" I trail off, stealing myself against the pain demanding to be felt. "I can't…" 

Dean takes one last wet, shuddering breath and goes still, dying as unceremoniously as the war expects. Neville lets out a small wail and Malfoy shuffles back, letting the head roll listlessly to the side once more. We stand around the body, and I know that I need to do something, anything, but all manner of strength has abandoned me. All I can think is how this is the third person I've let die in less than two months, despite my best efforts. 

My best efforts aren't even worth their weight in the blood they spill. 

Malfoy's hand and my own are stained the same sticky read. Neville stares mutely into Dean's empty face and it is in this frozen state that Harry finds us, popping back into existence two minutes later. 

"Her–Hermione?" Harry sounds as jagged as I feel and I force myself to look at him. It takes everything in me to shake my head and he sags, leaning into the doorway for support. "Oh, God." 

"We need to do… something," I finally say. With Penelope and Michael, I'd known from the start it was a lost cause. With Dean, though, he'd had a chance. Maybe if I'd been quicker, if I'd been better. My hands tremble as I summon a sheet to drape over our fallen friend. Once the body is out of sight, the spell breaks and we all shift awkwardly into motion. 

"The others?" Neville asks, voice cracking. Harry nods in response and a small fleeting moment of relief echoes through me. "Good. That's…good." 

Harry shakes himself slightly and pulls the seams of his own breakdown tight. "We need to take Dean's—uh—Dean back. To headquarters." As is protocol. I've nowhere to inter the dead. 

"Of course," I mumble. 

"Hermione," Harry turns to me but stops short when he makes eye contact with Malfoy. His bloody hand is gripping the edge of the bed but he pulls it back the moment Harry looks at him. I stare at Harry, pleading silently for him to let it go. His gaze shifts between the two of us, but the moment passes and he carries on. "Do you need anything?" 

"No—" My voice is just as cracked, just as weak and I clear my throat. "No." 

"Alright." Harry is stoic, every bit the savior he's forced to be, as he gently picks up Dean's body and cradles him to his chest. Neville shuffles over to join them, stepping awkwardly over the various puddles of puke and blood. "I will come back as soon as I can." 

"I know." 

"I—I'm sorry," he apologizes and I don't know what it is that has possessed him to do so. It's not his fault I failed to keep our friend and former classmate from dying. 

"You don't need—" 

"I'm still sorry." 

I take a careful breath. "So am I." 

Neville gives me a sad half-smile. "You did your best, Hermione." It's been so very long since those words held any semblance of comfort within them but I cannot fault him for kindness and so I muster enough power to nod back. 

"As soon as I can," Harry promises once more and the three of them slip between space and time, disappearing with a pop. 

The blood on the floor has thickened, coagulating into a viscous substance that has seeped fully through my socks. The air is heavy with the scent of death and I am, with a breath, completely untethered from it all. Mechanically, because falling back on rote memorization is an old and familiar coping mechanism, I cleanse the room yet again of blood and gore. Despite having just burned and transfigured the various sets of sheets on the beds around us, I still immolate most of them. I could wash them, spare the few supplies we have, but the thought of watching Dean's blood turn pink in a bucket of water is too much to bear. 

Through it all, Malfoy stands still as stone near the entryway to the kitchen, watching in silence. With a final once over to ensure that every lingering bit of detritus and violence has been erased from existence, I turn to leave. 

"Granger," he says, voice strained. 

I stop and look over at him, struggling to hold myself together. "Thank you." I work as much sincerity as I am capable of creating, into those two words, hoping he understands how honest I am. 

"Granger," he repeats and I fear I have failed yet another person I'm supposed to protect. "Your socks." 

"Wh—" I look down and see that for all my efforts to eradicate and destroy any evidence of what we'd just witnessed, I'd completely neglected to clean myself up. Dried blood coats me like a second skin, staining every bit of clothing I’m wearing, from jumper to socks. “I—” It comes out as a strangled gasp. The final fragile cord within me snaps and I collapse in on myself. My legs buckle, hip screaming alongside my brain and Malfoy catches me just before I hit the ground.

His arms encircle me as I bend at the waist and he falls back into the wall to brace himself as he slides us carefully to the floor. I land in a heap onto his lap and before every single reason that should compel me to stop can manifest, I bury my head into his neck and wail. Tears burn their way out of me, dragging sobs and breath along with them. We are a tangle of malformed limbs and his right arm clings tight to my shoulders because I am crying so hard, I’m shaking. 

“Breathe, Granger,” he whispers, face pressed against the side of my face. “Like you taught me, breathe.”

“I—” I try to say, choking on the words.

“Don’t talk. Breathe.” The rumble of his voice moves through me and I follow it down to earth. The scent of strawberries and old books and familiarity wash over me as I breathe deep into the skin of his neck. He is so warm, so much warmer than I’d ever expect him to be. His fingers press into my shoulder, holding me to him lest I tremble myself out of his grasp. Words and thoughts swirl into the tide within me, fighting me as I struggle to keep the air in my lungs. My throat burns with the attempt, but I persist. “Hermione, I’ve got you.”

I wail, for reasons unbecoming, and wrap my arms around him. He is the only anchor I’ve got and, as the torrent of agony forces its way out of my body, I cling to him so tightly, that I fear I’ll leave bruises in the shapes of my fingers, stark and blue against all that pale skin. Time is without notice and I ride the sorrow out, taking an age to regain control over myself. Eventually, I am able to take three solid breaths and hold them without a sob. Pulling back, pulling away, I look at him, and his gray eyes are wide, terrified.

“I—” Bile I thought I’d managed rises against the back of my throat and I shove off of him, scrambling on all fours to heave myself into the bathroom. I just barely make it to the toilet in time to empty out the contents of my already hollowed stomach. My body does not relent until the only thing left in me is too abject to define. The porcelain is cool against my forehead as I wrestle my breathing back under control. Sweat and blood and flecks of puke stick to my skin and my clothes and disgust at everything I’ve managed to ruin and failed to do eats away at me.

“Granger,” Malfoy whispers, and the tip of my wand appears before me. I take it and, looking away because somehow if he sees me like this it’ll destroy whatever dignity I have left, quickly charm the filth off of my skin. I’m still covered in sweat, drenched beneath my ruined jumper, but it’s manageable enough to finally look over at him.

He offers me his hand, which I take, and hauls me to my feet. I must be so sorry a sight because he doesn’t fully let go, choosing instead to keep a careful grip on my arm. “You—” I try, but my voice breaks.

“Shower or sleep?”

“Sh—shower,” I manage. He gently props me up with his shoulder and leads me on slow, deliberate feet, to the upstairs bathroom.

Like I’m made of glass, he gingerly sets me on the edge of the tub, stepping back to let me breathe. “Are you—is there anything you need?”

I look up at him and the urge to cry nearly consumes me once again. Malfoy looks equal parts terrified and uncomfortable and I am so mad at myself for doing this to him. This is why I don’t burden others with the weight of my sins. “Thank you, no.”

“Don’t,” he says, “do that. Do you need anything?”

My hair brings the smell of blood back to the forefront of my senses as I shake my head. 

“Okay. Good. I’ll just—my room is—okay.” He turns on foot and marches out, closing the bathroom door behind him.

I am alone, as I should be. Trembling, and with no small amount of effort, I pull the ruined clothes off of my body and get the shower on, ensuring the water is hot enough to burn. I stand beneath it, watching blood and bile disappear down the drain. To my surprise, I don’t cry, I don’t do anything at all. I just wash my hair and scrub my skin, and once I am red with heat, turn off the shower and step out.

The robe is coarse against me as I pull it on, made worse by the water still dripping from my hair down my back. It all feels so far away, that I cannot be bothered to care. Numbly, and dying for a pain potion, I slip from the bathroom into the hallway. Birdsong greets me, because it is not yet eleven am, and Malfoy’s door is shut tight. My legs tremble as I make the small journey to my bedroom. As I approach, I am met with one more surprise.

Sitting outside my door is a cup of tea. It’s over-steeped and cold and my eyes flood as I bend down to pick it up. It tastes like everything I’ve never thought to ask for, a gratitude and a kindness I’ve never thought to need. My skin aches for the way it felt beneath a gentle touch and there is nothing so jarring as the realization that I am doomed. 

I crawl into bed, and I yearn.

Chapter Text

It’s raining again. I’ve no earthly fucking idea where we are, but it is a miserable, gray place, even with the luxurious seaside view. The weather is thick; a dense, humid presence that coats me in sweat the second I step outside. I long for the heat of summer, for the warmth of the sun, for any indication at all that we’re still on the same mortal plane of existence. Even with our little field trips, the isolation threatens to suffocate me. I never thought I’d see the day where I longed for the muted chaos of the Great Hall so viscerally. That subtle, persistent undercurrent of murmurs and muffled clattering would be a fucking ethereal choir to me now. It's too silent, too still, too empty here with just Granger and her sadness, our trauma, my uselessness. I want for noise, people, life, but desire is an old, bitter friend. 

I’ve wanted and coveted and envied so very much in my short existence. Friendships and attention; power and praise. A subtle nod of approval from my father, a gentle touch of affection from my mother. Harry Potter’s unrivaled friendship. The Dark Lord’s ill-begotten favor. A kiss from Pansy, the night of the Yule Ball. The latest Nimbus broomstick, the nicest set of robes. 

The careful, deliberate pressure of Granger’s fingers against my chest.

In my hair.

On my skin.

‘Sickening.’

I’m ill. Poxed. Plagued by doubts and worse, by regrets, by emotions I’ve never felt before. Once more, I wither like a sour grape on an untended vine. The taste of something ephemeral poisoning me. 

So comes the tide and so goes my sense of conviction. 

Brick by brick, Granger, fingertip by fingertip.

I’m forced to abandon my second attempt at reading The Grapes of Wrath when Moody comes calling the day after Dean died. He ushers Granger away, placating her with Potter’s presence like she’s stupid enough to be manipulated. As I follow him into the living room, our eyes meet and the fear she exudes is palpable. 

The moment the door closes, Moody wastes no time. “What do you know of Horcrux’?” 

“I don’t even know what that is.” Technically, this is true. I’ve heard it said in passing a few times, buried beneath hushed whispers of worried Death Eaters, or spoken softly out of Granger’s mouth. Employing all my earthly wisdom, I’ve concluded it’s something to do with the Dark Lord but beyond that, I have not bothered to fathom.

“Don’t lie to me, Mr. Malfoy,” he warns.

“I’ve heard it a few times, but I lack the context.”

“And the Diadem?” The way his voice catches on the word is blatant, just like it was the first time he brought it up. He wants answers and this time I possess the will to comply. With a slow breath, I dive deep beneath still waters, careful to avoid the scratch of Nagini’s scales as she writhes around me. Ever since the beast had been let loose upon my psyche, she’s begun to dig up all manner of willfully forgotten moments, including the one Moody is after.

I slip inside the broken box, and let the memory wash over me in a wave of nausea. It is some night, several weeks into my efforts to hide my mother’s deteriorating mental condition. This meant stepping fully into the role of host and participating in any and every meeting the Dark Lord called. I was sitting to the left of him, pressed between Bellatrix and father. Greyback sauntered in, tossing an unconscious young woman on the table in front of us. Her limp body slid down the length of it, leaving a trail of blood that glows crimson in my recall. 

‘Take a look, Dark Lord sir,’ Greyback announced, ‘I’ll think you’ll be pleased.’

Bony, twisted fingers wrapped themselves around the girl’s neck as the Dark Lord wrenched her into the air. He hissed something I am unable or unwilling to remember, and her formerly lifeless body responded in kind. This goes on for a time, but the word Diadem sticks out.

‘I’ll tell you where it is! Where we’ve hidden the Diadem!’ she cried.

‘Stupid girl,’ he laughed, ‘I have it, secreted away to a place only I can roam.’

In penance for her lies, we were all forced to Crutiatus her in tandem. I resurface, the wet sound of her nails scratching the skin of her face off echoing behind me.

“Were those his exact words?” Moody asks.

‘Traitorous worm. I’ll chew your pretty little nose off.’

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure that’s exactly what he said?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure.”

This seems to satiate his demand, but we still spend the next forty minutes delving deep into old wounds, each incursion leaving me sweaty and shaking with exhaustion. 

“What about the snake?”

The hand I’m running through my tangled hair trembles. “Na—Nagini?”

‘Yes, my pet?’

“Where is she?”

For a moment, I’m convinced he somehow knows, that in some way I’ve betrayed myself even further by showing him how mental I well and truly am. It’s all I can do to keep from staring at the corner of the room she occupies, writhing in an endless pile of sticky, black scaled skin. With a shake of my head, I wrest control over myself once more. “Where he goes, she goes.”

“Does he employ any specific measures to keep her safe?”

“Why the fuck would he?” 

‘I’m very important.'

I ignore her intrusion. “She’s 12 feet long and thick ‘round as your thigh.”

“So she’s exposed.” It’s not a question.

He is looking away and I allow myself to glance at her. She grins, maw wide with too many stained teeth. “She’s hard to miss if that’s what you’re after.”

Moody nods, turning back to me. “How are you getting on here?”

“I—What?”

“Here, with Ms. Granger. How are you coping?”

Something in his weak attempt at pretense incenses me. “Are you having a laugh, old man? How am I coping?” I stick the blunted edge of my left arm in his face. “Used to have a hand, but now I get to play house with the Golden Girl instead. I’m fuckin’ brilliant.” He doesn’t even flinch. “We’ve only got one working toilet and Granger wakes me up crying in the shower because you lot can’t be bothered to give a shit about her, but yeah, sure, I’m proper happy here.”

The scrutiny of his uneven gaze falls hard upon me, weary and hollow as I am. “Well, lucky for her, you’re here to remedy that, aren’t you?”

“That was hardly the deal.”

“The safety to be this indignant was the deal, Mr. Malfoy. The privilege of her company is just a fortuitous extra incentive.”

“An incentive to do what? Behave?” As if that was ever an option.

“Survive.”

The ocean rushes in, roaring as it slams into the jagged rock, erupting in an explosion of seafoam. A bird cries, barely a distant screech just audible above the wind. I pick at the nearly healed wound on my palm and wonder if the saltwater would burn as it filled my lungs. Granger sits beside me, her body a beacon of solid warmth, and we watch in detached silence at the spectacle of nature's aggression. The clouds roll, swollen and heavy with the threat of rain, and I hiss as the scab breaks open beneath my nails. At the sight of blood, I flinch and try to tuck it away. 

Grange glances over, frowning. "Malfoy?" 

"Just a scab." 

"You're hurt? What happened?" 

"Nothing."

"You—" 

"It's nothing," I insist. "Drop it." 

She fiddles with the fraying edge of her sleeve. "Are you in pain?" 

'As if she has the pain potions left to offer you. Weak, pathetic. You should have let the rot take her.'

I roll my shoulders and try to ignore Nagini's whispers. "It's just a small burn, Granger. It's fine."

'Burning yourself making tea for a mudblood. You insult your bloodline, your legacy, yourself.'

"How did you—" 

"Granger for the fucking love of Merlin, please just let it go." I glare at her and she looks away. 

We lapse back into silence and I struggle not to feel guilty for snapping at her. She's been fragile in the days following Dean's death. Understandable, obviously, but hardly within my fucking wheelhouse of shit I know how to handle. The only other person I've ever had to console was Mother and, if my present situation is any indication, I clearly fucked that up, too.

Logically I know that Granger’s comfort and happiness shouldn't even matter to me. There is an ocean of expectations and ugly history between us that should stand in the way of me willingly holding her while she cries herself sick. My upbringing alone should have prevented me from carrying us gently to the ground so I could properly bear the weight. None of this occurred to me until afterward, of course, because every minute she spent clinging to me left my mind solely occupied with thoughts of her. 

'Useless, toothless, a twisted visage of hubris. Let me feast upon your innards, boy, give some purpose to your worthless life.' 

Even though I try not to, I must give some outward indication of Nagini's threats because Granger turns back to me, eyebrows knitted together with concern. "Has it started up again?" 

I work my jaw, clenching the tendons tight enough to snap. "Yes."

"Do you want to talk?" 

"No." I've tethered myself to her enough these last few days. Any closer and I'll implode. "It'll pass." 

'Never, Draco, never ever.' 

Granger is alight with energy, her caring nature at odds with her bizarre need to respect my wishes. "I think I have a new idea for the potion." 

I don't want to talk to her, except that I do and so, "What is it?" 

'Blood. Red and sticky and it's everywhere. It's all over you.'

"I'm going to try an open-air approach."

"Meaning?" 

"I'll brew it on the porch, outside. I'm hoping direct sunlight, mixed with the potent sea winds, can help bolster the latent energy of the Doxy eggs." 

"Only one problem, though." 

"Oh?" 

"There's no fucking sunlight here, ever." 

'Remember how it felt to soar, when the heat of it would lick at your skin? The sun misses you. The sun is gone. The son is gone. The sun is gone. The son is gone. The sun is—' 

"Don't be so dramatic. Honestly, you're such a pessimist." Granger knocks her shoulder into mine.

Underneath, inside, all over I burn. "I'm just being realistic. Merlin knows you need it." 

"Sounds like something a pessimist would say."

'Come back son, come home sun. All that golden light. We miss it, we miss you. You must come home, my sun, my son, my golden boy .'

I can't will into existence the energy necessary to ignore Nagini and as my attention lapses, so does Granger’s efforts at brevity. 

"Malfoy, about—uh—when Dean—" She hiccups to keep from sobbing, I can hear the strain in her voice. "You didn't have to—" 

'Even the mudblood turns away. Away from the pretty boy, the sun alight.'

"Please, stop thanking me. I don't deserve it and I don't fucking want it." I force myself to look at her, to hold with false conviction the weight of her gaze. "So just stop." 

"No." 

"Excuse me?" 

She tilts her head defiantly, chin high. "You don't get to dictate what I do, Malfoy, what I say, and just because you're incapable of accepting gratitude doesn't mean I'm going to stop offering it." 

'Burn you burn she burns let it all burn. Let me in let me in let me in.'

"Fuck, don't you know when to stop? Call it bloody quits, Granger." I don't even want to fight with her, and the lack of fury in her eyes reciprocates that expression. 

"Tenacious, remember?" 

"As if I could ever forget." 

'Forget forget she'll never forgive forgive.' 

She sighs when I say no more. Somewhere beyond the horizon, buried in gray clouds, the sun begins to set. Our usual dinner time arrives and Granger disappears inside without a passing glance. Nagini hisses a string of obscenities, a torrent of madness, and I press my fingers into the burn on my palm. It hurts and I dig further, relishing in causing pain on my own terms. The well of my control ran dry long ago, bled empty the first time she put careful fingers to my heart and guided me back to shallow waters. 

Eventually, unable to cope with the silence that Nagini strives to fill with my subconscious babbling, I follow Granger inside. She is pouring soup into a second bowl and, upon my entrance, slides the first across the table to my usual spot. 

I give her a nod of thanks and we settle into the routine. 

The soup is thin, and the meat is tough. She's been too cautious with the garlic and too liberal with the salt. It's truly, truly a terrible bowl of soup and I find myself laughing, nearly hysterical. 

Granger whips her head up to look at me. "What is so funny?" 

I gasp for air in an effort to respond. "This soup—" Another fit of laughter. "So clever and it's so, so bad." 

She crosses her arms. "Well, I'm so, so sorry it's not to your liking."

My lungs burn as I struggle for air, but the laughter demands to be heard. "No, you—you're brilliant—" 

"Do not patronize me, Malfoy." 

'You poison the well boy.' 

I shudder to cull the hysteria. "It's just—how can someone so smart be bad—be bad at anything?" The words kick and scream their way out of me.

She pulls a lip between her teeth, fingers flexing to keep from ripping at her skin. "I'm not perfect, I've never claimed to be."

'And here you lay, proclaiming.'

My throat hurts. I hold my breath, and my tongue, to keep from burying myself any further. It takes a minute, but I smother the remnants of my fit. "I—I know. It's just…peculiar."

"Everyone's bad at something." 

"And I'm bad at everything." It comes out reeking of self-deprecation. 

Granger’s mouth lifts ever so slightly. "Don't be silly. You're definitely good at some things." 

'The bitter taste of sweet failure. Remember how your mother looked, the day you left? I do.'

"Such as?" I take the bait. 

"Complaining, for one." 

"Naturally."

"Being haughty."

"Obviously." 

She pauses and looks at me. "Potions, I suppose. You've got quite the head for ingredients."

'Golden light, a sun for the son.' 

"From gratitude to compliments," I muse, "what a spectacle you're making of me tonight." 

When I grin, she grins back. 

'Icarus drowned screaming, seawater in his lungs.'

When Nagini wakes me from a dreamless sleep by wrapping herself tightly around my chest, I know it's time to bleed the wound and relieve the pressure before my living demon kills me. 

"I—don't remember anything from the night I left." 

She doesn't even falter, the rhythm of her chopping never missing a beat. "So you've mentioned." 

I tug at the collar of my shirt, looking everywhere but at her. "But I do remember why—why I had to—to cut off my—" The words refuse to be said and Granger saves me from my sputtering. 

"I assumed it was to remove the Dark Mark." 

"It—it was. But the Mark, it can't be removed by any normal means." 

Carefully, she scoops the freshly chopped milkweed into the waiting cauldron. Just as she had anticipated, it is a day bright with sun. "I have a feeling that removing the limb would break the curse."

"I didn't want to lose my entire fucking arm, though. So I—I had to cut it off. The Mark, I mean." 

Granger glances at me. "The skin?" 

"The entire portion. I figured I could just—just regrow the muscle I'd need to remove."

She blanches. "Merlin, Malfoy." 

I nod slightly. Nagini slithers up the back of my chair, her too-large mouth opening wide in my peripheral. "But the thing is, I—I succeeded." 

"I know you—" 

"Granger you aren't hearing me. I succeeded, okay? I got the Mark off, I'd even begun to heal the wound when everything gets—gets fuzzy." 

The gears turn in her head. "But—your arm, it was in the early stages of decay when Harry brought you to me. The wound was—you were half dead!"

Nagini's tongue flicks out to lick the sweat from my brow. For every secret I spill, she grows translucent and she's still too solid to grow quiet now. "I know." 

"So what happened?"

"I don't remember. I can't."

"When did you do this? What day, what month?" 

'Don't say it.'

Saliva pools in my mouth. "The last day of November." 

Granger drops into her chair. "Malfoy." 

"I know." 

"It was the day after Christmas when you—" 

"I fucking know." 

Silence descends as she tries to reason her way out of my revelation. “That’s nearly a month of lost time. Don’t you remember anything?”

Slowly the weight lifts from my shoulders. “Just flashes of—of horrible things. Anything substantial is lost.”

“How?”

“Occlumency, I guess.” I hope. “Any other alternative is—”

“Worse. Much worse,” she finishes. “Malfoy this is—this is terrible. I can’t even imagine…”

“You asked for secrets,” is all I can bring myself to say.

Her hands reach out, the tilt of her shoulders betraying her desire to span the divide and comfort me. I cannot believe I’ve burrowed my way into her inner circle. I’d say I was a serpent hiding in the lion’s den but the metaphor is trite and the last thing I ever want to be is a snake. Still, even if her consolation is misplaced sympathy and not whatever bright, violent thing I’ve cultivated beneath my ribs, I want it. I need it. The anchor I’ve fashioned to weather this storm is made real in the form of her unwarranted and fragile friendship.

“The injury to my leg is my fault. I did it,” she says in a rush, choosing words over the courage necessary to reach me. “I caused it.”

“You said it was a curse.”

She winces. “It was but I did—”

The pop of Apparition is so loud, so jarring, she lets out a short scream. It propels me back to that horrific night in the drawing-room, and the way her eyes sought my own as Auntie Bellatrix carved a slur into her arm. The heavy thunder of footfall careens through the house, heralding the arrival of Ronald fucking Weasley.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?” he asks, barreling into the kitchen. “Are—” Once more, I watch the light dim in his eyes when he notices my presence. “You.”

“Ronald!” Granger pulls herself back into reality and stands too quickly. Her leg nearly buckles and I drag my hand beneath the table to keep from reacting. “What’s happened?’

He sneers at me as if that’s not my signature response. “What the bloody hell is this?” With a scoff, he gestures aggressively at me. “What are you doing here?”

“Cheers, Weasel,” I dip my head in a mocking hello. 

“Ron, we went over this. Malfoy lives—”

“I know!” He briefly snaps at her and I maintain enough self-control not to snarl back. His tone softens, but not nearly enough. “I meant down here, with you. Are you spending time with him?”

“He’s not—”

“Jealous, are we? Makes sense. You Weasley’s always were familiar with envy.” I lean back in my chair, forcing an air of calculated ease. “Never could measure up.”

“Malfoy—” Granger starts, but the beast barrels right on through.

“You talk a lot of shite for a wanker with one fucking hand.” He looks deliberately at the space where my left arm disappears beneath the table.

“And you spew a lot of filth for a mangy dog living off of Saint Potter’s scraps. Still chasing the limelight, Weasley? Hate to say it, but you’re not made for it. Too uncivilized. Too fucking stupid.”

Granger turns to me, her face a ruin of anger. “Malfoy, what is—”

“I’ll gut you, you fucking—” He lunges for me, but she plays expertly at the human shield everyone expects her to be. 

“And undo all of Granger’s hard work?”

“She should have let you die!”

“Ronald, stop—”

“You weren’t worth the magic it took to fucking save you,” he snarls.

I brace myself on the table, leaning forward. “And you aren’t worth the sacrifices it’s taken to save you, but that’s your cross to bear, isn’t it?” Even though I’m already far beyond what she’d classify as acceptable, I still meet the heat of her anger with a glance. “Or is that something else you feel like making her do for you?”

He breaks free from her, careening around the table to pull me up by my jumper and slam me into the wall. The breath bursts from my lungs but I’ve always been a cruel boy and pain does little to dissuade the ugliness I feel. “One more word, Malfoy. One more bloody word and I’ll break your fucking neck,” he threatens.

“Ronald, stop it!” She rushes towards us, tugging at his shirt as if he’s capable of rational thought.

Weasley doesn’t even bother to look over at her. “I saw your mum today.” It works, of course, because there are only two things left in this world capable of undoing me, and my mother is one of them. “Tell me, was she always mad as a fucking hatter, or is that your fault, too?” 

Without hesitation, I slam my forehead into his nose, and it crunches with a sick, wet snap. His grip on me loosens enough and I slip away, stepping beyond his reach. Eyes still half shut with pain, blood dripping down his stupid freckled fucking face, he swings blindly, slamming his fingers into the waiting wall. He roars like the beast he’s always been and I laugh.

Granger pushes past me, assuming her role, tending to his wounds. She doesn’t even spare me a passing glance. “Malfoy, go upstairs.”

“I saw your dad, the day he was captured.” Time stands still and Weasley’s hateful blue eyes meet mine. “It took him four minutes to die and, when it was all over, the very last thing your father ever did was piss himself on my living room rug.”

Weasley breaks the chair getting to me and, as his fist makes contact with my face, all I can think about is how good it felt to make him cry.

Chapter Text

In the end, I have to Stupefy Ron to get him off of Malfoy, but by that point the damage is done. His sharp features are swollen, the pale skin rapidly going dark as blood pools just beneath the surface. My hands shake as I press them to his chest, ensuring that his lungs still heave. The thump of his heart is strong—solid—despite the ruin of his face and I take a second to collect myself. I kneel beside him on the ground and gently pull his head into my lap, pressing the tip of my wand to the edge of his jaw. The soft light of magic plays harshly against his profile as I carefully undo the violence from his skin until he’s left clammy but otherwise unharmed. It takes a few minutes but I use the silence to decide what to do next. With a glance at Ron to ensure he’s still unconscious, I flick my wrist and bring Malfoy careening back into awareness.

He sits up immediately, clutching at his face. "What—" 

"Malfoy—" 

At the sound of my voice, he flinches and shuffles awkwardly away from me. We stare at each other, and I falter, thinking of all the things I need to say. Understanding dawns on his newly healed features and he sneers. "Still think it was worth it?" 

"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask defensively. 

He struggles to pull himself up into a standing position but I suppress my instinct to offer him a hand. The ugliness in his eyes is a wonderful indicator of how he'd take my help, so instead I rise with him, trying not to tremble as the adrenaline bleeds out of me. 

Malfoy looks past me, to where Ron lies on the floor, stiff and unmoving. "I'd leash him, Granger. He's an unruly fucking dog." 

"Can you stop berating him, please? It's completely juvenile—" 

"Of course you're fucking defending him," he snarls. 

"I am not defending him! You're both the problem here." 

"I'm not the one beating someone black and blue though, am I?"

I'm too tired to glare at him, even though the moment demands it. "Malfoy, what you said about Arthur—" 

"You heard what he said about my mother! I couldn't just let that stand."

"It's not a competition! You don't have to escalate things every single time." 

He rolls his shoulder, the joint popping loudly in the silence. "He started it. I can't believe you expect me to just fucking sit here and take it."

"I don't—" 

"Yes, you do," he says. "Because that would make this fucked up situation easier for you to control. You can't bear the thought of telling Weasley to behave, oh no. Merlin forbid you express any fucking emotion towards him." The floorboards creak as he stalks towards me. "So instead, you take it out on me. You demand that I be the one to play nice. To not cause problems. When I'm the one who has no fucking power here in the first place."

"Malfoy—"

"Fucking save it, Granger. Go tend to your wanker boyfriend and leave me the hell alone." His shoulder bumps into mine as he muscles past, the scent of strawberries and dried blood wafting in his wake. 

I want to stop him but by the time I find the right words, he's already long gone, spirited away up the stairs and out of sight. Fatigue drowns me and I clutch the table a moment to stay upright. In the corner of my vision, Ron lies still, in silent anticipation. My lungs constrict with the force of my breath and I revive him before I lose my nerve.

He's on his feet in an instant, every bit the soldier he's trained to be. "I'll kill him. Where is he? I'll bloody kill him." Those deep blue eyes I used to stare longingly into are wide and wild as he searches for his prey. The tread of his boots leaves small bits of mud as he stalks around the room. 

"Ronald, he's gone." 

"Where? What?" Slowly, awareness returns to him and I wait impatiently as his rage simmers down. "Hermione?" 

"I'm here." 

He advances toward me, all lumbering muscle, and places a heavy hand on my arm. By the very virtue of the gods I manage not to flinch. "I—he—are you alright?" Ron stumbles over his words, so familiar with my responses now that he aborts most arguments before they take form. 

I shrug off his touch and glare up at him. "No, Ron, no. I'm not alright. I'm the very picture of not alright." 

All six feet of him shrinks as he turns sheepish and red. "I know it wasn't the best idea, but he started it!" 

"We aren't children bickering over toys in the schoolyard, Ron! You cannot do this, you cannot explode with rage every single time you see Malfoy." 

His freckled features twist into an ugly grimace. "He bloody deserves it. He's to blame for this." When he gestures vaguely at the air around us, I'm forced to step back lest he hit me in the head. "His kind started this war—" 

"His kind? He's a person, a wizard! He's no different than us." 

Ron looks positively indignant. "We are nothing like him." 

"How could you possibly know that? You don't know the first bloody thing about him!" 

"Good! I don't need to. He's nothing more than a slimy git, Hermione. I don't need to know his favorite fucking color to beat him stupid." 

I pinch the bridge of my nose so forcefully, it stings. "Do you hear yourself?" 

"Do you hear yourself? " He counters. "Why do you keep defending him? Every single time I come here it's like he's stolen another piece of you. Poisoned you." 

I'm almost too insulted to speak. "I—how can you say that?!" 

"Am I wrong, though? You're changing. Ginny tells me how often you insist to her and Harry that Malfoy isn't what we think. That he's not an evil little monster." 

"Did you ever, just once, try to consider that I'm right?" 

His mouth hangs agape. "Why the bloody hell would I? For all I know he's manipulating you." 

"I'm not a child, Ron! I'm not some stupid, defenseless infant. I know when I'm being manipulated," I snap. "You used to trust my judgment without question. Why would you suddenly choose to change that now?" 

When his face softens, I cringe in anticipation of whatever unintentionally cruel thing he's about to say. "Your track record isn't what it used to be, love. We both know you've shown shit judgment in the past." 

My ears ring and I'm shaking too hard with anger to bother ripping the skin from my fingertips. "What happened with my leg—" 

"—and the mission—" he interjects.

"—and the mission," I concede, too busy foaming to keep the poison from my words, "was a single, specific mistake I've yet to make again."

"I'd say getting nice and chummy with Draco fucking Malfoy is repeat behavior." 

"You cannot possibly know how hard it is for me here, Ron." I turn away from him. "How isolated and alone I am. I'm doing everything I can to—to stay strong and be here for all of you but—but it's unbelievably difficult."

"'Mione—"

"And Malfoy is—is the only person here when everything goes sideways. He's all I—" 

"Don't you say that. Don't you dare say it." Ron steps around me to clutch at my shoulders, one iota of self control away from shaking me. "You have me! And Harry and Ginny and the whole lot of us." 

"But you're never here!" I cry. "And he is! Do you know who helped me keep it together after Dean? Malfoy!" 

"We—" 

"You advocated for my placement here, Ron. And now that we're in the thick of it and I'm still an ocean away from my loved ones, you don't get to dictate how I cope. Who I find strength in." I clench my fists to keep from trembling. "Malfoy is my friend. And if you cannot accept that, then that's fine, but it's not my responsibility to manage your feelings on the matter."

Ron cycles through the stages of grief as he tries to understand my words. I wait, held fast by the conviction of what I've said. 

"You—" He closes his eyes, takes a very deep breath. "He's a Death Eater."

"He was, yes." 

"And you're just willing to completely fucking disregard that? Just totally forgive all the horrible shit he did to us, to you?" 

He gives me a weighted look of ugly anticipation and I answer as if it's the easiest question in the world. "Yes." 

Ron scoffs, taking a full step back away from me. "Then I have nothing to fucking say to you." 

"Fine." 

A tense second passes, each of us equal parts indignant and hurt before Ron shakes his head slightly and spins away into nothing. The moment he's gone, I gasp and choke back a sob. The entire encounter felt like a mistake and I know I've broken something, even if it's yet to be revealed. In the coming days, I can only imagine, with insistent anxiety, what fallout this fight will bring. 

In the morning, I stand outside Malfoy's door for several minutes working up the courage to knock. Quiet, lingering fury wars with my genuine concern at his state of mind. His mother is a sensitive topic, one I’ve yet to get him to breach, and I doubt the reminder of her ongoing imprisonment surely will do his deteriorating mental health any favors. My leg trembles, body already exhausted thanks to a night spent tossing and turning as I weighed the consequences of my actions regarding Ron. The wealth of strength I normally employ to get through the day feels half drained just from forcing myself from bed. I pick at barely healed cuticles and knock on the door.

“Malfoy?” I am met with nothing but silence. “Malfoy, are you awake?” The clock ticks loudly in the hallway and I knock again, the rap of my knuckles sharp. “I’m—I’m going to come in so just—just be prepared for that.” Slowly, as to provide him ample opportunity to ensure his decency, I turn the knob and peer into the darkened room. 

His bed is unmade, the pillow discarded thoughtlessly onto the floor. Various small stacks of books litter the room along with mounds of clothing, clean and dirty. The curtains are drawn, casting only the faintest gray light into the still air and I stare in confused silence at the emptiness that greets me. 

“Malfoy?” I ask the nothingness as if he’s somehow hidden away within it. He doesn’t answer, of course, and I take off through the house.

A laundry list of possibilities, each grimmer than the last, races through my brain as I check and recheck every corner of the house. Behind every door and through every passageway I am met with nothing. The three pain potions roll angrily in my stomach and I clench my abdomen to keep from puking. Panic grips me like a vice. If Malfoy has run, Moody will have my head. For all the fun we’ve had playing house, he is still very much under my watch and care and, should he vanish into the night like a thief, I cannot imagine how Moody will react. Darker things, uglier things, occur to me as I stumble down the back steps towards the cliffside. Peering over the jagged edge, the image of his body broken and unmoving hits me with such force I must blink several times to ensure it’s not true. The only thing staring up at me is the pitted rock below. My hands tremble as I bring them to my mouth, incisors ripping expertly at skin picked raw. 

“Malfoy!” I call again, the desperation making me shrill. The wind steals my voice and carries it away on a current of bad faith. Beneath my feet, the ground is cold and the sting of it propels me forward, along the edge. Dozens of meters away, the black cliffside gives way to a sad, lonesome strip of beach. It’s reachable, technically, but requires a lot of careful sliding down very steep trails to get to making it a journey I am unable to take. A small copse of reed-thin trees dot the grounds around me and I lean against one, heaving and shaking and trying not to drown. 

The wind whips my hair about, and as I push it out of my eyes, I catch a glimpse of something on the shore. A shape, a figure, sitting in the sand, facing forward into the crashing waves. Despite the distance and the wind and the utter lack of proper sunlight, I recognize the tilt of his shoulders, the way he favors his right to compensate for his left. His finer features are indistinguishable but I feel the tension in my chest relax as I realize that he’s still here, still safe. 

My immediate reaction is to follow him, but I am unable. If I wanted to I could possibly fly, but broomsticks still make me dizzy with vertigo and such a measure feels several degrees too drastic for the situation at hand. So instead, I sag against the coarse bark and watch him, just for a bit, to confirm that he’s alive. I catch the fuzzy outline of his hand brushing hair from his face and take that as enough of a sign of life. 

The roar of the sea is insistent and muted, waves rushing in for just a touch only to run back out at the first caress. I gather my wits, and my strength and I carry myself back inside.

Malfoy stays down at the beach well into midday. I occupy myself with the usual tasks, testing a new variant of the shield potion, overseeing the various cleaning charms necessary to keep the cottage habitable, and forcing food down my throat to keep the pain potions from eating the lining of my stomach. Hannah Abbott stops by, the bones in her right arm having been liquified by an unlucky curse. I do my best to throw myself fully into the work but my attention remains divided. Eventually, I hear the distant thump of the backdoor opening but I am still too preoccupied with my actual job to chase after him.

Just as I finish administering the appropriate potions to Hannah to ensure her bones grow back, Seamus and an older Order member whose name I’m fairly certain is Carol, show up. They bring my weekly allotment of supplies, blaming Harry’s absence on a mission whose details I am not enlightened on. They linger for a time, asking after me, checking to see if there is anything I need. There are, of course, myriad things that I need, but none is more pressing than paying a visit to my elusive roommate. By the time I’m able to send them on their way, the sun has begun to set and I’ve yet to start dinner. Upstairs, the shower starts, and I use it as a sign to carry on in my duties.

In the end, I finally head up to see him nearly 24 hours after Ron’s visit. Thankfully the distance of the day has neutralized my anger somewhat and it is with an acceptable amount of confidence that I am able to once more knock on his door.

“Malfoy, I’m coming in.” I don’t give him the chance to deny me and instead, turn the knob and push inside.

"I didn’t say come in,” he drawls. He’s tucked into the deep windowsill, long limbs wrapped around himself to fit, staring out into the night.

I ignore his remark. “We should talk.”

“Should we?”

“Yes.”

“Must we?” His petulance is uninspired.

“What happened last night—” I start, only to go silent when he gives me a withering glare.

"When your mangy dog attacked me?”

“You provoked him!” 

He scoffs, turning away. “Which excuses his violence, of course.”

“Of course not.”

Malfoy looks at me, his face a familiar mask of cruel indifference. The grey of his eyes, however, betrays him as I spy the fury within. “You bloody Gryffindors are all the same. So fucking self-righteous and hypocritical. Everything is a crime until one of you commits it and then it's just another unavoidable step in your endless crusade."

"He's just as to blame as you are, Malfoy. You both played an equal role—" 

"He beat me half to death!" 

"And you broke his nose!" I counter. "It's not a contest."

"Easy for you to say, you stayed out of it until it suited you to do otherwise, " he says, the bitterness in his voice palpable. 

"What would you have me do? I tried to stop him. I did stop him! I even tried to stop you before it got out of hand but your taste for escalation proved too bloody strong." 

"And yet I'm the one sitting here, getting lectured."

"You'd know that wasn't true had you the presence of mind not to run away at the first sign of trouble." It needles him more than I attended and he bursts from the cave of the window, stalking up to me. 

"I am not a fucking coward." 

"I never said you were!" 

"Just because I don't relish the thought of a tongue lashing the way your boyfriend surely does—" 

"For the last time, Ron is not my boyfriend!" 

Malfoy sneers down at me. "Sure he's not, princess. Bit of a mixed message though, what with you taking him to bed and all."

"I—excuse me? What does—Ron didn't sleep here!" 

His mask cracks. "He—" Malfoy reaches for Occlumency but falters, fails, and finally turns away. "Whatever. All that screaming must have just been foreplay." The floor groans as he saunters back to the window, leaving me befuddled in his wake. 

"What are—" It's the way that he cannot meet my eye that betrays him. "Jealousy, Malfoy, really?" 

His jaw clenches.

"How unbecoming," I say. 

He rakes his gaze over me. "Of Weasley and his sloppy seconds? Not fucking likely." 

It stings, like he intended. Suddenly I'm sixteen again, gangly and uncoordinated, in a body ill-suited for anything other than academic pursuits. I feel prudish and stupid and I am incapable of stopping my arms as they wrap around my middle. "Hurting me doesn't fix anything," I finally say. "I thought you'd have learned that by now." 

There is something fractured and unreadable in his expression and the weight of it demands more than I can give. "Granger—" 

"Believe it or not, I didn't come up here to fight with you." 

He hesitates. "Then why did you?" 

I gently release the grip I have on myself, the pressure on my stomach too much with the pain potions still fighting their way through me. "I came up here to remind you, again , that you cannot pick fights with them whenever they show up. I intend for both of us to make it to the end of this war and to see you set free once it's over. My word doesn't hold the weight it once did, but your good behavior will go a long way to convincing Moody of your innocence."

Emotions flicker across his face too fast to read. "And if I'm not innocent?" 

"You've never killed anyone." Everything, in the end, comes back to Ernie and the acrid smell of Dark magic. "The torture you inflicted was done only at the Dark Lord's behest and only as a last resort in order for you to stay alive. Your actions at Hogwarts were those of a child. An ignorant, cruel, but ultimately harmless child."

"Please don't recite the breadth and width of my faults, Granger. I'm fully aware of them," he replies. "And regardless of all that, I was still a Death Eater. I was still on the wrong side of the war." 

"Not now. Not anymore. Change is possible. People are not wholly good or bad and I know the Order knows that. But you've got to try, Malfoy. You cannot burn every bridge that threatens to span the gap."

"I didn't ask for your championship."

"You didn't have to and hopefully, you won't need it but come the end of all this, it'll be a lot more helpful if you just stop going for the kill every single time you speak to anyone other than me." 

"Fine." 

"Fine." The silence turns awkward and I am trapped between states of being, unsure of how angry I should be and how angry I still am. "If that proves too much of a challenge just—just go upstairs next time someone comes by." 

He curls his lip, ever so slightly. "Why do I have to be the one to leave when I was here first? I live here, unfortunately. They don't." 

It's a valid argument and I tell him as such. "Should Ron ever come back—which seems exceedingly unlikely with how we ended things—I'll bring him upstairs to talk, instead." 

"Please, spare me the salacious details of your fantasies." His tone is far more humorous than cruel but I am too worn out to appreciate the distinction. 

I sigh and scrub a hand down my face. "Dinner is done. I've left your portion on the table." I don't mention that I've yet to eat. Going to bed with a stomach of just pain potions and anxiety is an occurrence I am all too familiar with. 

When he just looks at me, expression muddled and guarded, I nod once in good bye and turn to leave. 

"Granger wait—" 

I stop and face him. "What is it?" 

Malfoy swallows and stares at the floor. "I'm—I'm sorry."

It's one of the few times in memory he's apologized to me and I am somewhat taken aback. "I—thank you. I appreciate it." I go to leave only for him to stop me once again. 

"Not just for last night or for Weasley, but for all of it. For everything," he confesses. "For—for Hogwarts and—and the bullying and just—for all of it. It wasn't fair or right and you deserved—I'm just sorry." He looks up. "Truly." 

"Uh—" I start, utterly bereft of proper response. "Thank you?" My voice cracks and I try again. "Thank you. That means—uhm—that means a lot to me." 

It's too hot in the room, in my sweater, in my skin. I feel like a towel, wrung out too harshly and left to bake in the sun. 

"I know you—I know you're risking a lot, defending me. I still cannot fathom why, but I'm not too proud to accept the boon. So, I just need you to know that, uh, I'm sorry and that I appreciate your misplaced kindness. I'll try to uh—I'll try to try." 

"I'd really like that, thank you. It'd make things easier." 

"Well Merlin knows I'm a gracious man." This time when he grins slightly, I go ahead and grin back. 

"Obviously."

I depart shortly after, still made of elastic pulled far too thin, and retire to the solitude of my room. The implications of Malfoy's apology, coupled with the look of genuine honesty on his face as he'd offered them, chase me endlessly into the night. 

"I'm surprised you went down to the beach. I've always wanted to go."

"Why haven't you?" 

"I can't."

"Oh, right."

"Did you like it?" 

"The beach?" 

"Yeah." 

"No, it was miserable. Too much sand and rotting seaweed. You'd have loved it though." 

"Really?" 

"Really." 

"Granger…what's a horcrux?" 

The question startles me so viciously, I struggle not to drop the bundles of mint and rosemary that I've gathered. "Are you joking?" 

Malfoy frowns. "No." 

"But—" I stutter. "Surely you know? You lived with Tom."

"He must have never found an occasion to bring it up."

"I…" Words fail me as I try to articulate the depth of horror that is a Horcrux. I take too long. 

"Nevermind," Malfoy snaps. "Just forget it." He stalks off, disturbing the underbrush as he goes. 

"Wait—" I hurry after him, silently regretting my decision to abstain from a pain potion before we left. "Malfoy, wait!" 

"I don't even know why I asked." His arms brush against the leaves as he throws them in the air. "It's not as if you sanctimonious Gryffindor—" 

“A horcrux is an object that has been cursed, through dark magic, to house a piece of someone’s soul in an effort to achieve immortality.” 

Malfoy stills, letting whatever insult he'd thought up die unspoken. “And The Dark― Tom has one of these?”

“He has six.”

“Fuck.”

“We’ve destroyed four of them,” I say, overcome with the need to reassure him. 

He regards me carefully. “ You’ve destroyed four of them.”

“Not me personally. I was the one that used Fiendfyre to destroy the cup, but I’ve had a hand in the destruction of the other three.”

“Fiendfyre? You willingly summoned Fiendfyre?”

“A Horcrux is not easily broken. For Tom's diary, we had to use―” I stutter to a stop. 

The moonlight illuminates the pale undertones of his skin, emphasizing the way he recoils. "That bloody diary," he scoffs. “Father was oh so proud of that little trick. Bragged about it for years.”

"Did he—" 

"If he knew it was a Horcrux, he never told me. Not that I can imagine why he would."

"It held a piece of Tom's soul, which is how it…possessed Ginny in second year." 

"And you lot used Fiendfyre to destroy it as a bunch of twelve year olds?" 

Our pace has slowed enough for me to carry on foraging. "No, no, don't be ridiculous." The patch of redcap mushrooms wilt at my approach and I spend a moment carefully excising them from the ground. "We stabbed it with a basilisk fang." 

"Of course you did," he laughs. "I am beginning to realize more and more that we had two vastly different experiences in school." 

When I struggle to stand, arms full of plant life, Malfoy steadies me with his hand on my shoulder. I don't think about it. "Thanks." 

He hums. 

"Things were admittedly a bit unorthodox for me seeing as my best friend was being hunted by an evil, crazy wizard of immense power and influence." 

"Still is," he offers grimly. 

"We all are."

The incline of the forest grows ever steeper as we trudge uphill. The stitch in my side burns with the effort, made worse by the silent protest of my injured leg, but I withhold my complaining. 

"What are the others?" 

"The Horcrux'?" 

Malfoy nods. 

I launch into a detailed account of the remaining five objects, doing my best to be succinct while imparting all the necessary facts. Malfoy listens in rapt attention as I move through the list, and the underbrush. 

"All that remains is the Diadem and Nagini." We've reached the small cluster of mugwort I've been searching for and in my excitement, I fail to notice his reaction. "Even though the Diadem is essentially lost, I still feel as though that vile snake will be the bigger challenge."

A strangled breath escapes his mouth and I abandon my foraging to look at him. 

"Malfoy?" 

He is trembling ever so slightly. "Na—Nagini is one of the Horcrux?" The sudden detour into fear has him struggling to cope. "You're sure?" 

"Yes. Why?" I ask, slowly approaching him. "What is it?" 

His eyes are wide, fixed on a point just behind me, where I'm sure nothing corporeal waits. Still, I turn to look and when I'm met with nothing, I frown back at him. Malfoy shakes his head vigorously. 

"Malfoy?" I reach out towards him, but just before my fingertips can brush against his sleeve, he jumps back. 

"No, I'm—no. I'm fine," he insists, carding his fingers through his hair. "She's just a fucking nightmare come to life, that’s all. I hate her." 

My interactions with the massive serpent are mercifully few but I can still remember with crystal clarity the scent of rotting meat that cloaked her like a second skin. I shiver. "Was she at the Manor often?”

“Where the Dark Lord wonders, so too does his vile little pet.” He shudders. “He would feed people to her on occasion.”

“Why am I not surprised? How disgustingly predictable.” 

“It was fucking horrifying.”

"Were you, er, forced to watch?”

His eyes trail something outside our reality and he takes so long to respond, I almost apologize. “All of us were. He said it would help keep us loyal, remind us what would happen if we…dissented.”

“That’s awful. I can’t even begin to imagine what that was like.” I stash the last bundle of ingredients, including a jar of live flobberworms, into my charmed bag. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

“Just another drop in the proverbial shit bucket of my life,” he says. “Who knew living with the most evil wizard of all time wouldn’t be one long, extended traipse through the garden?”

“Did you even have a garden?” I ask, steering us away from ugly memories. 

Malfoy gasps dramatically. “Did I have a garden? You insult me. Of course I did. The Manor has three, thank you very much. And they’re all sprawling, beautiful, and appropriately garish.”

I smirk over at him. “Appropriately garish? By whose marker?”

“Someone with taste, Granger. Someone with class.”

“Oh, so not you then.”

He bumps my shoulder with his. “Cute. Clever, even. What a treat you are.”

“Thank you.”

“We should—”

“OI!” A rasping voice echoes violently through the dark forest and the blood in my veins goes cold. “You two!” The terrifying sound of branches breaking beneath booted feet echoes in the aftermath, heralding the approaching of our still unseen assailants. I grab Malfoy’s hand but just as I’m about to Apparate us to safety, a jet of sickly yellow light screams out of the darkness and I’m forced to deflect it into the nearest bush. It liquifies immediately. 

“Run.” Without letting go, we take off into the night. More curses are hurled our way and I’m so focused on protection, I stumble every third step. Malfoy’s grip on my hand is a vice and I know they’re gaining on us.

“Granger, we can’t―”

“Names!” I hiss and throw a Reducto blindly over my shoulder. It makes contact with something and a painful grunt splits the air. I don’t dare look back to see.

“You bitch!” More spells, from two different directions, come for us and I stop moving completely to get a barrier up in time, holding Malfoy in place with our conjoined hands.

“We’ve got to go!”

“I can’t Apparate and defend us at the same bloody time!” Battle instincts from the last three years, rusty with disuse but no less effective for it, overtake me and I send out a series of curses aimed at disorienting their victims. I am too slow to outrun our assailants and, unless I can slow them long enough to get us to safety, we’ll both die. My spells strike true and the trees behind us are engulfed in searing, unnatural light. Malfoy cowers at the sudden illumination, but I am already dragging us forward.

“What―”

“Shh!” The ground beneath us slopes in decline and I use the effects of gravity to suppress most of my stumbling. Gracelessly, and without proper direction, I fling my unsteady body forward, focusing only on putting distance between us and the hunters. The last time I ran through these woods, I was prey; a scared rabbit snared by gnashing wolves. My capture resulted in a lasting cornucopia of torture based trauma, a scar that will never properly heal, and yet another innocent ally dead in the name of something larger, and more important, than they. This time, I am without salvation, and if these monsters catch us the only thing I will have in abundance is death.

I haven’t run in months and as we careen through the gray and brown scenery, my wretched leg howls in protest. Distantly I worry about the damage I am unwillingly doing and I scold myself once more for forgoing that pain potion. 

As we careen through the trees and the underbrush, I keep a keen ear out for the sounds of our pursuers. My disorienting curses did what they were supposed to, it seems, because the cacophony of their crashing through branch and brush seems much further off than it was originally. 

The soles of my shoes are slick with mud and my already questionable sense of balance is thrust further off the axis. My efforts at distraction thwarted our would be captors but, thanks to my inability to run at a respectable pace, they've caught up. I concede enough to allow Malfoy to lead our blind charge through the dark. His fingers are an iron grip around my own, and the only thing keeping me upright. The thud of his steps, despite our difference in height and mobility, sync effortlessly with the rapid beating of my heart. In an effort to feel useful I continuously fling hexes and curses into the shadowy trees behind us, praying they strike true. If the string of ugly insults I receive in response are any indication, they are.

I'm catching on every root and rock we pass and more and more Malfoy is forced to yank me back onto my feet before continuing on. The stitch in my side screams as my lungs heave and gasp and I know that we aren't going to make it. We are far enough ahead that I am willing to gamble on how quickly I can Apparate us out of here and, as we crash through a particularly thick set of trees, I pull Malfoy to a stop.

"Apparate," is all I can get out because my lungs are demanding more oxygen than I can physically inhale.

He gives me a look of wild terror. "Can you?"

"No choice." I cling tightly to him, our hands intertwined to the point of pain, and begin to cast the spell. The risk of splinching is real but if we linger we are sure to suffer something far worse. Still, I take a single centering breath all the same. Unfortunately, this second of delay costs me dearly and, just as I flick my wrist a flash of red streaks through the black night and molten fire consumes my side. I've been a witch for over half my life, however, and so even as I'm reeling in abject pain, I still manage to finish the incantation and spirit us away.

My grasp on Malfoy loosens as we are torn asunder in the void between space and time, but I manage to sink my nails deep enough into his sleeve to keep us tethered. Sceneries of color and ephemeral shapes hurtle past us and I nearly bite straight through my lip as I focus wholly on the cottage and our destination. Finally, something indescribable tugs at my naval and I let go, sending us crashing back down to Earth.

The ground is cold and wet beneath me as we careen through the sea grass onto the stone just outside the house. We’re not that close to the cliffside, but the distinction is such that, were I not already going blind with pain, I’d panic about it. With a grunt I roll over onto my back and hiss with every ragged breath.

“Fuck! Fuck, Granger, you could have splinched us. We could have—” He stops screaming at the sky and I open my eyes enough to glance his way. “What’s wrong?”

“Are—are you hurt?” I ask, trying to focus on anything other than the wound engulfing my ribs. “Did the curse hi—hit you?” It takes an age but I pull myself upwards enough to reach for him.

“What?” He absently runs his hand down his chest before kneeling next to me. “Granger, oh fuck. You’re bleeding.”

“Hex, hopefully,” I respond, slumping back down. “Curse, probably.”

His fingers prod at the shredded hole in my jumper and I hiss in agony. “Fuck.” Pinning the hem down with his knee, Malfoy rips the ruined article of clothing at the seams, exposing my aching ribs to the biting sea wind. I hiss yet again. “Granger, Merlin, fuck. This is bad.”

I heave my neck forward and try to assess the damage in the scattered moonlight. My ribs are wet, the blood black and glistening, and I can see the curse eating away at the edges of my torn flesh. “I know—I know what it is.”

“Can you do something? You have to do something!” He is panicked, which nearly pushes me overboard. 

“The counter—curse,” I choke out and, with trembling fingers, pull my wand from my pocket. “Here.”

“I can’t,” he says immediately.

I shove the wand aggressively at him. “You can. You must.”

“Granger—my hand—I’m not right handed, I—”

My hand shakes as I reach out and press it against his chest. His heart hammers away in its cage. Our eyes meet and I muster up every remaining thread of strength to smile and nod at him. “Yes, you can.”

He stares from me, to the wand, to the rapidly expanding chasm across my ribs. “What do I do?”

I quickly walk him through the incantations and wand work necessary to cast the counter—curse. Of course, by walk him through I mean I choke out half formed phrases and rely generously upon his familiar brilliance to fill in the blanks. He repeats my steps back to me, until there is nothing left but to cast it. His face is a twisted visage of terror and doubt. Fear festers like a fever between us. The wind howls. The sea roars. 

“Granger—” he starts but I dig my fingers into his thigh and nod my head. The world spins with the motion and bitter bile stings the back of my throat. We stare at one another and he finally nods back. With a steadying breath, and several colorful curses, he raises my wand as casts the spell. 

Nothing at all happens the first time. His second try goes too wide, missing my body completely. Blood loss has me almost dizzy beyond function and the salt of the air does little to mask the metallic tang of it. The third attempt strikes true, but it’s cast incorrectly and sends a fresh wave of fire through me. I am reminded of Fiendfyre, and the destruction it brings. Despite my desires to the contrary, I cry out in pain and Malfoy’s courage goes up in smoke. He leans away. “No. Nope. Granger, I cannot do this.”

“Draco.” I am panting, sweat running into my barely open eyes, leaving my vision but a narrowed slit of silver, just a fraction of his face. “Please.” Dark magic is seeping into my marrow and in a few moments, the counter–curse I’ve taught him won’t be able to stop it. 

For a split second, the self-doubt and absolute fear consume him and I’m sure he’ll give up. I can’t even muster up the will to blame him. My resignation must ring out, however, because all at once, he changes. The tendons of his jaw set, the breadth of his shoulders goes taut, and he tries one more time. And, just like I knew it would, it works. 

Heat, like the warmth of a well fed hearth, pools beneath my ribs, burning out the invading curse. As if from a dream, I feel the jagged edges of flesh and bone begin to knit themselves back together and the choking grasp of Dark magic dissipates. 

“Fucking hell,” he whispers.

I’m shaking so hard I cannot respond. The cold sea water that has seeped permanently into the ground chills me to the core. A sticky pool of blood still lingers around me and the edge of my vision darkens. 

“Granger? No! Shit, fuck. Granger!” Malfoy’s fingers grip my shoulder. “Wake up!’

“Blood—replenishing—blood—potion,” I manage to choke out. Exhaustion comes for me like a thief in the night. Silent, persistent, deadly. 

“We have to get inside. You have to help me get you inside.” He is still panicked, but as my grasp on consciousness ebbs and flows, the need to take control settles over him. “I have to lift you.”

I grunt, half aware and time slips through my fingers like water. A blink, a moment, and I am suddenly cradled to the expanse of his chest. Bleary-eyed, I look up at him. My wand is held tightly between his teeth as his hand keeps us upright. The stairs of the porch are their own Herculean task but Malfoy is nothing if not annoyingly stubborn. I blink and he is heaving us through the back door. 

The moment we’re inside, his legs give, and we crash to the ground. I land half on top of him, too detached from reality to analyze the way I’m supposed to feel. He swears again, such a potty mouth. I wonder where he learned such foul muggle language. Did the wizards teach them?

“What?” He asks, hooking his arms under my own to drag me over to the wall. “Teach what?”

“Fuck?”

“Gods.” The wood is firm beneath as he props me up. “You’re delirious.”

“Thank you.”

“Stay here.”

“Hmm.”

I drift on currents unseen for a time. Malfoy’s face swims in my vision and I wonder if he’d be angry with me if he knew how beautiful I thought he was. He’s got such lovely features. At night I like to think about how soft his hair probably is. He has such nice hair. 

“You’re losing your shit, Granger.”

“Is it soft?”

Something touches my lips and I am disappointed to see that it’s a bottle. “Drink this.”

“Ahh—” 

Malfoy tips my head back and pours something gross in my mouth. I sputter. I don’t want to drink this!

“Swallow, Granger.” His laugh is so nice. I swallow. “Good girl.” Oh my.

The liquid burns going down but for every bit of flesh it touches, a piece of my awareness returns. My head feels as heavy as an anchor and when time regains meaning, I turn it away from the light. “Ow.”

“You lost a lot of fucking blood.”

“Sorry.”

“The potion will take a while to work. Can you stand? I need to get you over to the couch and I—I don’t know if I’m strong enough to carry you again.”

“I’m too heavy,” I lament.

“Yes. You’re such a cow.” 

I am finally able to look at him, and he looks terrified. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I—”

“Can you stand?”

I can’t but I’ve burdened him enough for this lifetime and so I try anyway. I’m still unbelievably unsteady, but he takes the lion’s share of the work and in time, we reach our destination. With a gentleness I didn’t think he possessed, Malfoy lays me down on the couch. He tugs at my shredded, bloody sweater and I twist enough for him to pull it off and toss it away. Warmth blooms where his hand presses into my shoulder. I think I nuzzle into it, but that could just be delirious fantasy. 

“Go to sleep, alright? You need rest.”

“There is—”

“Granger. Go the fuck to sleep.”

“Thank you, Malfoy. You keep—keep saving my life.”

“Yeah well, you keep fucking endangering it, so…”

“Maybe I do it on purpose.”

“You’ve always had a deathwish.”

Suddenly there is a blanket draped over me and I snuggle down into it. Exhaustion tugs relentlessly at my awareness. “Maybe I—I just like the—the attention.”

Malfoy laughs again, and it’s such a sad sound. Like he doesn’t believe me. Or can’t. “You’ve always liked the attention. Constantly raising your hand in class like some kind of snobby know-it-all.” 

I hum, eyes closed. “Maybe I just want yours.” 

“You have it.”

“So do you.” And without a second thought, I leap into the warm, waiting arms of sleep.

Chapter Text

The afterburn of magic stings like a salted wound and I allow Nagini the privilege of hissing for me. Even a day out from my wholly un–fucking–wanted reintroduction to spellwork, the lick of the arcane lingers on my skin. Now more than ever, the bruised membranes inside my brain threaten to sever and unravel from the threadbare blanket of my identity. For the first time in my adult life, the threat of oblivion holds not a sliver of sweet release. 

Worse still, the haunting image of Granger bleeding out at my feet plagues me day and night. Nagini doesn't even have to open her fucking mouth because I am torturing myself enough to satiate her demand. Less than a year ago, the only person I'd space for in my withered black heart was my mother and now I find myself intrinsically tethered to someone I used to actively hate. How jealous I once was of her place in Harry Potter's life. That jealousy has yet to abate, especially now that it's found a new haunt in my hatred of anyone that dares press too close to the fraying edges of her. I've always fucking detested Weasley and now I'd burn the both of us down if it meant he stopped making her cry. 

'Cry cry cry baby.'

Pathetic. An insult to my legacy. Weak–willed and tender–hearted and soft fucking skinned. Fuck expectation. I'd rather rake myself across hot coals than breathe a word of this, but just the knowledge of it is enough. It's a weight, bright and dark, and it's one that I'll let drag me down to watery depths. 

If the echo of magic biting at fingertips I no longer possess is any indication of things to come, then such an end is not far off. 

We sit across from one another at the wooden table and I play poorly at disinterest. Granger is barely recovered; her movements stilted and unsure. Had I been less of a fuck up and actually cast the counter-curse when she’d asked, the damage wouldn’t linger like it has. She winces when she turns too fast, the entire middle of her torso bandaged half to hell in order to keep her skin from ripping back open. Sure, I healed the wound, but dark magic has a way of interfering with the body’s natural abilities to repair itself.

"I hope that leftover rice is okay for dinner. Between the clinic and the potion maintenance, I'm not sure I–" 

"It's fine."

"Tomorrow, I should be healed enough to catch up–" 

I give her a hard look. "Will you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Placating me like I’m fucking Potter or something. You don’t need to justify anything to me, Granger. You almost d—you were badly injured. I don’t care about the state of the bloody house.”

Her brows furrow. “I—I know that but things have a tendency to pile up and—”

“If you wanted my help all you had to do was ask.” I allow myself to look properly at her but she glances away.

“It’s not your responsibility—”

“Well we’re friends, apparently, so I suppose that it is.” 

An expression of gentle surprise overcomes her and the smile she gives me is too bright, burning an afterimage as if I’ve stared into the sun. “Okay. Could you please help me around the house tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

A slew of patients arrive the next day, sporting mild but time consuming injuries. We’ve an unspoken agreement that it’s best I stay totally out of sight most of the time, if only to spare me the threat of violence and temptation of cruelty. So instead I hover in the kitchen, gathering potions and bandages and leaving them on a table by the door for her to pop in and grab. It’s oddly comforting, the repetition of the actions lulling me into a headspace just detached enough to prevent Nagini from manifesting. 

I catch snippets of conversations as Granger makes small talk with the various Order of the Idiots members. By the cadence of her tone, even when the words are lost, I can tell there is tension. In the days following my little quarrel with Weasley, I waited in mute anticipation for Moody or Potter to show up and drag me off to some dark, wet dungeon but it never happened. Outside of Granger’s tongue lashing, the topic had yet to resurface, leaving me to wonder what has taken precedence because very few things would prevent the Potter pals from seizing such an opportunity.

Near the late evening, having finally sent the last vaguely familiar schoolmate back into the fray, Granger trudges into the living room and I trail behind her. The kettle of tea I’d been poorly maintaining all day sits on the coffee table. She taps it with her wand, reheating it, and pours us both a cup. With a grunt, I drop beside her onto the couch, our shoulders just close enough to touch.

More and more, I’ve taken to filling the silences we find ourselves in. There is something uncomfortably intimate about the act of sitting quietly in a room with someone and the weight of denial I am carting around is making it hard to cope. I glance into the shadowed corners, looking for the glinting pair of eyes. A static whisper of a hiss is all I find. 

“I’m sorry.”

With a shake of my head, I turn my focus back to Granger. “Don’t be. I’d prefer a nice Earl Gray but I’m gracious enough to endure chamomile.”

She breathes out, steady and slow. “I meant for what happened the other night.”

I’ve been waiting for this, for her misplaced guilt to finally become too much for her to bear. “I know.” 

“Malfoy, I should have never asked you to—to do what you did. It was selfish, and unfair, and I am so, so sorry.”

I take a long drink of the tea, letting the earthy bitterness coat the inside of my mouth. “If you apologize to me one more time, Granger, I’m going to lose it. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The pull of her gaze is gravitational but I refuse to look over. I can’t, because I’m a weak, selfish man and there is a hunger in me that will not fucking abate. 

“I put you in a terrible position,” she insists. “I put you in danger! We could have died all because of my stupid hubris.” I follow the turn of her head to see the cauldron of her shield potion, sitting untouched for several days. “All because of an impossible task I arrogantly thought I could complete.”

“To be fair, your logic was sound.”

“Stop being nice to me, it’s weird.” I can hear the levity in her voice.

“My sincerest apologies,” I say. “You stupid, silly, harpy headed bint.”

“That’s better.” We keep staring at the cauldron. “I’m giving up on the potion.”

“You’re a terrible quitter, Granger, and we both know that’s a lie.”

She shrugs and the momentum finds her pressed ever so slightly closer to me. It’s nothing, just a natural shifting of her body, but warmth blooms within me all the same. “In a different world, perhaps, but not this one. It’s too risky, too experimental. Even if I didn’t, it’s not as if we can go hunting for ingredients again.”

The image of Granger’s blood, red and sticky and hot, comes upon me suddenly and I shudder. I’m too wound up with tension and emotion and my sorely underutilized coping skills fall short, allowing my body to betray me. 

Slowly, to compensate for her injury, she angles herself toward me, placing a hand on my arm. It burns. “Malfoy, I know you told me not to apologize—”

“Granger—”

“So I won’t,” she says. “But I am going to thank you. You saved my life, again , and I can’t put into words what that means to me. Especially because you—you had to use magic. And I’m s—hoping that it wasn’t too much for you.”

“I’m not that fucking fragile..”

“I don’t think you’re fragile, but I do think you’re stubborn. Too stubborn, honestly, to tell me if you’re okay.”

I’m not, fuck I am so very fucking far from okay. “I’m fine. It’s fine. The whole thing is—” I gesture uselessly, “is fine.” 

Her fingers tighten. "Please." 

'Sever it.' The hiss is muted, as if Nagini has been trapped behind some invisible door. 

"I'm…scared," I finally whisper. "Of fucking everything. And it's so exhausting. Life was easier, somehow, living with the Dark Lord. Which is frankly fucking insane." 

"Easier doesn't automatically mean it was better." 

"I know. But my standards for self-preservation have been abysmally low as of late." 

"And to think, I used to hear you complain about the pastries every morning in the Great Hall." 

I look at her, the twist of her mouth wry, and an urge takes me so suddenly I have to sink my jagged nails into my leg to keep my hand off of her face. "They—they were dreadfully bland," I stutter out. 

Granger rolls her eyes. "You're ridiculous." We face forward once again and I am grateful for the reprieve. "I'm scared, too." She pulls her hand away to pick at the peeling skin of her fingernails. "Everything that matters is totally out of my control and I'm grasping at straws to keep myself sane. I hate that everyday most of the people left in the world that I love just—just continuously put themselves into harm's way and I'm not there to make sure they come home."

"Potter is far too annoying to die, Granger. Trust me." 

Her laugh is small and sad. "God I hope so."

The curiosity that has eaten away at me finally wins out. I've already spilled my oily black secrets, might as well ask for hers. "Why are you here? Why'd the Order shut you out? You're the smart one, it's not as if they can spare the value of your input." 

"Because I fucked up." 

"How?" 

She presses a fist into her right thigh. "It was supposed to be a simple extraction. We'd received word that some Death Eaters had captured a group of muggle-borns a few years below us. Only, the intel was vague enough that it could also have been an ambush. Normally, Ron and I would be responsible for making that decision but we weren't speaking because I—because he'd found out I'd been drinking pain potions to cope with—with what I'd done.

"He didn't know why, of course. No one did. That was Moody's stipulation, the whole reason he asked me to do it. And—and afterwards I wasn't—I couldn't handle it. So I made what felt like a logical choice at the time and used magical narcotics to suppress my feelings. I had to, the stakes were too high. I knew there was a real threat of addiction but it didn't matter. 

"Anyway, Ronald found out and we stopped talking and it fell to me to make the decision. I hadn't been sleeping, let alone eating, and I was running exclusively on potions. It left me…I made the wrong choice. We were ambushed and—and Harry almost died. 

"They caught us totally off guard and because I was adamant that it was just a rescue mission, it was just the two of us. When they attacked, it was chaos. I panicked and threw a burning spell even though I knew, I knew, it would make things worse. The house was on fire in seconds. I heard the curse before I saw it and threw myself in front of Harry just in time. The pain was—I was delirious with it. Harry had to practically carry me when he finally Apparated us out. 

"The curse, it—it ate away the upper half of my thigh before I had time to counter it. The magic got into my bone and, well, you can imagine the damage that caused. The muscle never grew back right. After all that I've done, it probably never will." She takes a breath, her chest heaving. The ugliness of her confession rolling off of her like a fog. 

"So they banished you here because you can't walk?" 

"They sent me here because Ron told everyone about my potion abuse and Moody knew I was a liability. My inability to cope became everyone else's problem. Ron was equal parts furious and concerned, whereas Harry was so shocked I'd been lying to everyone, he was too distracted to work. He felt guilty, as if my sins were his fault. It was—I've never felt so ashamed."

"But—"

"So I tried to kill myself."

My mouth hangs open slightly as I stare at her, trying to contend with the weight of her words. 

Granger laughs bitterly. "It didn't work, obviously. But uhm—" Her voice breaks. "Uh, Ginny found me. Saved me. And after a conversation with Moody that I was not invited to attend, everyone agreed that it was in my best interest to step away from the war effort. Harry advocated for the Healer position. He knew, uh, he knew that I'd need something to occupy my mind. No one spoke out against it and no one asked me my opinion. The moment I was—as soon as my arm healed, I was sent here."

"Your arm?" 

With careful fingers, she rolls back her left sleeve. The awful, cruel word that my deranged aunt carved into her is still there, but the letters are obscured, ruined. A long, dark, jagged scar runs the length of it, starting at her wrist and ending at the crook of her elbow. It's so deep, the skin slopes inward. Before I can think of all the reasons to not, I reach out and run my finger alongside the ugly seam. 

"Granger…" 

"I suppose if I really wanted to die, I would have cursed the dagger, or at least gone for both arms."

"How have I never—" 

"Glamor charms are a girl's best friend," she says and starts to sob. 

I pull her to me, well versed now with the way she slumps into my arms. Before all this, I'd never had the chance or provocation to offer sympathy namely because there was no one I'd cared to comfort. Not until now, not until her. Her face is warm where it buries into my neck, even as my collar goes damp with tears. We'd gone our entire lives without making physical contact and thanks to the collisions of the last two weeks, I've come to crave the pressure of her body against mine. I dream about it, like a sickened school boy. She's just so…real. Warm. Solid. It grounds me, even as it rushes me ceaselessly out to sea. 

Granger shifts, her shoulders trembling and slips into my lap. I force myself not to think about it because if I dare indulge in the darker blues of the yawning waters, I'd become undone beneath her. Instead, I tighten the hold I have on her and rub small circles onto her shoulder, just as my mother once did to me. 

Time drips by and eventually she cries herself silent. I wait with baited breath for her to move, to pull away, but it never comes. Instead, her breathing slows and Hermione Granger falls asleep in my arms. 

"I—" Emotions I possess no appropriate words for, fight for purchase on the tip of my tongue. "You're…this war isn't worth this. It's not worth you." 

I'm coming to realize that, to me, nothing is. 

When she wakes up in the morning, I'm no where to be seen. It had taken every last semblance of self-control to once more leave her sleeping soundly, and more importantly alone, on the couch. The fire had been particularly difficult to start but it gave me something to busy my hands with. I'd wrapped her tightly in the same blanket from the night of the attack and gone upstairs to chase slumber that would not come.

"Malfoy—can you help me with something?" Granger sounds trepidatious, almost shy. 

I glance up from my second reread of Wuthering Heights and cock an eyebrow. "Depends. I'm not helping you cook again. I've got to maintain at least an illusion of dignity."

"It wasn't that bad." 

"I burned the sauce, Granger. The sauce." 

She stifles a laugh and saves me from preening like a teenager. "Nothing so demanding, I assure you." 

"Alright."

"Could you, uh," she clears her throat, "I need to get this wrap off and check on my side but I can't—I can't hold my wand and the wrap and cast the healing charm at the same time." We're on opposite sides of the room but the blush creeping across her features is crystal clear. 

I rub my face. "Uh, sure. Uhm," I cough. "What do you need from me?" 

Granger beckons me over and I come like a man half possessed. She stands from her cluttered desk and pulls up the hem of her sweater. "Can you hold the wrap up? I'm running low on bandages and I don't want to waste a new one."

My tongue feels thick and far too large for my mouth. "Yea—yeah. Of course." 

"Thanks." The sweater comes away and she drops it on the chair. Before my quickly diminishing will abandons me, I reach out and pull up her shirt. The expanse of skin that greets me is mottled with bruises, bleeding out from beneath the stark white bandage. "If you just lift up the bottom of the wrap, that should be enough." She's whispering, sharing the space between us like a secret.

I swallow, unable and unwilling to look her in the eye. "Sure." My hand shakes and as I hook a finger beneath the bandage, we both flinch. 

"Sorry." 

"Sorry," we apologize in tandem. 

Granger lets out a breathy laugh and my mouth goes dry. Steeling myself, I slowly pull the wrap up, exposing increasingly bruised skin to the harsh half-light. 

"How does it look?" 

The freshly healed scar is red and swollen but the skin has thankfully remained knit shut. "Better, I think. It hasn't reopened." 

"Thank Merlin." Her wand taps against the wound as she mutters a few spells under her breath. 

I watch, rapt and uncomfortably aware of every part of my body, as she wields the arcane seemingly without effort. "Can you cast wordlessly?" 

She withholds her answer, choosing to finish the healing first. I push my fingertips further into her side, feeling the hard edge of her last rib beneath the skin. The game I'm playing with my self-control is dangerous and seriously ill advised but the fucking Dark Lord himself couldn't force me to stop. Granger's breath quickens and I hate myself. 

Her wand withdraws. "I can. Not well, mind you, but simple spells? Sure." 

"Is there nothing you can't do?" It's all reverence and wonder. 

She goes red all over. "I'm full of faults, Malfoy." 

"No less golden for it." I didn't intend to say it out loud but my tongue had run away with my common sense. 

"What—" 

"Hermione?" Potter's voice shatters the tension like a curse and I spring away from her so abruptly, I crash into the coffee table. 

Granger looks terrified, as if he's caught her doing something foul and unholy. With a quick motion, she pulls her shirt back down and has the sweater over her head as he walks in. 

"Alright?" he looks between the two of us and I hate his stupid fucking face. He's always been too clever for his own good and I sneer at him. 

"Harry! You're here!" She rolls effortlessly into a casual stance and pulls him into a hug. Our eyes meet over Saint Potter's shoulder and her expression is dark, unreadable. 

Disgust stings the back of my throat and I've never acutely hated myself the way I do at that moment. I shake my head as if I can convey to her the depth of regret I have at my actions. Her brows furrow and I walk away before I break anything else. 

I pace the length of my room like a caged animal, energy like a current racing beneath my skin. It's an old feeling, a base, feral need I truly thought I'd lost. My jaw is so tight, my teeth creek and I resign myself to the bathroom. 

In third year, Marcus Flint used to joke about needing a cold shower after watching the Hufflepuff girls practice Qudditch. When I asked him what he meant, he berated me for being a poncy wanker and I was forced to absorb the context through other more…debased means. 

As I stand beneath a torrent of ice water, I understand with cruel certainty that the wants of my body are beholden entirely to the woman I've been raised to hate. It's perverse, blasphemous, and I've never been so hard. I am absolutely fucking alight with abject want, hunger. 

I was a spoiled child. I never learned the value of moderation. My earliest memories are of desire and the fulfillment of it. Pleasure for the sake of it is an old friend, one I've not visited in far too long. My fingers journey downwards, and even though I shouldn't want this, shouldn't want her, I take myself in hand. 

The cold of the water does nothing to abate the heat rolling from me as I think of the way her slender neck disappears beneath the collar of some raggedy sweater. What was once gawky and uncoordinated, her body is now the harbinger of my fucking death. I imagine her careful, lithe fingers running through my hair, tracing the lines of my arm, my chest. I whine at thoughts of her mouth, that clever, sharp little mouth and how it would feel against my own. The smell of strawberries and dried lavender and something nameless, heady. An exposed roving expanse of neck as she throws her head back to laugh. I want to sink my teeth into tender places she keeps hidden. I want to bury myself in the hot, hot heat of her and drown. 

With a shout, muffled beneath the roar of the shower, I come with her name at the tip of my tongue. In the blinding aftermath, shame lances through the heart of me. I'm disgusted and disappointed and cannot imagine how I'm going to look her in the eye now. And yet, for all that hatred, it doesn't prevent me from doing it once more in the shower and again that night in bed. 

I know I am fucked beyond salvation when even Nagini is too revolted to speak. 

Not even a full day goes by before the Boy Wonder makes another appearance. Granger is upstairs, doing something, and I am forced to play host to my oldest enemy.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.” Before we can trade our favorite, overly rehearsed barbs, Moody arrives and any bit of youthful arrogance I’d mustered up is dashed like so much seawater upon the rocks. It’s been what feels like an age since he’s come by for a chat and panic hunts me at the prospect of digging up things better left buried.

“Mr. Malfoy.”

“Moody.” We’re all just standing around greeting each other, all of us too proud and exhausted to be the first to break. Thankfully Granger steps in to save us from what was sure to be another riveting round of terse silence, pulling Harry into a hug.

“You’re back so soon,” she comments. “And you’ve brought Moody.”

“Miss Granger.”

Oh look, more greetings. 

“Are you here for Malfoy?” All eyes snap to me and I drag that smug, teenage sense of self kicking and screaming to the forefront of my expression. Potter’s frown deepens and Moody remains his usual stoic self. Granger is, as always when it comes to her opinion of me in the presence of others, impossible to read.

“I’m here for you, actually,” he replies and it’s my turn to stare.

“Are—you are?” she stammers.

Moody nods.

“Oh. Well, er, to the living room, then?” She leads him off and my treacherous feet nearly move to follow. At the last second I use the aborted momentum to move away from the absence they’ve created and the pitiful way Potter is trying to fill it.

Because life is full of mirthless humor, and fate is cruel just because she can be, he trails after me and we sit across from one another at the kitchen table, trading silent blows and willing the other to speak first. I’ve spent years learning to stay silent, however, whereas he’s spent them learning to lead and so, he breaks.

“I heard about what you said to Ron.”

“I’d imagine you did. It’s not like he’s one to keep his fat mouth shut.” Potter looks cross but it's a pale imitation to Granger’s usual exacerbation with me and I just smirk.

“Good to know you’re still as vile as ever.”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t appreciate the grin I give him and so I beam even wider. “You’re still just as sanctimonious as ever.” I watch Potter struggle to come to the point he feels compelled to make.

“Hermione’s got a good heart, Malfoy.”

“A prerequisite for any Gryffindor, I’m sure.”

“She’s kind, just for the sake of it, even in spite of the danger that poses to her.” He’s staring at me like I’m supposed to fucking understand whatever idiotic wisdom he’s trying to impart. Truly, he could teach a centaur the art of self-righteousness. “And that kindness makes her blind.”

“Do spare me the overprotective brother routine, Potter, it’s overdone.” When he doesn’t relent, I roll my eyes. “And unnecessary.”

“Hermione doesn’t always see what’s right in front of her face. Her need to help―”

I scoff. “I’m gonna stop you there, Potter, because if not I’ll probably say something I regret and Moody’ll have me strung up and left for dead.” Bracing myself against my right arm―the left one tucked safely out of sight, of course―I lean across the table. “I don’t need your long-winded fucking speech about how Granger choosing to defend me to that brute you call a best friend is somehow indicative of her being compromised. She’s a far cry more intelligent than that and it’s frankly insulting you’d think otherwise.”

“I―”

“Furthermore, your ludicrous assumption that her ‘good heart’ impacts her ability to do her job―the job you lot forced her into, might I add―just reiterates how wildly off base you are. Granger will do whatever the fuck Granger wants to do.”

“Just because she’s chosen to see you as anything other than the slimy ferret you are doesn’t mean you know a damn thing about her, Malfoy.”

The sneer I give him is one for the ages. “And you do? Tell me Potter, have you asked her how she’s sleeping lately? Or how that pesky little injury she took for you is treating her? Do you have any fucking idea the weight she bears for you, you vainglorious, arrogant fuck? You pulled her from her loved ones and locked her away like a dirty little secret, left to rot while you lot traipse around Britain, playing at heroics. Day in and day out I’m continuously gifted front-row tickets to her self-destruction, watching as she struggles to keep herself afloat amidst this sea of bullshit you pour at her feet. Don’t speak to me of knowing her, Potter, don’t you fucking dare.” I’m fuming, overrun with how good it feels to dress him down. Granger’s words of warning following my spat with Weasley echo in my head but I am too far gone to stop now. It’s one thing to attack me. It’s another thing entirely to insult her.

Potter has enough humility to look horrified but swallows the emotion, lest the enemy see his points of weakness. That’s all she is to them, to anyone: a point of weakness. Ironic, given her breadth of courage in the face of such degradation. “She’ll never love you, you know. As soon as this war is over, and we bring her home, she’ll never spare you a second thought.”

It’s a low blow, crafted to sting. It burns, of course, because I cannot openly hate him for what he does to her without betraying, ever so slightly, why. I’m a Malfoy, though, for all that that was ever worth and reign myself in as Lucius and his cane taught me to do a thousand times before. “Say whatever you need to say to alleviate your guilt but it won’t change the fact that I’m right. Granger would die for you, without provocation or hesitation, and you are so fucking naive you think it’s because of her ‘kind heart’. How lucky you are, the lot of you, to have something so wonderful in a world as ugly as this.” I shove away from the table, leaving him to fester in a mess of his own making.

Potter yells after me, but I’m already gone.

Chapter Text

When I was young, I thought I could fly. I knew it, with that singular, ironclad conviction known only to children, the hubristic, and the insane. I scaled ivy lattices, jutting rocks, and any branch burdened tree that dared cross my path, all in an attempt to find that perfect, golden height. My entire body rang out in resolute certainty that, should such an intangible, mathematical distance be found, my wildest dreams would be met. Every hike through the forests, every picnic in the parks, saw me climbing and scrambling and forcefully pulling myself up, up, up, to the great open sky. 

My parents were supportive, albeit moderately concerned. We moved a few times in my early years, thanks to their ongoing efforts to establish a dental practice. The eventual home we settled upon was, in a word, marvelous. A sprawling, lush garden that disappeared into a thicket of trees and brush. A veritable playground for someone such as myself; precocious, determined, wholly without sibling or friend. A child armed with an unyielding imagination that would one day serve to help undermine a man, a crusade, a longstanding societal institution. Back then, however, I was just a girl, muggle up until the very second I would mentally set fire to my teacher’s trousers the following October. Magic had yet to manifest within me. It was truly just the conviction of childhood that had me utterly and completely confident in my ability to fly. 

Long, warm spring afternoons were spent hauling myself from tree limb to tree limb, seeking that special height. And eventually I found it, one overcast evening in September. My parents were finishing up dinner in the kitchen, having spent most of the meal doing paperwork, thus allowing me to roam totally unattended through the yard. I sought my newest—and most precious—discovery to date: an ancient hawthorn tree in unseasonably late autumnal bloom. The bark was rough against my small hands as I flung myself through the branches, up to the very top. Bushy head breaking free of the canopy, I looked out at the gray, pre-dusk light cascading over the English countryside and I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was time.

I plotted my course: up and out from the hawthorn tree, over the overgrown brambles, through the twin oaks, with a quick stop to brush my fingertips against the reaching foxgloves, before making a perfect, expertly executed landing atop our black, shingled roof. Trivialities like wind speed, and propulsion, and the basic laws of physics, were never even considered. All that mattered, as I stood on shaking legs atop the highest available branch, was that I would finally feel the wind rush over me as I tasted the sweet secrets of the skies. 

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes to count to three, and lept boldly into the evening air.

The scar that runs the length of my jawbone has long since faded into the thinnest, nigh imperceptible white line. The pebble sized divot just behind my right ear is all but gone. Every scrap, bruise, and cut that marred me as I tumbled violently to the earth, skin catching on all manner of bramble and bush, is but a distant sting of an even fainter memory. All that remains with me now is the fear.

My parents cut down the hawthorn tree that weekend, leaving nothing but an ugly stump. I was banned from unsupervised excursions into the wilds of the yard, and my father kept an annoyingly watchful eye on me, even in the most public of spaces. None of it mattered. I had tasted the bitter root of utter defeat and it had buried that wondrous need to soar deep into the marrow of my mind. I couldn’t fly, I wasn’t a creature of myth and legend. I was just a girl, battered with the effects of hubris, who had learned a valuable, painful lesson. Even in the months to come, as my magic manifested and letters from a faraway place promised me adventures untold, I stuck strong and stubborn to that conviction. 

I was absolutely sure I would never again leap, for the shocking agony of the crash was too much to bear.

I was wrong.

“Where do you think we are?”

“The back porch,” I say automatically.

“Hysterical.”

“Thank you.” I’m too distracted with the mess of fluxweed I’m trying to untangle to give him my usual cheeky grin.

“But seriously, where are we? It’s nearly fucking June and I don’t think we’ve gone more than 24 hours without rain.”

“That’s hardly rare in London.”

“But we’re not in bloody London. At least the sun makes an appearance there once in a while.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I make an exaggerated show of leaning out over the balcony to stare at the sky. “The sun is right there!”

Malfoy scoffs. “How astute.”

“Besides,” I settle back beside him on the rickety porch bench, “with your complexion, I’d think you’d avoid the sun at all costs.”

“What do you mean ‘my complexion’? What’s wrong with it?” he demands.

“You’re so pale you’re practically translucent."

“I am not!”

I press my arm against his, showcasing the stark difference in our two skin tones. “I can see your veins.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Of what? Instantaneous sunburns?”

“We’d need actual sunlight for that to happen,” he snaps.

“Oh, shut up.”

He sniffs, managing to look posh in his ratty, ripped jumper, and says nothing.

“Anyway,” I continue, “I think we’re in Norway.”

“Why the fuck are we in Norway?”

I shrug and return to the fluxweed. “It’s far enough away from Wizarding Britain that the chances of someone stumbling upon the cottage are rare, but not so far that Apparition isn’t technically possible.”

“Is that where the Order’s headquarters are?”

“Yup.” With a turn, the tide goes strange and I comfortably offer up intel I'd once willingly die to protect. “Somewhere in the north, beyond the hills.”

“Interesting.”

I glance at him.

“The Dark―Tom is totally convinced you guys were operating out of the south,” he responds. “Or at least he was the last time I had the pleasure of his company.”

“Looks like our miscommunication campaigns aren’t so useless after all.”

“Doesn’t hurt having a man on the inside.”

At the reminder of Snape, I scowl. “His usefulness was a topic of debate for the first few years, honestly. Half of us thought he was just a liability, while the other half thought he was a great source of potential information.”

“Which were you?”

“The former.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” he leans back, folding his arms across his chest, “you were never fond of one another.”

A bitter laugh escapes my mouth before I can stop it. “That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one.” I don’t want to sour our pleasant Friday afternoon, though, and so I press on. “Still, he at least did one thing right.”

“What’s that?”

“Taught you how to brew a potion moderately well.”

He shoves his shoulder into mine. “My talents—from which you’ve benefited, need I remind you—are naturally and assuredly innate.”

“Modesty is a good look.”

“Thank you.”

Malfoy goes quiet, and stares out pensively across the rolling sea. A few minutes of companionable silence pass between us. “I’ve been to Norway before.”

“Really? Why? I can hardly imagine there’s much here for a Malfoy to do. No small children to terrorize.”

“There are always children to terrorize.” He flashes his teeth at me. “But regardless, I was thinking about trying out for the Norwegian Quidditch team, after Hogwarts.”

I’m surprised, honestly. I’d never considered that once upon a time he had aspirations beyond the scope of cruelty and then later, survival. “How’d it go?”

Malfoy sighs. “Brilliantly.”

“Did you dazzle them with your fancy broomstick?”

“You know, I was actually good at Quidditch. You lot made such a fuss about my father buying my way onto the team―”

“―which he absolutely did―”

“―but that wasn’t all of it. I tried. I tried so hard and I was great. Better than Potter, most of the time.”

I roll my eyes. “God, the rivalry between you two is borderline obsessive.”

“Please,” he scoffs, “Potter could never afford me.”

“You would be an expensive date.”

“Class is priceless, Granger, as is good pedigree.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You sound like every male character in a Jane Austen novel.” I tilt my nose up and put on my best Malfoy impression. “Oh dear me, Mr. Potter, but you simply must excuse my tardiness. I’m afraid there was some confusion at the bank regarding my millions of Galleons and I simply had to take care of it. You know how it is with those wretched little Goblins. But I digress, how rude of me. How is your filet mignon? Is it as divine as it was at that charming cafe we visited in Paris?”

His laugh is music to my ears. “The depth of your detail betrays the time you've spent on this fantasy, Granger.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Malfoy.”.

“Honestly, I do not sound like that.”

“If you were any more posh, you’d break from the fragility of your own constitution.”

“You call that accent posh? It was dreadful.”

“Banal, even,” I tease. “Your vocabulary is like something from a Victorian play.”

“Granger, all I do is sit around and read your wretched books. That’s more of an insult to you and your taste in literature than it is to me.”

“Oh please, you’ve been this much of a snob since first year. Prancing around the Great Hall with that ridiculous hairstyle, whinging and whining all over the place.”

He sits up and stares at me. "I'll have you know–" 

The crack of Apparition and Neville's questioning tone pull us ruthlessly back to the present. All at once I feel guilty for the moment of brevity, as if it existed as an insult to all that's been lost. The mirth dies upon his features and I slink back into the house to tend to the things that should matter more than the crooked smile on Malfoy's face. 

One minute, I'm hunched over my final batch of shield potion, stretching the remaining ingredients as far as possible, and the next I'm sprinting to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time to throw up the oatmeal and tea I'd had for breakfast. My stomach heaves, abdomen cramping as my body purges itself. By the time I come up for air, I'm trembling and covered in a sheen of sweat. The porcelain is cold against the heat of my cheek and I take several gulping breaths, trying to regain a semblance of control. 

"Granger?" It appears in my frenzied state, I'd at least had enough forethought to close the door. Malfoy knocks. "You alright?" 

When I push myself up, my knees shake. "Fine," I croak and turn the faucet on, splashing water on my face and neck. It's cold and helps to bring me back to reality. "I'm fine," I repeat, stronger this time. 

Malfoy is lingering at the door when I finally exit, trying very hard not to look concerned. My heart slams into the cage of my ribs and I ignore the way the weight of his gaze makes my fingers tingle. 

"What's going on?" 

I shrug, playing at nonchalance. "Must have eaten something that didn't agree with me." 

"We had the same meal." 

"Hmm." 

"Granger—" 

"It's fine, I'm fine. Help me dry out the Spanish sea kelp?" 

Malfoy is wholly unconvinced but doesn't press the point, and for that I am endlessly grateful. We return to work, but for the remainder of the day, he watches me out of the corner of his eye, the ghost of a frown at the edges of his mouth. 

June looms and with it comes uncomfortably warm weather. It's still overcast more often than not, and the humidity goes a long way to making the rise in temperature extra miserable. Even the winds rolling off the ocean are unseasonably hot. To make matters worse, the breadth of our wardrobe begins and ends in the dead of winter, leaving us in various stages of undress just to cope with the weather. 

"Is there no weird, cheeky muggle thing you can do to make it less fucking miserable in here?" Malfoy whines, draped across his reading chair like a famished lady in waiting. 

I fan myself with my open notebook. "This cottage is over a hundred years old. I'm surprised it has working electricity at all. Something as advanced as central air is an impossibility." 

"You're speaking English and yet I've no idea what the bloody hell you're saying." 

"Hardly a first for you, I'm sure." 

He makes a rude hand gesture at me and I suppress a laugh. 

"I'm fucking dying, Granger." 

Sweat clings to me like a second skin and I gather the mass of my hair further atop my head. The clip holding it in place strains with the effort of such a task. "That makes two of us." 

He peeks over the arm draped across his face. "What a sight you are." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Your head truly is thick if it's able to hold your hair up like that." 

"We can't all have pin straight doll's hair." 

Platinum strands cascade over the arm of the chair. Malfoy tugs at them. "It's so long now. Quite the fucking nuisance." 

"I could cut it." 

He raises a pale eyebrow in my direction and I flush. "Oh really?" 

"I used to cut Ron's and Harry's when we were on the run." 

"That's not exactly a vote of confidence."

"Fine," I huff. "Then suffer."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist. I suppose anything is better than this." He heaves himself upwards, stretching towards the ceiling. The edge of his shirt slides up, exposing a jagged hip bone. I immediately look away, unwilling to betray myself so readily. 

"Come along." I lead us to the kitchen. Malfoy drops into his usual seat at the table and I summon a pair of scissors. "How short were you thinking?" 

"I suppose the length I had for the Yule Ball will suffice."

"Am I supposed to know what that was? It's not as if I spent my evening memorizing your outfit."

"And here I was thinking you'd have returned the favor." 

"What—" 

"Periwinkle, wasn't it? Floor length. I can only assume the cut was of muggle design because I'd never seen dress robes quite so…form fitting." He shuffles in his chair and I am beyond grateful that he can't see my face 

"I—you—what? You remember what I wore?" 

"Granger, please. Everyone remembers what you wore. You were the veritable bell of the Yule Ball," he says matter of factly. "Even Pansy was jealous." 

"Oh," is all I can bring myself to say. Racking my brain, I dig through the hazy memories of that night, searching for some glimpse of Malfoy as he'd looked then, what feels like a lifetime ago. “I—I think I can recall how you wore your hair.”

Without turning to look at me, he raises his hand and gestures vaguely at the crown of his head. “Just somewhere around here is fine.” 

We go back and forth for a few minutes on exactly what he wants while I confirm if I possess the necessary skill to execute it. Eventually, an agreement is met and he settles back into the chair. With somewhat of a plan in mind, I inhale slowly and begin to work. Just as I’d imagined, his hair is gossamer soft. It slips through my fingers like silk, the platinum stark against my skin. I card my fingers through it, under the pretense of gathering it all together, and Malfoy fidgets slightly. Fearing that my indulgences are obvious and overt, I quickly start to cut.

“My mother used to do this for me,” he confesses. 

“So did mine.”

"It was the only thing she didn't delegate to a house elf." A small pile of platinum hair gathers at my feet. "We used to make a whole afternoon of it. Stop by Fortescue's for ice cream afterwards, and walk around Diagon Alley to eat it." 

"That sounds nice." 

"It was." 

I gently turn his head to the side, careful not to let my fingers linger at the sharp edge of his jaw. "I used to hate letting strangers touch my hair. They never knew how to brush it and most visits to the barber ended in tears. Eventually my mum decided to just do it herself. She cut my hair every summer, even after I’d started going to Hogwarts. It was a tradition of sorts..”

Malfoy leans forward at my prodding. “Is her hair as…eclectic as yours?”

“I take after my father in that regard.”

“I’m trying to picture them.”

“Why—don’t shrug, you’ll make me mess up.”

“Curiosity, I suppose. Have you got any siblings?”

“Nope. My mother is—was—she has difficulties conceiving.” I brush some rogue strands of hair into place. “I was a ‘miracle’ baby. They spent a lot of time and money on In Vitro—er—muggle science in order to get pregnant with me.”

“Golden from the start, it would seem.”

Unable to see his face, I cannot tell if he’s serious or not. “Why don’t you have any siblings? With the importance your parents place upon legacy, it makes sense to have several children, doesn’t it?”

Malfoy takes his time answering. “My father is an only child, whereas my mother is one of three. Malfoy’s have always been a…singular sort. Having more than one child is exceedingly rare.”

“A genetic defect, perhaps?”

“Moreso to prevent unwanted sullying of the bloodline. More children means more chances to accidentally marry a cousin.”

“Is that a real concern?”

“The pureblood families are insular by design. Interbreeding is a serious issue. One that my family has been able to avoid by limiting the amount of contributions we make, so to speak.”

I tilt his head back. “How positively aristocratic of you. It wouldn’t surprise me if betrothal contracts were still in use.”

“Not in recent generations, but they’re not totally unheard of.”

“So there’s no obedient, pureblood wife-to-be awaiting your return somewhere?”

From this angle, I can see the small smirk on his face. “Don’t be jealous, Granger, it’s unbecoming,” he says, parroting a previous remark of mine back at me.

“Yes, because I’m the paragon of decorum, as you’ve made abundantly clear.” I run my fingers one last time through his hair, trying to memorize the velvet drag of it against my skin. My indulgence unnerves me and I pull away. “You’re done.” I conjure up a small hand mirror and hand it to him.

Malfoy sits up straight, examining his hair. “Hmm.”

“And the verdict, your majesty?”

He tilts the mirror to meet my eyes in the reflection. “Bang up job, Granger. There is truly nothing you cannot do.” The twist of his grin is teasing, where it was once cruel. “Wonders never cease.”

“Shut up.” I vanish the pile of hair at my feet. “Prat.”

“I offer to return the favor, but Merlin knows I’d fuck it up spectacularly.”

“Sensible.”

“As ever.”

I busy myself with putting away the scissors, stealing a glance or two at him as he tugs thoughtfully at his hair. He looks familiar in a different, almost upsetting sort of way. Closer now than ever before to the boy who tormented me at Hogwarts. I know logically I should be weary of him, of our fragile, precious connection, but watching him in the window’s reflection, all pale and platinum, the only thing I feel is a sudden, aching want. 

“Thank you Granger,” he says, breaking me from my reverence. 

“Y—you’re welcome, Malfoy.”

“My birthday is in less than a week.”

“Oh?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“I’d imagine that you of all people would love their birthday. A whole day dedicated to celebrating you? What else could you ask for?”

“Before all this madness, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Now I hate it. Feels fucking deranged, trying to celebrate anything at a time like this.”

“A little levity and joy is needed now more than ever, I’d think.”

“Ah yes, how fun it would be. An uproariously vivacious time, just the two of us. We can have a cake made of leftover meatloaf and you can wrap up one of your three copies of ‘Hogwarts: A History’ for a gift.”

“Sounds quite nice.”

“Merlin, save me.”

Harry arrives with Luna, Moody, and Cho the very next day. Malfoy and I are bickering over the basic tenets of Herbology when suddenly there is a small gaggle of Order members standing in my hallway. 

“Oh! Jesus, you startled me.”

“Hey, Hermione.” Harry looks around awkwardly, his demeanor bordering on genuine discomfort.

“Hullo Draco! Hermione!” Luna is exceedingly chipper.

Cho just nods once, expression impossible to read.

“Ms. Granger, we’re here for Mr. Malfoy,” Moody announces.

All at once, my blood runs cold. I make eye contact with Malfoy from across the table and the urge to place myself between him and my loved ones is demanding. “In what capacity?” I ask. Moody looks at me impassively and it’s then that I notice the small parcel Harry is holding. “I see.”

“What the fuck is happening right now?” Malfoy snaps.

“A change is coming, Draco, and Moody needs to make sure you’re ready for it,” Luna says.

“We need to probe your mind once more, Mr. Malfoy.” Moody gestures at Cho, whose expression is still unmoving. “For security reasons.”

A measure as extreme as this was not one I even considered a possibility when I devised this plan. I knew Moody would want to interview Malfoy again, possibly using Veritaserum, but never once did Legilimency cross my mind. My brain rapidly recalls the dozens of things Malfoy and I have gone through that I would rather keep between us. In particular, our ill-fated midnight excursions and the run in with the presumed snatchers. My stomach turns, exacerbating my persistent nausea.

“Is this,” I gesture at Cho, “really necessary?”

“It is.”

“Can someone please explain to me what the bloody hell is going on?”

“Draco,” Luna starts, “this is—”

“Mr. Malfoy, if you’d be so kind as to follow me into the living room so that we can begin.”

“Not until you explain to me what the fuck is the reason for all this? Why is Chang here? Granger?” He looks at me, pleading despite the things it betrays. 

“Malfoy—”

“It’s a precautionary measure, nothing more.”

“For what?!” he sounds terrified and all at once, I recall his fragile mental state.

“This—”

“He can’t,” I cut Moody off. “Malfoy cannot withstand Legilimency right now.”

Everyone looks at me, but the only expression that matters is the one of betrayal on Malfoy’s face. 

“And just why is that, Ms. Granger?”

“Because the mental trauma of the war, as well as his time living under the same roof as Tom, has left him vulnerable to things like Occlumency and Legilimency and as his healer, I won’t allow this.”

“In order to move forward with what we discussed, I need to ensure that things are as they appear to be,” Moody finally says.

“Then have Cho perform it on me. I’ve been with Malfoy everyday for the last six months. If there is anything untoward to be discovered, I would know about it.” It’s a gamble, but it’s the only choice I have.

Moody looks exceedingly skeptical, Harry is painfully confused, and Luna is her usual sunny self. Malfoy won’t look at me at all, and is instead staring deliberately at the floor. 

“Fine with me,” Cho replies. “I’ll be able to tell if there’s any kind of memory modification to be found.”

“There won’t be,” I insist.

“Very well,” Moody finally concedes. “If you’ll follow me, Ms. Granger.”

I do what I can to catch Malfoy’s eye but he turns fully away from me, and instead I catch Harry’s. My best friend frowns, but there is something guilty in his expression, something I cannot place. Luna stays behind with Malfoy, whispering to him.

The rest of us convene in the living room, and I sit in Malfoy’s favorite chair as doors are locked and the room is silenced. “This will be unpleasant, Ms. Granger.”

“I know.”

Cho sits across from me, gives me a brief nod, and dives into my mind. Her presence is like a needle, threading with expert precision through the banks of my memories. She pays particular attention to every second I’ve spent with Malfoy in the last two months, including and especially to the times we visited the Forest of Dean. My immediate reaction is to push back, to force her out, but I clench my jaw and suffer through it instead. She rifles through moments, snapshots of seconds where I am staring at Malfoy. It’s disorienting, watching myself watch him. The look on my face changes the further back we go, going from whatever complicated thing it is now to the cool, abject hatred it once was. How far we’ve come in so short a time. I cannot help but muse upon the people we’ve become, the ties we’ve let bind. It distracts me from the severe, singular sting of Cho hunting through my brain, and helps to alleviate some of the pain.

Eventually, after what feels like a lifetime, she pulls back and I am alone once more with my thoughts. Cho stares at me, somber and intense. I can do nothing but stare back. She knows. I know it, as sure as I know that the sun will rise in the morning. Fear prickles the back of my neck at the realization that the one thing I’ve been avoiding, that little seed of light that I’ve nurtured even as I pretended it didn’t exist, no longer belongs to just me. Inexplicably, I want to cry.

“I’d like to speak to Hermione alone,” Cho finally says.

Moody doesn’t even question it, and instead leads Harry back out of the room. The moment we’re alone, I struggle not to break down.

“Cho, I—”

“Stop.”

I stop.

“My task was to look for any sign of manipulation or deceit on either your part, or Malfoy’s. I found none.”

“Of course not. But—”

“And because I found nothing, I will report nothing to Moody. Alright?” She offers me an olive branch and I take it without provocation. “It’s no one’s business but yours how you happen to feel. I understand the—” She pauses, searching for something I cannot name. “The world is different now, and things will never go back to the way they were. All we can do is move forward, yes?”

I nod.

“However you choose to cope is your own business. Not mine, certainly not Moody’s. Your secrets are safe with me.”

My eyes sting with the effort not to cry. “Th–Thank you, Cho.”

She dips her head in response and calls Moody back into the room.

“Your report, Ms. Chang?”

“Nothing to report, sir. All is as it should be.”

“Excellent. Mr. Potter?”

Harry steps forward and hands me the small parcel. He won’t look me in the eye. I take it and offer him a watery smile, one that he does not return. “Thank you.”

“Until next time, Ms. Granger.” Moody, Cho, and Luna disappear with a crack, but Harry lingers.

“Harry—”

Silently, he pulls me in for a hug. I wrap my arms around him immediately and we stand there for a minute. “I–I’m sorry,” he finally says.

“What—” but with a turn, he Apparates and is gone. 

“Granger, what the fuck was all that?” Malfoy is furious.

“I can’t tell you, not yet anyway.”

“Why the hell not?”

I slip the parcel into the back pocket of my jeans. “Do you trust me?”

His mouth is set in a thin, hard line. “Obviously.”

“Then trust me when I say that I can’t tell you just yet. Soon, okay?”

“Is it about my Mother?”

My heart wrenches at the vulnerability in his voice. “No, it’s not. I’d never make you wait on information like that. I promise.”

He is obviously skeptical, but I’ve fostered enough goodwill for him to accept my terms. “When?”

“Soon. Very soon.”

Ginny comes by the very next day. We exchange the requisite greetings but she seems nearly as distant as Harry did. 

“Is everything alright, Ginny?”

“We’ve found the Diadem.”

Blood rushes through my ears and the teacup clunks loudly when I drop it on the counter. “What?”

“We’ve found it. It’s in—well it doesn’t matter where. All that matters is we’ve found it.”

“What? How? What is the plan?”

She wrings her hands. “A small group of us are going to retrieve and destroy it.”

“But—”

“Harry pushed for you to come, as did I, but Moody and Lupin wouldn’t allow it.” Her expression is one of subdued panic. “We need someone here to step up should the worst happen.”

“I’m the contingency plan?”

“If Harry or Ron—”

“Don’t say it—”

“—if anything were to happen to them, you’d be the only one left with the experience to carry on.”

“Why couldn’t that be you? I’ve never been interested in leadership, Ginny, just in the hunt itself. That’s where my talents are best used, that’s where I belong. I’ve given most of my life to this cause, you cannot shut me out now, not when it is most critical.” I am borderline hysterical.

“The decision has already been made, Hermione.”

“Without me, of course. How bloody convenient for you all.”

“Please,” she pleads, with tears in her eyes. “Please, Hermione, I’m sorry.”

The worst part about all of this, the pill that is the most bitter to swallow, is the genuine care and concern on her face. For all their posturing, we’re just children, even into our twenties, because the world has yet to grant us the freedom to grow. If the tables were turned, if Ginny stood in my place and I knew about her sins what she knew about mine, I can say with vile certainty I would keep her just as in the dark. It’s about more than protecting our fragile feelings. This is a war, and it does not care about the delicate makeup of living things.

“When do you leave?” I finally ask.

“T—Tonight.”

“How long?”

“Ron estimates two weeks. We have to travel by muggle means in order to avoid detection.”

I let out a slow, careful breath. “Ginny if anything—”

“I’d die for them, same as you, Hermione. I love them, just as much.”

My throat aches with the urge to sob. “I—I should be the one to destroy it. Fiendfyre, it—”

“That was the compromise Harry agreed to.” She reaches out but hesitates before making contact. “He wants you—he knows how hard this is.”

“Where is he?”

“Saying goodbye to Teddy.”

I nod, chewing at my cheek to stay together. “Alright,” I say because it’s all that’s all there is.

Ginny grabs my hand finally, and squeezes it. I squeeze back and we take a moment to stand there, to appreciate the stillness. “It’s almost over,” she whispers. “Lupin will be by with supplies and updates in the coming weeks. I—I love you. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

With one last squeeze of our hands, she lets go, and I am alone.

Chapter Text

In the aftermath, Granger nearly destroys the kitchen. There is a split second of pregnant stillness after the crack of Apparition in which I watch her take a slow, careful breath before the storm. 

"Gra—" 

She shoves everything, including the final cauldron of shield potion, onto the floor without making a sound. Before I can even finish my statement, she takes the teacup on the counter behind her and hurls it into the wall. Chips of porcelain and drops of tea rain down around us, a facsimile of celebration. 

"You—" 

Eyes wide as she searches for more unsuspecting dishware, Granger silences me with a saucer, flung violently onto the floor at my feet. I step back but otherwise do nothing. She quickly grows disinterested in destroying cutlery and, with zero regard for my presence, stalks out the back door. I follow. 

Down into the side yard, she marches with her head held high. With an expert flick of her wand and a short murmur, the struggling garden of potion ingredients bursts into flames. She doesn't even bother to properly look at it. I trail behind, taking a moment to appreciate the immolation. Were I a better friend, I'd stop her parade of devastation but I've never wanted to be her friend and I've never given a single fuck about her senseless need to make potions for people that don't deserve it. Instead I let the wake of her fury pull me forward, a sliver of driftwood caught ceaselessly in a raging wave. 

As the last remnants of sage and wild lavender turn to ash beneath matching gray clouds, Granger comes to a stop just before the crumbling half wall that surrounds the property. I hover just at the edge of her perception, ready to step in should the need arise.

"She—they—fuck!" she screams mindlessly into the waiting wind, held tilted back in defiance of a disinterested sky. In delayed response, the storm clouds crack open and unleash a torrent of summer rain down upon us. 

My patience wanes dangerously thin as water soaks my green jumper. "Granger, we should go inside." 

As if finally noticing my presence, she turns her wide brown eyes on me, an expression of abject heartbreak twisting her features. "I can't." 

"Why? What are you hoping to accomplish? Catching a bloody chest cold?" I gesture at the bleak scenery around us. "This is hardly the sort of weather appropriate for fire and destruction." 

She shifts her gaze, ostensibly to look back at her ruined garden. "It's not my fault."

"No, it's not. But it will become your problem." I reach my hand out. "Inside, Granger."

It works, although she forgoes my offering to instead stalk past me back into the house. I drop my arm and follow suit. We meet in the living room, a small puddle of rainwater collecting at our feet. She vanishes it away without a glance, chewing aggressively at her fingers. 

"They've found the Diadem." 

"Ahhh. I see." 

Her ire, bereft of dishware and shrubbery, turns on me. "Let's hear it, then. Let's hear your scathing, horrible opinion!" 

I scowl. "Bit presumptuous there, aren't you? I haven't even said anything." 

"But you want to."

"Why say aloud all the ugly shit you're already thinking? I promise you there is nothing I can say that will be worse than the words held on the tip of your tongue."

She glares at me, but stays silent. 

"They're your friends, Granger, not mine. I've never cared for them, so of course I'm willing to verbally assault them," I say. "But that's pointless. I already know they fucking suck. It's you that has to come to terms with that." 

"I—" 

"Don't bother with the excuses, it's too late for them." I look pointedly at the shards of porcelain decorating the house around us. "You're angry. Stop pretending you're not." 

Her mouth twists into the approximation of a sneer but it falls short due to the tears in her eyes. "I just—I don't understand why I'm still being punished," she finally confesses. 

"Have you considered asking them? I know they're as dense as a bucket of rocks but Potter and pals have never shied away from a good self-righteous justification." 

"But then they'd know—" 

"Know what? That you're falling the fuck apart? Granger, they seem to think you're bloody thriving here. Aside from me, no one else alive has a clue about how fucking miserable you are. Tell them." 

"I can't—" 

"Yes, you can, because this," once more I gesture to the destruction she's wrought, "is not sustainable." The whisper of a hiss echoes through the room. "I know a thing or two about denial. Trust me, it's not going to end the way you want." 

She wraps her arms around herself, trembling and all the soft parts of me demand to reach out. I don't move. 

"I'm supposed to be perfect. I'm supposed to have every answer to every question, have a solution to every problem. I—I'm supposed to be solid, reliable. It's my—my purpose. It's my job," she says. 

"I may not be all that familiar with it but last time I checked, friendship isn't a bloody job." 

There is something profoundly deliberate in the way she looks at me, as if I've done something miraculous. It makes me uncomfortable, anxious at the burden of her gratitude. "When did you get so wise?" 

I sniff. "I've always been clever. You just never bothered to listen to me when I said so." 

Because I know her now, in a way that I've never known anyone else, I am certain she wishes to hug me. I cannot initiate it, lest my stranglehold over my self-control snaps and I tumble headfirst into dangerous, uncharted waters. I am barely afloat in the sea of our colliding and, should I drift any further out, I'll be totally beyond salvation. 

"You talk so much it's hard to figure out what's actually worth listening to," she replies. Her entire body fidgets with the want to reach out, but I know she plays it safe for far less…illustrious reasons than I. Where I am but a humble weed in the face of the sun, she is a cat, treading carefully through shifting sands. One wrong step and the entire fragile dune collapses. 

Despite our lackluster attempts at brevity, the sour mood remains. "I'm serious, Granger." 

"I know." Her drying charm washes over us in a wave. "I'll talk to—to Harry, when they get back." 

I nod. "Good." 

She steps towards the stairs but lingers. "Thank you, Malfoy. Again. I owe you." 

"I take payment in the form of chocolate frogs and firewhiskey."

"I'll remember that." 

"I'm sure you will." 

In an effort to continue fending off Nagini, I've taken to suffering through nightly trips down traumatic memory lane. Once dinner is done and we've retired upstairs, I wait until Granger takes her requisite evening shower to deliberately fall apart. I started out small, pulling the rotting lids off boxes of mildly uncomfortable memories and letting the full weight of them rush over me. It's exhausting, even when the trauma is comparatively minor, but it goes a very long way to keeping that hissing fucking demon at bay. 

Unfortunately, I've burned through the easiest ones and all that remains are the bloody, bulging boxes buried very, very deep. I'm ultimately searching for that lost month, regardless of the rot therein. Logically it is the root of my mercurial madness. There is a chance that the missing time has been utterly excised from my mind but that would mean that someone else was involved and that possibility leaves me sick. 

It's arduous, horrid work but I'm bereft of anything else to do with my alone time. Especially with my body's inclination toward the perverse as of late, keeping busy is for the best. I have privately admitted my regretful want of Granger but I cannot keep indulging in it. There is only ruin waiting for me at the end of the line and even though he was arrogant and reactionary, Potter's parting words continue to plague me. 

He spoke of love as if that is the too-bright, visceral thing I’ve let fester in my chest. A childish notion, but he is a child masquerading at conviction and is pitiful enough to actually believe in something as banal as love.

Love is a lie people tell themselves to justify all the ways they use and are used by one another. My mother loved my father and thus, her loyalty to him as he begot loyalty to the Dark Lord was understandable. My father loved my mother and thus, his heinous sycophant tendencies to please an evil maniac were justified. My parents loved me and thus, there was nothing they weren’t willing to sacrifice to keep me safe. Nothing, of course, except for their wretched legacy. In the end we’re all selfish creatures, all reaching out into the black to sink our claws into whatever foolish thing rushes by. Love is but another tool we can wield to harm, we’ve just learned to gild it with purple prose.

And love is not what I feel for Hermione Granger, not by a longshot.

"Your birthday is tomorrow." 

"So it is. Thank you for the unwanted reminder."

Granger grins at me. "I've got your copy of Hogwarts: A History all wrapped up." 

"Oh goody." 

"Is there anything in particular you'd like to do?" 

I stop stirring the pot of pasta sauce that she's asked me to babysit and stare at her. "Like what? A cheeky little jaunt down to the beach? Hardly burdened with choice here, Granger." 

"Well we have to do something." 

"We really don't." 

The scent of imitation strawberry overwhelms me as she shuffles past to drain the noodles. "I, for one, think it would be a nice distraction. It's been ages since there's been something to properly celebrate." 

I can't help but laugh. "And my birthday qualifies as such?" 

"Of course it does! It signifies another year still here, still alive. Especially with the state of things being what they are, it's an accomplishment."

"I'd hardly call the last twelve months worthy of celebrating. Losing a hand tends to really put a damper on things." 

She glances down at the baggy sleeve of my left arm. "Once this is all over, I think I have an idea of how to fix that." 

"You can't fix it, Granger. It's just another certainty, like Potter's self-righteousness or your swotty attitude."

"It doesn't have to be, though," she says. "And don't call me a swot." 

"I told you, I won't be subjected to whatever fucked up magic that created Pettigrew's ghost hand," I say back. "And stop acting like a swot if you don't wanna be called one." 

"There is more to limb regrowth than just whatever cursed spell Tom performed. I've been reading—" 

"Of course you have." 

"—and the magic is there. I'm sure that, given time, I can manipulate Skele-gro into something capable of restoring your hand." 

"Save your guilty conscience, it does me no fucking good." 

We stand side by side, her hands frozen as they tilt the spaghetti into the waiting sauce pan. "Malfoy, I just want to help. Is that so bad?" 

"I don't recall asking." 

"Do you really want me to stop?" 

"Would you even listen?" I snap. Her mouth opens and closes a few times and I hold steady the heavy look I'm giving her. 

"If you—if you wanted me to, yes. I'd stop," she finally says. "Even though I'd think it was the wrong choice, I'd respect it." 

"Good." 

"Do… do you want me to stop?" 

I look back down at the saucepan I'm struggling to hold with my remaining hand. "I don't know," I reply. "Sometimes I think I deserve this. It's retribution for all the fucked up shit I did." 

"Malfoy—" 

"You can't say I'm blameless in all this, Granger."

"You hardly caused this war. Don't be ridiculous." 

"But I did help it along. If I'd just gone to… if I'd just asked for help…" My voice cracks. 

'you poison the well you wither the vine you spoil everything, spoiled boy ' 

Granger sets the pot down and places her hand on my arm. It's so warm, so fucking heavy. "You can't change the past. Regret won't make this any easier to survive." 

"Maybe… maybe I don't—" 

"Stop it. Don't you dare finish that thought," she chides and the insistence of her gaze traps me. "You made a choice, okay? You already went through this. The past is immutable, regardless of what that little voice in your head is telling you."

For a moment I'm sure she's somehow aware of the phantom, fading snake that struggles to wind itself around my legs but that's impossible. Granger is right on the mark, even when she shoots blindly into the dark. 

"Your optimism is exhausting," I say with a slight smile. 

"We can't all be dour Debbie downers."

"Stupid bloody muggle phrases."

We finish preparing dinner without any further displays of disgusting honesty on my part. Granger keeps glancing at me, however, and there is something hidden in her expression that I cannot draw out. 

I awake to the scent of blood sausages and fried eggs. It's carried up from the kitchen on a morning sea breeze and jolts me suddenly from sleep. At first it feels like another hallucination, perhaps Nagini is trying a different approach but the distinct static hiss that follows her arrival is absent. Cautiously curious, I dress as quickly as my single hand allows and make my way downstairs. 

Waiting for me in the kitchen is a veritable fucking breakfast feast. Granger is at the counter, pouring what appears to be freshly fucking squeezed orange juice into a glass. When she turns around to find me staring, slack-jawed and bewildered in the doorway, she lets out a small squeak. 

"Oh! You're awake! I was hoping to have everything finished before then." She is a mess, covered in sweat from cooking and there is a smudge of something on her cheek but her brown eyes are so, so bright. 

"What…" 

"Happy birthday!" She sweeps dramatically at the buffet of food on the kitchen table. "I didn't know what you'd want for breakfast so I just kind of made a bit of everything. Truthfully, there's not enough of any one thing to make a meal so this is probably for the best."

“Granger…” Her genuine kindness pushes me to the breaking point and I struggle to stay adrift. “Where have you been hiding all this? Do you mean to tell me we could have been eating fresh melon this entire time?” 

"I—I've been keeping a lot of it in stasis for a few years now. I was just waiting, I guess, for uh, for something to celebrate? Most of it is just small portions of food I was able to squirrel away into my extended bag. All of it was raw, of course. Cooked food never keeps well under magical conditions. It's all safe to eat, I promise! We don't have any bacon, unfortunately. I do have three blood sausages, two cans of beans, and I just went ahead and made the bread from scratch because I'm not sure—"

"Granger," I cut her off. "I—this is ridiculous. You didn't have to…do all of this."

"It's your birthday, Malfoy. We have to celebrate it." There is a whisper of desperation in her voice that tells me this is just as much for her as it is for me. 

"Alright." I drop into my usual seat. "No pumpkin juice? Twelve points from Gryffindor." 

She beams at me and my stupid fucking heart nearly beats out of my chest. She is lighter than I’ve ever seen her and I have to glance at the kettle because to look at her in this moment is to stare boldly into the sun. 

"Here's your orange juice, you git." 

I take the glass from her outstretched hand and when our fingers brush I make no fucking reaction whatsoever. 

Breakfast is a brilliant affair. Even her generally chaotic cooking skill seems to bend to the will of her wanting to do something kind. More and more the time we spend together pushes the ugly reality of the war from the forefront of my mind. It's been frighteningly easy to forget, willful or otherwise, that the world as we know it is in violent turmoil. There is a magnetism to her that pulls at the weakest parts of me, relentless and determined. I'm fucking drowning. 

Once our plates are cleared, I stand to help her but she stops me. "Go upstairs and get changed." 

I glance down at my usual too large jumper and ill fitting trousers. "Into what? You're seeing the breadth of my wardrobe here." 

"Put on some sensible shoes." 

"My hideous yellow boots, you mean?" 

"Obviously."

"What, pray tell, am I getting ready for?" I ask. 

“It’s a surprise, you prat.”

“I hate surprises.”

She snorts. “That is a lie and you know it. You love surprises, you just hate being made to wait.” Her read of my character is uncomfortably accurate and I struggle to step back from the ledge once more. 

"That's a perfectly normal response, you know." 

Granger looks at me from over her shoulder. "Will you just go get your stupid boots?" 

My only response is to sneer and trudge upstairs to do as instructed. Once in the privacy of my room, however, my resolve wavers and I fall ungracefully onto my unmade bed. I'm not a stupid man, for all that it's worth, and I know that Granger has come to care for me. Her heart bleeds for every single broken thing and I am just another bruised charity case in a long line of good-hearted attempts on the part of the Golden Girl to make the world a better place. Normally the pity alone would make me furious but I’m so fucking starved for attention I cannot bear to turn her away. It’s pathetic, but everything I’ve ever known, every belief I’ve ever had, has led me to nothing but absolute suffering so in the face of all the trauma, I’ll settle for feeling pathetic. It’s not as if it’ll matter in the long run. 

In addition to her incessant need to fix the wrongs of the world, to uplift the downtrodden as it were, Granger is still only human and loneliness plagues her just as relentlessly as it does me. There is a void in her life and right now, I’m the only one able to fill it. She needs me in that base, banal way because I am here when everyone else is not. It’s not so much an opinion as a matter of brutal fact. It hurts to accept, but running away has never done me any favors and I’d rather accept the temporary balm of her friendship than suffer the delusion that it is anything but.

I know, in that cruel and honest way, that this seed of affection I’ve cultivated in my heart will only leave me scorned in the end, but I cannot kill it. I’ve destroyed so much of myself in the name of warped self-preservation, it feels borderline obscene to set fire to the only genuine thing I’ve got left. Potter’s words ring true, for however skewed they were, and Granger’s inevitable departure from my life is coming, as sure as the bloody tide. And yet, it doesn’t make me care for her any less. Were it something as useless as love, perhaps I could make the pragmatic choice. I’ve never been lucky, though, and that’s not about to change now.

When I finally head downstairs, I find her standing at the front door, wrapped in her heavy winter coat despite the moderate albeit balmy early June weather. Another smile, brilliant and open, lights up her face when I reappear and the grip upon my control suffers another slip. “Ready?” 

“Seeing as I’ve no bloody idea what it is that we’re doing, sure.”

“Brilliant.”

She leads us out into the overgrown front yard, towards the gate. It’s set in an ancient, decrepit wall of stone covered in lichen and pitted with salt. I wonder at the person who spent time building it, wonder if they were Muggle or not, and my musings distract me from her surprise. Granger leans down and grabs an old broom that’s propped up against the rock and holds it out to me. “Here.”

“My surprise is yard work?”

“No, you git. It’s the broom.”

“Is this your way of telling me I need to do more around the house?”

“You are so thick sometimes.” With a roll of her eyes, Granger reaches out and grabs my hand, wrapping it around the broom handle. At first I think the jolt that runs through me is due to our skin contact but the hum persists even as her fingers drop away. I stare down at the broom in abject wonder. 

“Is this―” 

“Yes, it is.”

“How?”

“Constant vigilance, as Moody always says. It's definitely not my preferred method of escape but he still has me keep a few broomsticks around just in case of an emergency.” She babbles on a little longer but I lose focus. All I can do is stare down at the stick in my hand and try not to fucking cry.

“Granger―” My voice is strained with effort and she frowns.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t…my hand. I can’t.”

“Maybe not alone, not at first, sure, but that’s not the plan anyway.” She reaches for the broomstick and I instinctively pull away. “Don’t be a baby, I’m not going to steal it from you.” She reaches out again and I reluctantly let go. Despite every desire to the contrary, I force myself to look at her. “We’ll ride it together.”

“You―you hate flying.”

She shrugs as if it’s the least important fact in the world. “It’s your birthday.” A surge of madness takes me and I nearly let loose the tide and kiss her. It’s only through sheer power of will and the bitter knowledge that to give in would spell certain doom that I refrain. Something in my expression is wrong, though, and some of the joy slips from her face. “What’s wrong? Do you hate it? We don’t have to, of course. It was just an idea. I know―”

“Please shut up.” I hug her because if I don’t, I’ll do something worse and ruin everything we’ve worked so hard for. Granger slips her arms around me, tucking her head beneath my chin, and I allow myself three full seconds of pure revelry before pushing her away. “Don’t you dare say a word.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” There is something lingering in her eyes, something vague and dangerous. I blink and it's gone. “Shall we?”

I’ve never ridden a broom with another person and, if I had, I’d have probably rejected her gift outright because there is hardly any space for us both and I have to wrap myself around her just to fit. I’m decidedly taller than her and, even with bent knees, she is on her toes to stay upright. My hand hovers awkwardly at her side but, once she finally kicks off and we hover perilously a few inches above the ground, stability is only achieved with me encircling her in my arms. My heart slams in wonton desire against the deliberate cage of my ribs.

She looks back at me over her shoulder. “Ready?”

I nod, terrified of the emotion that I’d betray with words.

“Hold on!” She shouts and we shoot off into the waiting sky. 

The next half hour of my life is bittersweet to the point of cruelty. Despite the stinging wind of the salty sea, the overwhelming scent of her blasted strawberry body wash is the only thing I can smell. It wafts over me everytime the wind buffets her rapidly expanding plait in my face, leaving me breathless. With every torrent of air, she shrieks and her body shifts beneath me. It’s ill advised, but so is the entirety of my fucking life at this point, and so whenever she moves, I use it as an excuse to press her tighter to my chest. She mustn’t notice because she makes no effort to pull away. If I bury my face in the welcoming nest of her hair well, that’s merely a side-effect of the ride.

We’re soaring along the coast, weaving out over the sea whenever the wind desires. Sea foam sprays up at us with every crashing wave, soaking the bottom of our trousers. I am freezing, if with the warming charms she's cast upon us, but it stings the way it used to. There was a time in my life where I only truly felt alive on a broom, high up among the shifting clouds. Quidditch was almost a means to an end in the beginning, just an excuse to take my broom as fast and as far as I possibly could. I’ve missed the bite of afternoon winds on my cheeks, the feel of the cold blowing through my hair. There is this wild sense of abandon that takes me then, as it did everytime before and I throw my head back and scream. Without hesitation, Granger screams too. 

Eventually the trip comes to an end and Granger carries us in-land to set back down. My legs are weak with the effort of clinging tight to the broom and I stumble a bit as we land. She catches me, careful fingers wrapped tight around my forearm and I step back lest she cross a line I cannot break. 

“That—that was brilliant,” I say, still mildly breathless.

She slips the broom into that cheeky little bag of hers and goes about resetting her braid. “It was horrifying and you’re lucky it’s your birthday because I am never doing that again.” She sounds as serious as I’d expect her to, but the twist of her mouth is all joy. 

In order not to stare at her like a fool, I take in the offers of our new surroundings. We’re in a light forest, pressing gently against some kind of meadow farther off. “Where are we?”

“Did you know,” she starts, in lieu of a simple answer, “that Norway is famous for their wild blueberries?”

“Granger, why would I possibly have that information at the ready?”

“They bloom in the summer, as do strawberries, raspberries, and such. You can find them in nearly every corner apparently.” She leads us forward and I diligently follow; a mirror of our nightly excursions. “I’ve always wanted to try one.”

“A blueberry?”

“A wild blueberry.”

“Aren’t all blueberries wild?”

She shoots me an exasperated look. “You know what I mean.”

“So we’re here to pick fruit?”

“God, you make it sound like such a chore.”

“To be fair, that is literally a chore.”

The smattering of trees finally gives way fully to the meadow I’d spied in the distance. Before me lies an ocean of foraging, bushes filled to bursting with all manner of berries. The telltale deep indigo hue of blueberries is everywhere. A shift in the breeze carries with it a veritable perfume of summer fruits. Saliva pools at the back of my mouth.

Granger’s expression is one of smug satisfaction as she hands me a small cloth bag. “We need about two pounds of blueberries for the pie, which is roughly two full sacks.” 

“The pie?”

“Come along.”

She moves through the bushes, caressing whatever plant life she passes as if just the act of touch is enough to bring her joy. I suppose for someone as careless with her physical affection as she, it probably does. Despite her instructions to pick blueberries, I spend the first few minutes stuffing my face with strawberries. It seems I’ve developed a taste for them.

Granger chatters on about fruits and pollination and the dangers of something called pesty sides as we work, slowly and methodically gathering our requisite amount of blueberries. There is a loop on the bag allowing me to hang it from my left arm comfortably while I gather with my right. It’s devoid of stitching, betraying its transfigured nature, and her thoughtful one. My blood thrums restlessly in quiet, persistent response.

Time slips by without notice as I draw her into an argument regarding the annoying characters of her various muggle novels. It’s pleasant, comfortable in its familiarity, and keeps my mind from wandering into dangerous territory. For a time, I wait for the inevitable hiss that still plagues me, but it never comes. 

As the bags fill, the skin of our fingers comes away stained a faded, deep blue. When I allow myself to look at her properly, her lips are the same. I recite the ingredients of Amortentia thrice in my head to stay the course. Eventually we’ve reached our quota and Granger gathers us into the center of the field. 

“We’re going to Apparate back, if that’s alright.”

It’s all that I can do not to stare at her tinted mouth. I wonder if she tastes like—“Sure, fine. Yeah.” 

“Are you alright?”

No. “Yes. Bit of a stomach ache.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well maybe if you hadn’t stuffed yourself with berries that wouldn’t be the case.”

“Don’t mother me, it’s my birthday.”

“Merlin save me,” she mumbles and offers out her arm. I slip mine through and clutch the sack of blueberries for dear fucking life. With a flick of her wrist, I am wrenched by the naval and jettisoned through space and time. 

We arrive back in the kitchen, the cottage just as we’d left it. One of the perks to the Order of the Bellends playing hero in some far off place is a distinct lack of surprise visits. It’s only been a few days, but I could easily and happily get used to it.

“I’m going to go clean and get started with the pie crust.”

“What should I do?” 

“Whatever you’d like, I suppose.”

That’s not really an option so I settle for lesser things. Granger disappears upstairs and, after a brief trip to the downstairs bathroom to get my fucking shit together, I take my usual seat in the living room and carry on halfheartedly with my reread of Wuthering Heights.

She eventually reappears and retreats to the kitchen, ostensibly to bloody bake. My immediate, borderline subconscious reaction is to join her but I am stretched to my absolute fucking limit and force myself to refrain. Reading is safe, distance is even safer. 

And so the afternoon goes.

As the sun sets, the mesmerizing scent of warm blueberry pie fills the cottage but instead of reappearing with the delicious baked treat in question, Granger instead invades my space to play games. Literally.

“Uno? What the good fuck is Uno?”

It’s apparently a muggle card game and I’m terrible at it. Still it makes her happy and that’s enough for me. We play a few rounds but she beats me every time and I grow bored with the humiliation of it all. 

“Where’s the pie?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’ll spoil your dinner. Oop, draw four please!”

I scowl, draw four, and lose the round. 

Dinner arrives and it’s not as opulent as breakfast, but the effort is still obvious and deliberate. She’s made steaks, which I was totally unaware was ever an option, as well as the appropriate sides. It’s borderline delicious, which is objectively the most surprising thing thus far. At least until she finally unveils the pie. It would appear that all the talent she lacks as a chef is made up for in utter abundance in her skills as a baker.

“Well?” she asks, uncharacteristically nervous.

“It’s acceptable,” I say, shoveling forkfuls into my mouth.

She kicks me under the table and laughs. “Prat.”

“Swot.”

Afterwards, with but a sliver of a slice remaining, Granger delivers what I can only assume is her final surprise. With a deft wave of her wand, and only the tiniest bit of flourish, there is a small pop and a bottle of Ogden’s along with two tumblers appears. This time, I don’t bother hiding my near childlike joy. In the four months I’ve been in this miserable cottage, I’ve yet to see even a drop of alcohol. 

“Firewhiskey,” I breathe, with all the reverence of a pious man.

“One glass and that’s it. I won’t have you drinking yourself silly, even on your birthday.”

“Three,” I counter.

“Two.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Granger. But fine.” 

She fills our glasses. “Cheers to twenty-one.” We toast and I revel in the sweet burn of firewhiskey as it slides down my throat. It’s all I can do not to chug the entire thing.

Granger sputters and coughs, bemoaning the ‘vile liquid’, and it brings another smile to my face. “If you don’t want yours, I’ll finish it.”

“Shut it, Malfoy.” She takes another sip and grimaces. “Let’s go sit outside.”

“Why? It’s raining and miserable out there.”

“Exactly. It’s perfect weather for drinking Firewhiskey and staring pensively off into the ocean.” It’s sound logic, truthfully, and so I follow her out onto the rotted wooden porch and do just that. A cleverly cast warming charm keeps the worst of the wind at bay and we sit in companionable silence.

For a time, there is nothing but the writhing sea and the relentless rain and the beautiful warmth that the Firewhisky weaves through my aching limbs. It’s peaceful, and nice, and the persistent guilt that I wrestle with begins to rear its ugly, slithering head. 

“You didn’t have to do all this, Granger.”

“I don’t have to do anything. I wanted to do this.”

“But why?” I ask. “What is the point of all—”

“Not tonight, Malfoy. No.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t you dare ruin this exceptionally wonderful day with your incessant need to tear down even the smallest act of kindness.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Let’s play a game.” Granger is in rare form tonight. It might be the liquor, but if her behavior throughout the whole day is any indication, it’s probably not. Regardless, she’s offered me an out and I take it. The last thing I can bring myself to do is yell at her now.

“I told you, I’m not playing that bloody card game again. It’s stupid and I hate it.”

“You’re such a child.”

I gasp. “It’s my birthday, you can’t―”

“I can. And anyway, I’m not talking about Uno, although you really are absolutely dreadful at it, you know that?”

“I’m going inside.” I start to stand up and she yanks me back down by the hem of my sweater. 

“Don’t pout, it’s uncouth.”

“I see now why you don’t drink.” To that, she downs the remainder of her Firewhiskey and nearly gags. “You look ridiculous.”

“ Anyway,” she emphasizes, “let’s play a game. I’ll ask you a question and if you don’t want to answer, you drink. You ask me a question, and if I don’t want to answer, I’ll drink. The first one to empty their cup loses.”

I glance at her tumbler. “Looks like you’ve already lost.” Granger scowls at me and grabs the Ogden’s from its hiding place beneath the bench to refill our glasses. “What does the winner get?”

“The loser has to answer the final question, no matter what.” She takes a steadying breath. “I’ll go first: do you still think less of me because I’m a mudblood?” 

I choke on the sip I was taking and the alcohol eats at my tongue. “For fuck’s sake, Granger, not even a warm up round?”

“I’ve only got the one drink left. Figured I’d make it count.” She doesn’t look at me and I wonder if it’s because she’s afraid of what I’ll say.

“No, I don’t think that.” Her rigid posture loosens somewhat, and she slumps her shoulder into mine.

“So you no longer believe in all that blood purity nonsense?”

“That’s two questions,” I counter, earning me another scowl. “My turn. Why’d you spend so many nights crying in the shower?”

She turns to look at me so quickly, her mess of hair hits me in the face. “How do you know about that?”

“That’s not an answer, Granger.”

“Because it’s private.”

“But why?”

“That’s two questions.”

I huff into my rapidly emptying glass. “This game is shit.”

“How do you know about it?” I am so tempted to drink instead of answer that I go so far as to bring the glass to my lips. Her eyes go wide with shock and I smirk.

“I share a wall with the bathroom, Granger, use your head.” 

“So you listen when―”

“How come you never slept with Weasley?” To my genuine disappointment, she drinks. “Coward,” I goad in an attempt to force her to answer.

“Do you really listen in on me while I’m taking a shower?” Because I’m a stubborn, difficult man, I take a drink. “That’s creepy and I hate you.”

“Is it because you don’t love him?”

“Why do you care?”

“It’s not your turn, is it?” 

Granger swears under her breath and takes another drink. 

“Where’s that infamous Gryffindor courage I’ve heard oh so much about?”

“Why do you care about my sex life or lack there of?”

I drink, because even if I wasn’t trying to be cheeky, I’m nowhere near drunk enough to actually answer that question. “Have you ever even had sex?” The way she turns red almost immediately tells me everything I need to know and I laugh, more out of genuine shock than anything else. 

“Have you?” She counters and I drink, even though the blush that creeps up my neck is just as telling. “Oh my gods, you haven’t!”

“Fuck off. Hardly time for sins of the flesh with a madman living under my roof.” And just like that, my stupid fucking mention of the bloody war kills the warmth of levity between us. Granger frowns at her drink and I try not to down mine in one go. “Sorry,” I lamely apologize.

“It’s your turn,” she finally says.

It might be the firewhiskey or perhaps my innate need to break everything I touch, but either way, in for a penny, in for a pound. “Who did Moody make you kill?”

She inhales sharply and I wait, fully expecting her to either drink or cry or scream obscenities at me. Instead, she responds, “Ernie Macmillan.”

“The—the Hufflepuff? Why?”

“His mother had been captured by Death Eaters and Ernie was being blackmailed into leaking sensitive information to them. It got three Order members killed. Moody couldn’t tell for sure if he’d been compromised beyond that, couldn’t tell if he’d been Imperiused but just the act of betrayal was enough. Initially, Moody wanted Ron to do it but I knew something like that would—no. It had to be me. And it was.” Her voice is flat, monotone, as if speaking through rote memorization. “Moody didn’t want anyone to know. It would only further the harm done to the Order’s morale. Harry especially. He takes everything on—he carries the weight of every loss. I couldn’t bear to add another.”

I stare at her. “Granger—I—fucking hell—”

“That was two questions,” she says and takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “It’s only fair that I get to ask you two.”

“A—alright.”

“Do you really not remember any of December?”

In the distance, in between the break of the waves, there is a hiss. “No.”

“Have you tried?”

“For the past two weeks. It’s pointless I—I think the memories were removed. Deliberately.”

“By who?”

“If I’m lucky, Snape. If I’m being realistic I…I don’t know. Bellatrix, perhaps.” I take a drink, swallowing the remainder of the firewhiskey inside. “That was three.”

“Technically, you’ve lost.”

It takes significant effort not to bury the rush of quiet panic building within me. “So it would seem. Cheers, Granger. Bloody good show.”

She doesn’t look particularly cheerful, but neither do I, and so we sit in the haunting memories of the past and watch the ocean fling itself violently, ceaselessly, forward. 

“Would you come upstairs with me?” she asks, an indeterminate amount of time later. 

The alcohol has had time to settle in my blood, leaving me just a hair shy of recklessness. “I know it’s my birthday, Granger, but honestly, that’s a little extreme don’t you think?”

She turns every shade of red. “Oh I’m not—I wasn’t—that’s not—no! I wasn’t implying that—that—I have a gift for you.”

I raise a single eyebrow.

“Not like that! An actual gift. An item, an object.” 

“You can keep your spare copy of Hogwarts: A History, I’m sure mine is still rotting away beneath my bed.”

“That’s not what your gift is.”

“You’re being awfully mysterious, you know.”

“That’s the nature of a surprise.” She stands, taking our empty glasses. “Come on.”

As she sets the tumblers down in the sink, it occurs to me that it’s been nearly a fortnight since I’ve heard her lugging her small collection of empty potion vials around at night when she thinks I’m asleep. “You’ve stopped taking pain potions.”

She falters, stopping in the hallway. “You—you can’t drink and take pain potions.”

“But, I haven’t—it’s been ages since you’ve—how long have you been planning this?”

“This way,” she barrels through my sputtering and I am gracious enough to let it go. 

Granger leads us to her bedroom and even though logically I know there is nothing untoward about to happen, my pulse quickens all the same. Her room is a mess. There are clothes everywhere, most of them thrown haphazardly into piles. Loose pieces of parchment and open books litter every available surface. The torchlight is barely lit, but its absence is hardly noticed with the glow of moonlight illuminating the space. Her ugly, drab curtains are thrown wide and I quietly mark that I was very right and her view is substantially nicer than my own. A bed, half covered in clutter, takes up the bulk of the room and Granger takes an ungraceful seat in the center. She pats the spot next to her and, cautiously, I sit.

 “Cheeky little game you’ve played, isn’t it? Plying me with pie and firewhiskey, drawing out all my deepest, darkest secrets. I’m onto you, you know.”

“It’s not my fault you categorically refuse to let me in.”

“So you devised a dreadful little game to get around that?”

A coy smile curls the edges of her mouth. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“What were you even hoping to learn?”

“Whether or not you still hated me.”

It’s a gut punch, even though I’ve been quietly living with the anticipation of it. “Granger it’s been months, you couldn’t possibly think that’s true.”

She shrugs self-consciously and stares out the window. “At the end of the day, you’re stuck with me until this war ends, however it ends. It’d make sense for you to play pretend in order to keep the peace. It’s not as if there's any love lost between us, not after our time at Hogwarts.”

“But this isn’t Hogwarts.”

“No,” she whispers, “it’s not.”

“What—”

“Here.” Quickly, she reaches into her nightstand drawer to pull something out. Even in the lowlight, I recognize it immediately. 

“My wand.”

“I had Harry pass on a message to Moody the last time I saw him. I―after getting attacked―I know you say you’re a prisoner here but you aren’t. I don’t care about―about whatever the fallout may be. If you want to leave, you can leave.” She can’t even look at me as she thrusts it in my direction. 

I grab it instinctively and it's like coming home. For the first time in months, I feel something snap into place deep within my bones and, as magic licks at the blood in my veins, I am as close to whole as I’ve ever been. I reach out my left hand to take it and cast anything― everything―and as fingers I no longer possess try to curl around the faded, familiar hawthorn, it’s as if I am doused in ice water. “I can’t even fucking use it.”

Granger finally turns to face me but I’m glaring down at the space where my hand is supposed to be. “You can learn.”

Anger, righteous and violent and consuming, fills me like a threatening tide and I shake with emotion. I am so furious at myself, at her, at my mother and father, at every single person and thing and stupid fucking choice that lead me to this breaking point. I can barely contain the fury boiling beneath my skin. “Is this a fucking joke?”

“What? No, of course—”

“Fuck you, Hermione.” I stand up and throw the wretched wand at her. It bounces off her chest, onto the bed. “That’s not a gift, it’s—it’s a cruel joke. I don’t need anymore fucking reminders of how useless I am now. This is―how could you?” My voice breaks, and something horrible burns within me.

She jumps to her feet and I step back. “Draco I wasn’t—I would never try to hurt you like that. Please believe me.”

I want to scream at her, berate her for what she’s done but there is a stinging behind my eyes and the lump in my throat rises until I sob and, despite it all, when she reaches for me, I don’t stop her. Her arms wrap themselves around my shoulders and I bury myself in her neck, crying like a child in the dark. She is warm and solid and doesn’t breathe a word of placation as I break down. Instead, she runs her fingers down the back of my jumper and holds me for all I’m worth. I cannot remember the last time I’ve done this, if I’ve ever done it at all. Every ounce of suppressed misery comes pouring out of me like seawater and it’s all I can do to keep from wailing. The tattered remains of my once infamous pride are washed away with the tide of my grief. 

Worse still is the bitter knowledge that she’s done nothing wrong. My fury and abject agony is wholly misplaced at her feet but I’m bereft of anyone and anything else to blame. She doesn’t deserve it but in this moment, I am too undone to speak. To rectify whatever precious thing I may have broken.

At some point, she guides me back over to the bed and sits me down, never once letting go. I want to pull away, to detangle myself from her and this life we’ve woven for ourselves but I can’t. I’m a weak willed, selfish husk of a person and the time for such an excision is long gone. I’m hers now, in whatever twisted way she’ll have me. There is little left within the cage of my broken body that I’ve left to give but I’ve offered it to her all the same. This war has ruined me, utterly, in every conceivable way, but like she says, I made a choice, and so instead of oblivion, I choose to sob violently into her neck. A lifetime of ill begotten favors are worthless in comparison to the all encompassing relief that accompanies the way I break down in her arms.

“Breathe, Draco.”

 I can hear her clearly over the rasp of my wailing and I sink further into her because if I don’t, I’ll drown. There are tears staining the fabric of her yellow jumper and all I can think about is how fucked my life is. How twisted and ironic an existence I’ve fallen into and how, no matter what, I’ll always be who I’ve always been and shatter whatever fragile thing anyone is foolish enough to put in my hands. Every ugly thing I’ve ever done and every ugly thing that’s ever been done to me is suddenly crushing me and, in a detached sort of way, I’m almost a little impressed at how long it took me to lose my mind. 

Gravity insists and I let the weight of my sins carry us down until we are face to face, side by side. I stop crying and Granger stares at me, and there is only the gentle glow of moonlight illuminating the room. Just enough that I can see that her face is an open wound of emotion, all of which are too tangled to separate and categorize. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers like this horrific display of abject misery is anything other than the culmination of my own sad, ugly life.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I confess. My voice is hoarse and my throat aches. “I can’t do this.”

“You don’t even know what ‘this’ is yet. You’ve got time now to decide for yourself what you want your future to look like.”

“I don’t deserve time, not after everything.”

“I’ve told you, you have to stop tearing yourself apart. How do you expect to grow if you rip up every root you put down?”

I drag my left arm up and settle it between us. “I didn’t ask for this.”

The guilt on her face is terrible. I want to kiss it away, as if that’d help. As if she’d ever ask for so foolish a thing. “I know and I’m sorry for what you’ve lost but you can’t undo it now. What’s done is done.”

I stare down at the space my left hand used to occupy and stay quiet, struggling to string the right words together in the right order. “What if it doesn’t work? What if I can’t―” My voice breaks all over again.

“You won’t know until you try, Draco.” She’s right and I hate it. Hate the persistent, ceaseless optimism she never bothers to use on herself.

There is nothing else to say, because I’ve sobbed it all out already. I’m void of complex thought and the tiredness that coils around me is bone-deep. Against my better judgment, my eyes close. Granger’s fingers reach out and brush the tips of my own. She’s asking and I’m fairly certain that, for the rest of forever, I’ll be incapable of telling her no. I capture her hand in my own, and let the solid contact center me, ground me in the now lest my ragged emotions swallow me whole. Time passes and I wait patiently for Granger to let go. I can’t do it because I’ve given away enough tonight but, if her lack of action is anything to go by, it appears like she cannot either. Her bed is lumpy―almost worse than mine―and there is a cramp in my neck from how I’ve bent myself to fit beside her. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so vulnerable in my life and, because it’s my birthday and no one ever taught me to quit while I was ahead, I allow myself to fall asleep. 

It’s the best birthday I’ve ever had.

In the morning, she’s gone and there is a glass of water on her nightstand. Lying next to the cup is my wand and a note.

Try

Chapter Text

Desire is a strange thing. My wealth of ambition and drive is nothing new to me. Tenacious, precocious, swotty, these are all synonymous traits that have been attributed to me time and again. I am familiar with my relentless pursuit of knowledge and my unyielding conviction that things that are broken should be fixed. And by that logic, I’ve always assumed that desire would be just another window dressing for that same core belief. Merlin save me, I was so wrong.

It’s like nothing I’ve known before. I thought I loved Ron, once upon a time, but I know now it was but a schoolyard crush. Something clumsy, juvenile, endearing in a way that most firsts tend to be. Like a child, learning to ride a bike. I think back to the way my cheeks used to flush whenever Ron would haphazardly throw an arm around me, and it all seems so…simple now. Innocent. I could function, despite the small ember of feelings I harbored. They were an addition, an afterthought. 

And Malfoy is everything but.

As we lay there that night, I stole the rare chance to memorize the angles of his face. Seer into permeation the breadth of his jaw, the slight downward slant of his mouth. The sleepless bruising around his eyes, the way the light catches against the pale expanse of his skin. I sought to memorialize him, in as perfect detail as I imperfectly could, because the looming dawn felt like an ending. I’d given him his out, protocol and the war effort be damned, and Malfoy is a creature warped to survive. He’d never disregard it, never not take the chance to run, and if I am honest with myself in the solitude of my thoughts, that was the hardest truth to overcome. The wand is his, his freedom is his, and I am sure he’ll be gone the moment he masters the most simple of spells.

My heart lurches at the thought of him leaving, but I cannot keep him trapped. He’s a person, not a pawn, and with the Diadem so close at hand, I’ll weather Moody’s ire to give Malfoy a chance at peace. I don’t care about karmic obligations, this isn’t some attempt to return to him whatever I think the war has stolen. It’s just a gift, a thank you, for all that he’s done for me these last six months. And I’m selfish, I always have been, even when I’m in the pursuit of something grander and more important than myself. There is, at my core, a need to be seen, to be perfect, to be right and I am right about Malfoy. Utterly. I want him to have his freedom because it’s what I think is right. That’s all the justification I need. I let Harry and the others think it was for practical reasons, for security. There is merit to that, sure, but all good lies have a grain of truth. Plus, it's a far easier pill to swallow than the sudden knowledge that I’ve come to desire, wholly and without end, someone they all hate without provocation. 

If I allow myself the space to breathe, there is another word, four letters arranged in a single syllable, that would fit far better the ache within me, but that's a dangerous game. One that ends with more heartbreak than I am physically capable of withstanding. So I settle on desire, and it’s strange, consuming nature. It’s the lesser of two non-evils. 

When I was sure he was asleep, when the cadence of his breath was slow and deep, I brought his hand to my face and pushed his fingers to my cheek. I stole the affection, the gentle pressure of his skin against mine, and although I feel guilty, I do not regret it. I’d do it again, without question, because that moment of theft is all I have. My lips are feather light on his palm and gone within a heartbeat. I’d rather smother him with the weight of my affections, but there is no world where he would ever want that. I’m not the right shape, the right person, the right fit. He may not hate me, but I am sure he’ll never love me.

So that stolen moment is for me, and me alone.

He doesn’t leave. I know he’s practicing, I can hear him attempting various simple spells behind the safety of his closed bedroom door. It’s been three days, and he’s avoided me for most of them. It’s difficult, but I accept it. I have to. It’s a hell of my own making.

When he trudges down to eat on the evening of the third day, I am fully expecting another silent, terse meal. Aside from base necessities, he’s yet to say a full sentence to me. I cannot tell if it is because he is angry or hurt or simply no longer of the mind to masquerade as my friend. That’s an unfair assumption, but I’ve been more than forgiving when it comes to him and if I wish to wallow in silent pity, then I will.

Unfortunately, it seems like three full days is the limit of my endurance. 

“I’m not sorry,” I break the silence, forcing the words out into the light. 

Malfoy looks impassively at me over his glass. “For?”

“Whatever it is that I’ve apparently done wrong. I know you—I know it’s hard but I don't regret giving you the wand. It was the right thing to do. You deserve—”

“I’m not upset with you.”

“You’ve a funny way of showing it.”

“And here I thought that leaving you alone was the greatest gift I could offer.”

I glare. “Don’t be cheeky.”

“But it’s what I’m best at.”

I glare and scowl.

Malfoy sighs, setting his drink down. “I don’t know what to say to you.”

“About what?”

“About everything. The wand, the flying, the bloody firewhiskey. I just feel like there is no appropriate response I am capable of giving. If I had access to my Gringotts account, maybe—”

“You think I want payment?”

“I don’t know! I’m not good at…this,” he finishes lamely. “I don’t usually give people, well, anything. It's not in my nature.”

“What makes you think I want something? It was a gift, Malfoy, not a business transaction.”

He shrugs. “It feels unfair.”

“It’s a gift,” I repeat.

“It’s everything.” There is something weighted and unsaid in his response, in the deliberate way he looks at me. “And I cannot just accept it without responding in kind.”

“Malfoy—”

“I just can’t figure out what you want that is within my grasp to give.”

I almost ruin it all right then and there. I have to literally bite my tongue to keep from spoiling everything I’ve worked so hard to build. “Y—you don’t—”

“Yes. I do,” he promises. “And I will.”

 It’s been days since he slept beside me but my bedding is still awash in the scent of him. He’d used my favorite pillow that night and now I glare at it from across the expanse of my bed, as if the object has betrayed me. I suppose it has. Either way, it’s the enemy now. All I want is to give in, to pull it to my chest and bury my nose in the scratchy fabric but I can’t. It’s a struggle just to function. Between the waning withdrawals and the way my heart nearly beats out of my chest whenever we make eye-contact, I am held together solely through luck and caffeine. And only furthering my slow sundering is the radio silence from Harry and the others. It feels like an eon since they’ve left and Lupin’s already came by once with supplies and nothing else. I cannot maintain the facade for much longer.

The three vials beneath my bed sing softly into the night and I know at some point, I am going to break.

“Granger, come here.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Oh,” I say, not bothering to look up from my book. “In that case, no.”

“Will you stop being the fucking worst and just come here?”

“Say please.”

“Are you seriously—”

“Manners are important, Malfoy.”

“You do not get to lecture me on the importance of manners. I am several pedigrees removed from your frankly barbaric behavior.”

I tilt my head up at him. He is standing before me, scowling. “I haven’t heard a ‘please’ yet.”

“Oh for the love of—Granger, will you please come here?”

I want to say no, if only because he looks adorable wound up but I refrain. “Of course.” Joining him by the doorway, I grin. “Was that so hard?”

“I am already regretting this.”

“Regretting what?”

In lieu of answering, he turns on heel and marches out the backdoor. His gait is just long enough that I am forced to nearly jog to keep up and the motion makes my hip flare in bright pain. 

“Hey!” I call after him, but he carries on down the porch steps and through the side yard. I am practically hobbling at this point. “Wait up.”

Finally he comes to a stop, just at the tree line. “Do you have your wand?”

“Of course.”

“And your leg?”

“It’s obviously present, Malfoy.”

“How is it?”

“Fine.”

“I can tell when—”

“It hurts, okay? It always hurts.”

He frowns. “Just—just tell me if you need to stop.”

“Stop what? What is going on? Why are you being so cagey and mysterious?”

“Mysteries are the nature of a surprise, just like you said.” He nods his head to the path meandering into the woods. “Come along.”

Knowing his propensity for stubbornness, I follow without comment. We stroll silently along the marked path, side by side. My body wants to limp and, should I feel the need to let it, my hand could brush casually against his own. It feels desperate, though, and utterly pathetic, and so I refrain. It’s a nice day, the cloud coverage is so thin we can almost see the sun, and there is gentle birdsong woven into the breeze. I try to focus on it, and not the man next to me.

Eventually the path slopes downwards, carrying us closer to the cliff-side. It isn’t until the decline becomes severe enough I nearly stumble that our destination dawns on me. “Are we going to the beach?”

“Stop being clever, it’s annoying.”

“Why—”

“Shut up, Granger. Let me do this right.”

I still don’t know what ‘this’ is but hope is something I cannot stomach right now and so I try not to think about it at all. Eventually the ground grows rocky and slick and, as I stumble for a third time, he reaches out and takes my hand, steadying me. His fingers are warm and solid and I spend so long waiting for him to let go, I almost forget to enjoy the feeling of his hand in mine. The trees are long gone, and soon the path winds back to the sea and, as we close the distance to the beach, the view nearly takes my breath away.

The ocean is vast, so very vast, and writhing before us. Its wine dark waters are alight with waves and foam. The horizon is an infinite thing, calling me to a home I no longer have. My trainers sink into the waiting sand and even though I want to run, I don’t. Instead I let Malfoy lead me to this coveted, unknown place. 

We stop, just out of the tide’s reach. The wind is insistent, but quieter than usual. Maybe it just sounds louder from far away, like a thunderstorm or a bad memory. His fingers tug me down and we sit, shoulder to shoulder, at the edge of the world.

“This is…breathtaking,” I say, staring out into the yawning sea.

Malfoy shifts beside me. “It is.”

I glance over at him, but he’s turned away. “You didn’t have…thank you. Thank you for this.”

When he shrugs, I use the movement to press closer to him. “It’s the only thing I could think of.”

“It’s perfect.” 

“You were right.” He says sometime later.

“I always am.”

“Don’t be swotty when I’m trying to be nice, that’s my job.”

I laugh. “My sincerest apologies, then.”

The corner of his mouth tugs upward. “Good.”

“What, in particular, was I right about?”

“The wand. Magic. It’s not…it’s not as hard as I thought,” he says. “I think I’ve gone through most of first year and I can cast most of it.”

I am supposed to be happy and some part of me is, except his success is but a harbinger of my inevitable heartbreak. “Oh really?” I finally manage. 

“Really.”

“That’s brilliant Malfoy, truly.” I ignore the panic and the ache. “I’m proud of you. Not surprised, mind you, but proud all the same.”

“Thank you. I wouldn’t have—you—it never would have happened without you.” He stares at me and I dig my fingernails into my palm to keep from crying. Merlin, I am ruined. When he eventually looks out over the ocean, I drop my head to his shoulder and pray to the gods he doesn’t hate me for it. Instead of shoving me off, his hand finds mine in the sand between us and weaves our fingers together. As the next wave breaks, I swallow a sob.

“Granger, I—I have to tell you something.” His voice wavers and even though I don’t want to, I sit up and look him in the eye. The expression he wears is…I know what he’s going to say. I know and I hate him for it.

“What is it?”

“I—” His gaze traces the lines of my face and I try not to squirm. The anticipation of his confession has me on the most perilous of edges. I need him to just say it, just spit the words out. Tell me he’s leaving and allow me the dignity of trying to cope with him gone in peace.

“What?” I insist.

“I—” His gaze shifts, just for a second, to something behind me but when our eyes meet again, I can see the courage is gone. “It’s Nagini. I have been hallucinating Nagini.”

The shock of the confession burns away the immediate anger I feel at his cowardice.  “You what? What?”

He swallows, suddenly unable to look at me. “She was—she’s been talking to me and—and appearing and—and that’s what’s been going on with—I can’t—”

I place my free hand on his cheek, and turn him back to me. “Malfoy. Breathe.”

“She—I’ve been remembering, though and it—it stops her. It’s fucking hell reliving it all but—she hasn’t been able to—to haunt me.”

“That’s good, though.”

“It—it was but now I can’t practice and—and un-fuck my head at the same time and—and she’s here.”

I follow the line of his sight to the emptiness behind me. “No, she’s not.”

“Granger—”

“She’s not there. You know she’s not, I know she’s not. So don’t listen to whatever poison she’s saying. Listen to me.”

His gray eyes are wide. “I—”

“What do you need? How can I help? Do you want to—to practice magic with me, instead of doing it alone? Would that help?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to tell me another secret?”

“No.” It comes out fast, too quick and ugly. “No. I don’t.”

I recoil but push the hurt from my voice. “Oh—okay. That’s okay. Let’s—let’s practice, then. Alright?”

“Right now?”

“Is she bothering you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then—”

“No! This isn’t supposed to be about me. This entire trip is for you. You. I refuse to fuck this up.”

“You aren’t—”

“Granger, I—”

“What—”

And for one wild, frozen moment, I think he might kiss me. Something magnetic and static pulses in the small space between us and the weight of my heart presses into my throat. My entire body screams to lean forward, to close the divide and touch him but I hold fast, refusing to break. He has to start it, he has to tell me if I can do it. The power dynamic is still too shifted, his heart is still too unknown. I want to, jesus fucking christ I want to, but I can’t. And he doesn’t. And so, we don’t.

Instead, “will you Apparate us back?”

And with shaking hands and stinging eyes, I do.

In the safety of the living room, he pulls me to him and wraps me so tightly in an embrace, the air is pushed from my lungs. I return the gesture, clinging to him like a drowning woman, and bury my face in the crook of his neck. Were I to brew Amortentia, it’d be imitation strawberry and fresh mint and cheap laundry soap and home. It’d be the soft, ephemeral something that floods my senses whenever I am in his arms. I shake, he shakes, and we take too long to let go. 

He presses his lips to the crown of my head, whispers something I cannot hear, and vanishes up the stairs without a passing glance.

I count to thirty, with a heaving chest, and follow. His door is shut but I don’t linger at it. Instead I retreat to the safety of my own bed and there, in a silenced room, I finally break.

The following day, we put on an excellent show of normalcy and I spend several hours walking him through the fundamentals of spell casting. It’s easy to slip into the teacher role and I use the commitment I have to his success as a buffer between us. I’m professional, firm, encouraging. He whines and swears and breaks a teacup but the work is done all the same. It leaves us tired, too tired to dip back into things unsaid, and we bicker about Wuthering Heights over dinner.

It’s a peace, fostered wholly under the sense of self preservation, but it keeps fast and reliable for another two days.

He finally masters the shield spell on a dreary Wednesday afternoon. We’re drinking tea that I’ve prepared in an abjectly uncomfortable silence. The dandelion infusion does little to mask the bitterness of the dittany. Lucky for Malfoy, I’ve spared him the extra ingredient. As time ticks by, my indignation grows, however, and eventually I cave beneath my infamous curiosity.

“Why haven’t you left yet?”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?” He has the audacity to sound sincere.

I drain the last bit of my drink. “The wand, the magic, all of it. Why are you still here?”

“Granger,” he lets the barely repaired teacup clank loudly on the coffee table. “Why would I leave?”

“Because that was the whole point!” I shriek. “I gave you the wand so you could—so you could go! To France or—or anywhere other than here.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want. It’s about what’s right. You don’t have to be—be trapped here, okay? You can go!”

A torrent of emotions flash across his face before his mouth settles into a cold, rigid line. “So you want to get rid of me, is that it?”

“No! Nev—no. I don’t want to get rid of you. You’re not a—a parasite. You’re a person, that’s the whole point. You’ve never been silent about your feelings regarding your—your being imprisoned here and I—I gave you the wand—”

“Do you want me to leave?” is what he says but it's not what he's asking.

“I—no. I just can’t—”

The sudden crack of Apparition and Lupin stands abruptly in the doorway. Malfoy and I jump to our feet, springing apart as if we’d been doing something wrong. It takes me two full seconds to realize that Lupin is not alone. “Hermione, I require your help.”

“Who—”

“Pansy?”

The woman behind Lupin steps into view, the right side of her face an utter ruin of blood and viscera. She’s swaying, and Lupin holds onto her to keep her from falling. 

“She’s been hexed,” he says. “She needs your help.”

I’m unable to look at Malfoy, not that his focus is on anything other than her. We both approach and, as Pansy Parkinson finally faints from what must be truly excruciating pain, all I can think about is how unfortunate it is that I’ve just finished drinking the last pain potion. 

Chapter Text

Pansy stares at me, the right half of her face swathed in pristine white bandages, and I don’t need to see the full length of her mouth to know she’s scowling. “You’re joking.”

“When am I ever joking?” 

“I—” she shakes her head slightly. “I just don’t know…I mean honestly, Draco, what a fucking disaster you’ve made of things.”

I glance down at my left arm, feeling the weight of her own shocked stare. “Thanks for the support, Pans, really appreciate it.”

“How the hell am I supposed to react? You’ve been missing for six months! Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

The wanton arrogance of her tone strikes at me. “How the fuck would you know? You’ve been playing bloody double agent for the sodding Order.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not still around…the others,” she falters, words failing to appropriately describe our former friends and family. “I see Greg and Vincent every now and then. Blaise even responded to a few owls. Quite a shock, that. I didn’t think he’d find the time, what with all the drinking he’s doing down in Spain.”

“I thought he was in Denmark.”

“Six months is a long time, Draco.”

I let a wave of memories from just the last few weeks rush over me. “Yeah, it is.” My fingers tighten around my wand, tucked away in the pocket of my jacket. “Have you seen my—is there any word about my mother?” I struggle to ask.

“No, I’m sorry,” she apologizes, her half–expression uncharacteristically sincere. “The Manor is a fortress, unfortunately, and one that I am not keen to breach. I’ve seen Luci—your father in passing but he uh—we don’t speak.”

A shiver sieges me involuntarily. “Probably for the best.”

Pansy hums and the silence that follows is heavy and awkward. Despite our youthful dalliances, we were never close, not in the way that Granger is with Potter and co. The nature of our upbringing didn’t allow for such relationships. Insular on all fronts, both at home and abroad. Not for the first time I wonder at the luck it’s taken to keep the Pureblood culture alive at all. Still, she’s the person I’ve known the longest and the fact that we don’t absolutely hate each other has to count for something.

“Are you—Merlin—are you alright?” she questions. “Here, I mean. With them.”

I let out a small laugh. “Fuck, I don’t even know how to answer that. Yes? I suppose? I’ve a bed, complete with one shitty pillow. Daily access to the most dreadfully weird books imaginable. Food is provided, although it is severely lacking.” I dance around the most glaringly obvious response and Pansy was always too fucking perceptive for her own good.

“And Granger? How’s that been? I mean, honestly, I cannot even begin to imagine what that harpy is like when she’s without the other two. At least Weasley is alright to look at. And Potter’s got the whole ‘Chosen One’ thing. Gonna save the whole bloody world. But her? Gods, what a—”

“Pans,” I warn even though it only makes the entire situation worse. “Shut up.”

She gives me a critical, accusing look. “Excuse me, what? I’m sorry, it must be the fucking hex I took to the face impacting my hearing because you did not just tell me to stop talking shit about Hermione Granger.”

I shift and look away.

“Draco. Where was our first kiss?”

“I’ve not been Imperiused, Pansy.”

“Answer me.”

“Fucking hell. In your mother’s garden, the summer before second year.”

She lets out a sigh, dramatic and drawn out. “Well small wonders for that at least.”

“Can you just not be a bitch about this?” It’s harsh, but I’m one wrong step from absolute fucking collapse.

“Fuck you,” her tone is venomous. “It’s been six months. Longer, actually. I haven’t properly seen you in over a year.”

“And whose fault is that?”

She recoils. “Excuse me for not wanting to come spend my winter fucking holiday in the Mausoleum of Death you call an ancestral bloody home!”

“So you admit it's your fault, then?” 

“Truly Draco, go fuck yourself. You’re not better than me just because you chose self fucking destruction instead of actually trying to get out. To leave.”

“I did try!” I snarl, shaking my left arm at her violently. “And look where it fucking got me.”

Pansy makes a show of looking around us. “Don’t you act for a second like this is half the hell the manor is. Playing flatmates with Hermione Granger is a few steps above serving muggle hearts to fucking Vold— Tom on a silvered platter!”

“You have no idea what I’ve been through, Pansy. None! So don’t—”

The deliberate sound of someone clearing their throat shuts Pansy down before she can respond. We both look over to see Granger standing there, an actual fucking tray in her hands, with what I can only presume is Pansy’s lunch sat atop it. “It’s not muggle hearts, but I’ve a feeling you’ll settle for cream of mushroom.”

“Hermione Granger, look at you,” Pansy says, oscillating from indignant rage to cold disgust in one smooth motion. “What a sight you are.”

“Yes well, we all can’t take a hex to the face just to spice things up, can we?” Granger retorts without hesitation. “Truly a surprise you can see me at all with just the one working eye. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Pansy is struggling to catch up. “How dare—I did not—for what?!”

“That.” Granger sets the tray down at Pansy’s bedside and points at the bandage. “It was quite the mess but, should you actually follow the regiment I’ve laid out, you’ll make a full recovery with minimal scarring. Even your hair will grow back.” She manages to sound arrogant instead of downright condescending. “So, again, you’re welcome.”

“Good to know you’re still a haughty cunt then.”

“I aim to please,” she deadpans and turns on heel. “Eat the food. I know it’s severely lacking but it’s the best we’ve got.” 

I cringe, picking up on her implication but she leaves before I can even say anything. Probably for the best. What’s not for the best, however, is Pansy’s immediate decision to fill the silence.

“Merlin’s fucking bollocks, she’s still such an absolute bitch. Are you sure you’re not addled, Draco? Truly, how can you even stand to be in the same room as her?”

“You don’t know her.”

Pansy laughs and it’s cruel, familiar, honest. “And you do?”

I shrug, wary of revealing anything to her that’ll just inevitably be used against me. “Six months is a long time.”

“Did you know?” I corner Granger as she heads up for bed that night. It’s the first moment we’ve had alone. Despite the screaming match, I still elected to spend most of the day at Pansy’s side. For all that’s changed between us, she represents something old, something that used to be safe and easy, once upon a time. And now, wrung fully out with my attempts to undo years of trauma while simultaneously relearning magic has left me devoid of the strength necessary not to backslide into the familiar and the mundane. 

Granger tries not to pick herself apart at the fingertips. “Yes and no. When I left, Pansy was someone we were considering reaching out to. Snape had mentioned she was having a particularly hard time dealing with Tom’s visions of the way things should be and could be another potential man on the inside, as it were.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” I also lack the strength to keep the accusation from my words.

“You never asked.” 

She leaves before I can properly formulate a response.

To say things are tense in our little shithole–by–the–sea is a massive fucking understatement. Whenever they’re in the same room together—which is just this side of too bloody often now that Pansy is no longer bedridden—she and Granger go at it like feral alley cats. It never becomes a proper shouting match, but it’s no less bloody for it. I don’t bother to intervene, picking a side just seems like it would make everything worse. Truthfully, I just keep waiting for Lupin to show and whisk Pansy away but as Granger has said several times now, Pansy is to stay with us for the time being.

“Headquarters is too ‘chaotic’ right now to take on another turncoat,” she says. “So Lupin has asked that she be allowed to remain here, at least until Harry and the others return.”

“Asked or insisted?”

“Does the distinction really matter?”

It doesn’t. Especially to Pansy. She parades around the increasingly too–small cottage, moaning and snapping and being an absolute fucking nightmare. “I just don’t fucking understand why I have to stay here, specifically. Surely there is somewhere else.”

“Do you truly think if that were an option, I wouldn’t have Apparated you there myself the very first day?” Granger retorts.

“As if I’d ever let you touch me.”

“You mean, aside from when I saved your life?”

Pansy just makes a rude hand gesture and storms out. I sigh heavily and follow. She feels like my responsibility, like her being here is somehow totally my fault. If I feel like being particularly, brutally self aware though, she mostly just provides an excellent excuse for avoiding the veritable fucking mountain of shit that was building prior to her arrival. It’s a small blessing, but a very appreciated one, that Nagini is still somehow held at bay.

A side–effect of my sticking by Pansy’s side, however, is that it drives a very real, very needed wedge between Granger and I. After the absolute fucking shitshow that was my exceedingly idiotic decision to take her down to the beach, complete with my almost confessing something I cannot even begin to describe to myself, it’s nice to have an excuse to avoid her. Whatever self–control I’d managed to muster up in regard to my useless fucking heart had a tendency to crumble completely the moment Granger so much as fucking looked at me. So yes, Pansy is a nice distraction.

If it bothers Granger, she doesn’t say anything. Not that I truly give her the chance. I eat dinner with Pansy in the living room, while she sits alone upstairs. I feel…in truth I feel horrible about it. Six months we’ve spent perfecting our routine, building a quiet something between us. A friendship, more out of necessity on her part than mine if I, again, choose to be brutally self aware. To say that I liked it is a violent understatement but it doesn’t matter now. Pansy’s indefinite stay has utterly upset our careful balance and, truly, it’s for the best. Now Granger can stop unloading all her pent up heroic tendencies out on me, and I can properly suffocate the brittle thing inside my chest.

It’s better this way, natural. We’ve always been opposing forces, Pansy just did us the favor of shoving us off our inevitable collision course. I should be thankful, really. I’m not, but it’s easy to pretend. Especially when Pansy is so caught up in her own fragile sense of self, she doesn’t bother to look at me to see if I wince whenever she says something wretched and awful to my—to Granger. Granger doesn’t either, but perhaps that’s good as well. She’d just feel guilty or something equally misplaced. I’m no longer broken enough to warrant her fixing and I think she knows it. She keeps her distance all the same.

Pansy sleeps in my room. I give her the bed and elect to take the floor. Not out of kindness or anything as banal as chivalry, but because her whining would be truly unbearable and the kink in my neck is a small price to pay to avoid her childish ire. She doesn’t say thank you, but that was never an expectation to begin with.

I stop practicing magic. Between Pansy’s presence and Granger’s absence, it just feels like a fucking joke. Pansy would only criticize me. It’s not entirely her fault. Our upbringing also did not make for very supportive environments. We were all walking, talking legacies and had to perform as such. Perfect, precise, pristine, pureblood. The thought of Pansy watching me struggle to levitate a sheet of paper is humiliating enough to kill whatever desire I have to continue. Plus, without Granger’s tutelage, I’d be hopeless anyway. Rock and a hard place, as the muggles say.

The entire atmosphere, the very air of every single room, is miserable but it’s an equally shared misery and that makes it bearable. At least to me, at least from the outside.

“Is this really all there is to do?” Pansy asks, not for the first or even the fourth time.

I go to respond but Granger slams her pen down on her desk before I can even open my mouth.

“We are not on holiday, we are not here to have fun. We are at war. This is not a—a vacation home! It’s a safehouse. Be grateful you’re here, safe and alive, at all. It's more than most have.”

“So what?”

Granger just looks fully bewildered. “‘So what?’” She parrots. “Are you serious?”

“It’s not my fault if some sad little half–blood is having a bad time somewhere. I didn’t ask for this.”

“And they did?!” Granger stands, her chair an inch from toppling over. “No one asked for this war, no one, save for Tom and your ignorant, vile families.” When she marches over, her leg doesn’t even waver and I wonder distantly how many potions she’s had today. “Your side did this. You did this. Not me, not that ‘sad little half–blood’ you’re disparaging against. If you’re upset about your current state, take it up with yourself, with your parents, with—”

“With Draco?”

Granger falters, and she looks at me and I realize it’s the first time we’ve made proper eye contact in two days. Her eyes are wide, heavy, and there is something within them that wrenches my heart in half. Oh, were I of the conviction I once was. I should have killed myself when I had the chance. Purgatory is a hell all of its own.

“I—”

“Because I don’t see you placing this much fucking blame at his feet, do I? So why is he exempt?” Pansy drops her voice low. “Do you fancy him, is that it? Do you think he’s nice to look at?” 

It’s mortifying, and I don’t know who is more horrified. Granger takes a full step back and quickly sets her features into something impassive, impenetrable. “You’re disgusting, Pansy.”

“Funny, I feel like he’d say the same about you.”

Granger looks at me again and I know, I know I’m supposed to say something but I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what. I try to plead with her silently, to understand the position I’m in, to—

“A Malfoy would never sully himself with a Mud—” 

Without a word, she snaps her wand and Pansy goes silent. An invisible soundproof bubble encases her head, and while her mouth moves with violent effort, not even a peep escapes.

I look at Granger.

“Is it worth it?” she asks me.

“Is what?”

It’s apparently the wrong answer. With an expression that leaves me regretful and wanting and sorry, Granger shakes her head and walks away. Just before her bedroom door closes, the spell ends and the shrill cacophony of Pansy’s voice explodes into existence once more. 

Shockingly, things get worse.

“Just stop antagonizing her,” I say to Pansy the following afternoon. Granger now leaves whenever we enter the room, and Pansy is sure to berate her every time. 

“Why?”

“Because it’s fucking pointless. It doesn’t do anything.”

Pansy shrugs. “It entertains me.”

“Grow up.”

“Pick a fucking side, Draco.”

I sneer at her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she says, sliding in close to me on the couch, “exactly what it sounds like. You’re not some bleeding–heart Gryffindor. Stop acting like it.”

“Just because I don’t feel the need to bully her—”

“Granger. Go on, say it. Say her name.”

I stand, craving distance, space, a fucking chasm. “What is your problem? Why are you so fixated on this?”

“Because look at yourself! Look at how you’re acting.”

“And how’s that?” 

“Like—like some kind of sad little Order member.”

“You work with them!”

“Yeah, in order to fucking survive!” She shouts back. “It's a means to an end, Draco. I still hate them.” Pansy sets her shoulders. “Just because Harry Potter is destined to save the world doesn’t mean I’m going to kiss his ass. They’re all still just as pathetic and disgusting as they were in school. I’m just practical enough to see their value, their usefulness.”

“Gods Pansy, they’re people, not fucking cannon fodder.”

“Since when has Hermione Granger ever been a fucking person to you?”

How do you pinpoint a gradient? Does it start with that initial bit of black, or is it further along the line, when the blurring begins in earnest? Is it in the first proper shade of gray, or is it when the color of fog gives way to the off white of sea foam? Is it at the end? Is there an end at all? Was I ever a void, or was I just not light enough to notice? Were I to blur further into the blinding white of Granger’s conviction, would I even fucking care?

Pansy stares at me expectantly but I cannot think of a single thing to say.

I have to help dress Pansy’s wounds. In any other situation, it would be Granger doing this, but there is a limit to her righteous heart and it would seem that Pansy has finally found it. A small satchel of poultices and supplies is left at my door one night and the implication is clear. Granger will do what she is expected to do, but I’m to be the tool she uses to complete it. 

Or rather, I would be, if Pansy would actually let me.

“Are you seriously being fucking vain right now?”

She shoves me into the wall next to the window. “Fuck you! You don’t get to tell me how to feel about this.”

“I’m not trying to tell you shit. I’m trying to help you.”

“I didn’t ask!”

I’m reminded of my first few weeks here, and silently marvel at the patience Granger afforded me. “Pansy, honestly, will you just shut up and sit down?”

“This is—”

“I’m not going to laugh at you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It is, it’s clear as day on her face but she denies it all the same. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can’t do it all alone, Pans, at some point, you’re going to need someone else.”

Even as she glares at me, I can see her struggling not to cry. “I—”

“Please.”

She sits on the bed.

It’s hard with just one hand, but we figure it out in the end. The scarring isn’t nearly as wretched as either of us were anticipating and I’m not even sure why I’m surprised because Granger is—well. It doesn’t matter, not to me. It can’t.

By the end of her fifth day, Pansy stops wearing the bandage and opts for a carefully constructed plait and the hood of her jacket to cover the bulk of the lingering damage. She sits exclusively at my left and I’ve learned enough about grace to make no mention of it.

When Granger finally catches a glimpse of her, I watch Pansy steel herself for the inevitable comment, but none comes. For all the verbal aggression Granger slings back, she’s not cruel. She never has been and the fact that I know this leaves me unsettled for the rest of the night.

“Fancy a shag?” Pansy asks it with all the passion of someone inquiring about the weather.

I stare straight up at the darkened ceiling. “Sound less interested.”

“Does that mean you are?”

“What?”

“Interested?”

“No,” I say immediately. 

Pansy lets out a wistful sigh. “I’ll let you call me Granger.”

My chest heaves and the air in my lungs goes sour. “Fuck you.”

“Pretty please?” She rolls over, and I don’t have to look at her to know she’s staring down at me. “I’m already in your bed.”

“Only because you wouldn’t sleep on the floor.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. You don’t have to, either.”

“Pansy,” I say, with all the exacerbation and annoyance I can muster. “Go to sleep.”

She blesses me with a full minute of silence. “I can only imagine how frustrated you are. You can’t even have a proper wank anymore.”

“I do just fine, thanks. Now shut up and—”

“Do you think about me?”

I sit up. “Pansy, seriously, what the fuck is this? What are you doing? We haven’t—” I gesture between us awkwardly, “—since sixth year. Why the sudden desire to change that?”

“The war, I guess. Having to face my mortality so much leaves me wanting for the finer things in life. A new set of dress robes, the latest parisian perfume, a thick, hard cock—”

“Gods, you are so fucking disgusting.”

“You didn’t think that when I was on my knees.”

I stare at her.

“Or maybe you did, I don’t know. You were hardly forthcoming with your emotions.” There is something withdrawn and sullen in her tone. 

“Pans—”

“I loved you so much, you know.”

With a sigh, I drop back down. “I know.” 

“But you never loved me back.” It’s not an accusation but it still feels like one.

“I don’t know how.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Why—”

“If I let you call me Granger, you have to let me call you Potter. It’s only fair.”

I throw the bundled up jumper I’m using as a pillow at her and her laugh is too loud, too sudden, but I don’t fault her for it. It’s the first time since she’s been here that it’s not done at Granger’s expense and it lets me drift back into familiar memories of the Slytherin common room and the way it all used to be.

I can’t sleep, partially because I’ve used my only pillow as a weapon but partially because Pansy’s words are stuck on loop in my head. All at once, the room is too small, too cloying and I slip out of the door before the sound of scales on stone can manifest. At the bottom of the stairs, I’m too wrapped up in my own thoughts to notice and walk face first into Granger.

“Oh!” she gasps and just before she can fall back, I reach out and grab her arm, steadying her. For a second, we stare at each other but then her gaze drifts down to where my fingers are still wrapped around her and I pull back abruptly.

“I’m—sorry. I didn’t—sorry,” I stutter to get the words out. 

“It’s alright,” she says in a rush.

It’s like we’ve shot back in time four months, but instead of lingering hostility, there is only acute, ephemeral discomfort in the air between us. I haven’t properly interacted with Granger since she silenced Pansy that day. To be fair, I have deliberately not tried, but I doubt I would have been successful even if I had. 

“What are you doing down here?” I ask.

“What does it matter?” she demands. 

“It’s only a fucking question, Granger, no need to get your knickers in a twist.”

She gives me such an honest sneer, I’m actually a little proud. “You’re the one skulking down here at night.”

“I am not skulking! You’re the one creeping around.”

“It’s not my fault you’re too dense to notice anything other than your own sense of self worth.”

I give her a bewildered look. “What is your problem?”

“Me? What’s your problem?”

“You!” I snap, voice several octaves too loud. “It’s fucking you.” Granger flinches and steps back. I follow, giving her no room to breathe. “You’re my problem.”

“How am I the problem? What have I ever done to you, except be foolish enough to consider you a friend.”

It stings, drawing me back from the edge. “I told you, I never wanted—”

She shoves me. “I’m not having this argument with you again. You win, okay? Congratulations, you’ve made your point.”

“Giving up so easily?” Truly, I am wound so tightly around the sliver of self–control I’ve fostered, I’m barely registering what it is I’m saying. “Where’s all that Gryffindor courage?”

“It’s not courageous to keep making the same mistake again and again in the stupid hope that something’ll change. It’s pathetic.”

“Is that what you are, then? Pathetic?”

Her face swells with emotion, and I’m choking as I watch our fragile bridge burn in real time. “Why haven’t you left yet?”

“Finally ready to get rid of me after all?”

“It’d be a gift at this point, especially if you take your wretched little girlfriend with you.” 

I see it then, just for a second, and it tilts the axis of my reality in a dangerous, dangerous way. “Are you jealous, Granger?”

“Don’t,” she says, her voice low and cold. “I won’t tolerate this, not from you.”

“Why not?”

“Because Pansy is a cruel, hateful witch and we both know you’re nothing like that, not anymore.”

“Is that so?” I whisper and crowd her into the side of the stairs. "And how would you know?" 

"Because I know you. And you hate it. It eats you alive. It's why you can't bear to separate from Pansy. She's the easy way out and even after all this time, you're still just cowardly enough to take it." 

The truth rends me, pulls tight at whatever half-formed lie I've built and severs it without effort. My chest heaves, and the air between us is choked with energy. Words fail me utterly and there is only this, only us, only her. I want to smother her with my body, pull her so tightly against my chest we blur further into that cold gray. Granger looks at me and her gaze drifts down just enough and I—

Something loud explodes into existence in the kitchen behind us and I find myself suddenly pushed three feet back. She drops her hands to her sides and before I can catch her eye, Ron fucking Weasley barrels into sight. 

"Ron?" 

"We found it, Hermione. We fucking found it." 

Realization like a noose falls heavy upon me and I watch Granger transform in the space of a single second. "We—the Diadem? We found it?" Her voice shakes and she reaches out. My body demands to respond but Weasley beats me to it and his beastly arms engulf her. 

"Yes! We did it! We bloody fucking did it!" He lifts her, spins her, and she is laughing and her face is the sun and I am withering on the vine of my mistakes. 

"I can't believe—" The rest of the words are stolen as he drops her down and captures her mouth in his. My control fractures along the faultline of my own stupidity and it’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room. I cannot bear it, cannot stomach the sight before me and my legs lurch me forward, even as my thoughts linger in the world of five seconds ago. 

Before I can take a single step however, the chaos continues and several more people pour into the hallway, obscuring my line of sight and denying me the chance to see her reaction, robbing me of the moment I wish to analyze in brutal, precise detail. I want to dissect it beneath cold light, map her exact expression when he kisses her, see if in my attempts to push her away, she’s let a Weasel shaped void grow. 

“Ron!” She says, but her body is hidden from view as Potter snatches her up, hugging her.

“We did it! We actually found it,” he cries and a cheer rings out from the other four or five people suddenly standing in between us.

“I know!”

“It’s ours. That fucking bastard is next.”

“Yeah he bloody well is!”

“We’ll bleed him like a stuck pig, that’s what.”

I step back, wanting to disappear into the wallpaper. No one has noticed me, at least not yet. I cannot catch Granger’s eye, not that she’d let me. The space between us has never been so vast and I’ve got to leave lest the expanse swallows me whole. 

“Mr. Malfoy.” The cold intonation of Moody’s greeting sends a shiver down my spine as I turn on heel to find him standing in the darkened living room. With a flick, the lights snap on and I feel exposed, vulnerable, trapped.

“Moody,” I say carefully.

“We should talk.”

Granger leaves to destroy the Diadem, whisked away to parts unknown with Potter and the other morons, and I am left alone in the cottage with Moody and his impassable expression. To be fair, Pansy is assumedly still upstairs where I left her but she’s hardly what I’d call a support system.

“Has she given you the wand?”

I clutch the object in question tightly, tucked away in my jacket pocket. “She has.”

“Good. How are you finding it?”

“The wand?”

“Relearning how to use it.”

“It’s been…fine. Difficult but not impossible. I’m certainly nowhere near the skill level I once was but hey, at least I can cast Lumos again.” I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

To my surprise, Moody forgoes answering right away to sit down on the couch, gesturing that I should do the same. I’m still reeling from the fucking whiplash of emotional hell I’d just been careening through and take the small moment of silent and solace to sink into my usual chair. 

“The final battle is coming, as I’m sure you’ve figured out,” he finally says at length. 

“Obviously.”

“We need all the capable fighters we can get in order to ensure our victory.”

His implication is blatant but I sidestep it. “I thought the whole point was that only Saint Potter can kill the gangrenous fuck. What use are other people, if not as distraction and bait.”

“Harry needs to be afforded the chance to get Tom alone, something that will prove impossible should the Death Eaters be allowed to engage. It’s the Order’s job to ensure he gets that chance, by any and all means necessary.”

“So it’s distraction, then.”

“Tom’s power doesn’t come solely from himself alone. The entire organization will need to be razed.”

“And you want my help,” I say.

Moody nods, short and deliberate. “It's a few days if not a full week away still, so you’ve more time to practice refamiliarizing yourself with spell and wandwork.”

“This wasn’t the fucking deal, Moody. Where is my mother?” I search his mismatched eyes, desperate for even a morsel of information.

“In due time, Mr. Malfoy.”

“In due time? It’s been six fucking months. I’ve given you everything, everything, I had and still you refuse to answer my questions about her.” I choke back bile. “Do you even know where she is, is she even alive?”

Moody scowls. “The best thing you can do for your mother now is to be patient.”

“Or else what? You’ll kill her if I don’t cooperate?”

“That’s not the way the Order operates.”

“I didn’t say the Order, did I? I said you . Who would you elect to do the dirty deed, now that Granger is beyond your grasp?”

He sighs resolutely. “She told you about Ernie.”

“She’s told me about a lot of things,” I threaten.

“That would explain the lack of reports, then.”

It’s manipulation, clear as day, and the fact that my weaknesses are so blatantly transparent would sicken me were I not so emotionally spent. “Lacking what?”

“Lacking in that they have ceased to exist.”

I was a horrible liar as a child. My lack of skill could probably be pinned upon my being a spoiled little shit, but that hardly matters now. Once dear old Tom moved in and I’d realized I was too weak to be the sharp, violent thing he wanted, lying became the only thing standing between me and a jet of sickly green light. Moody isn’t threatening me with mortal peril but the panic that grips me at being found out is just as dizzying.

“I don’t know what you think is going on, but I assure you, you’re wrong. We’re hardly burdened with privilege here, but don’t mistake the swapping of secrets for something it’s not. I don’t give a damn about Hermione Granger beyond her position as my jailer and any reports you’ve received to the contrary are fabrications. Merlin knows Weasley isn’t above a little dishonesty to get what he wants.” 

Moody fixes me with a cold, sharp look. “Tom is illiterate in the ways of the heart, Mr. Malfoy, but I am not.”

“I don’t—”

“In the days to come, think hard upon the offer I’ve given you. To sit in the good graces of the people Ms. Granger considers important would save you a world of suffering.” He stands to leave.

“And if I refuse?”

“Then it’ll be more than just your shot at redemption that you’ll lose,” he says. “Good night, Mr. Malfoy.”

I sit at the kitchen table well into dawn and wait for Granger to come home.

I cannot stomach going upstairs to tell Pansy what has transpired. One look at my face and she’ll know and I am far too gone to play pretend. So very much has happened in what added up to less than an hour and everything feels irreparably changed. Broken, perhaps. Something that was once a hiss licks at the back of my neck, but I just keep lighting and relighting the candle at the center of the table and do what I can to ignore the phantom sting.

The bizarre muggle clock reads 7:09 am when she finally arrives. The crack of Apparation is loud but the cold shock on her face is worse. She watches me like I’m a caged animal and I brace for the storm.

“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” she finally says.

“Conversations with Moody rarely lend themselves to a good night’s sleep.”

“Malfoy—”

“Did you destroy it?”

She falters. “I—yes, I did.”

“So it's just Nagini left then, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Brilliant.” I cannot bring myself to look her in the eye for longer than a half second. It all hurts too much. “The end is near, it would seem.”

“Draco, I have to tell you something.” The panic in her tone makes me cold all over but when I glance at her, she is staring off into space.

“Tell me…what?” 

She fidgets with the back of that chair she’s standing behind as if mulling over something great and illusive. Then, all at once, she rushes me and drops into the seat at my side. “It’s about, uhm, it’s about your mum.”

 Blood pools in my gut, even as it rises in the back of my throat. I take a shuddering breath and when she reaches for my hand, I don’t pull away. “What—what about—”

“She’s dead.”

Something clicks in the back of mind, a final puzzle piece that sinks into place with agonizing precision and I know it’s true. “Oh,” I finally manage to whisper.

“I think—I think she has been since—since—”

“She has.” The stench of dark magic needles the underside of my skin. I hear the echo of her scream and it ends in an ugly, hushed hiss. I can see the blood as it drains from my wounded arm, running in rivulets over the gilded grout in my childhood bathroom. She found me, when I cut it out, and she—she—

“Oh Draco, oh my god.” Granger pulls me to her but I am barely there. It’s as if my soul has jettisoned itself backwards through time and space to sit in detached agony and watch the greatest of my sins play out in real time. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

Flashes of memories that have played like a reel through every painful nightmare begin to shift and shape themselves into whole recollections. I taste the fur of her evening gown as mother buried my head in her chest. She wails, and it’s so loud and Nagini grows fat on the ocean of pure blood I’ve let loose from my veins. It’s salt and static and I tremble in Granger’s arms. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s not your fault,” a voice says and I am too unraveled to know who it is. The sweet void of darkness calls and I want nothing more than to be alone. I pull away from Granger, unable to look her in the eye, and move away from the kitchen table and the revelations and all that has gone on. There is still a torrent of memories threatening to drown me and I need to be enclosed behind four walls before I can properly begin to sink.

Wordlessly I turn and rush up the stairs. Pansy is still asleep in my bed but jumps into consciousness when I slam the door open. “Dra—Draco?”

“Out.”

“What are—?”

“Get. Out.”

“What is your fucking problem?” 

“Get out, get out, get out, get out!” I go to grab her, to heave her bodily out of the door but she ducks at the last second and slides out of bed, clutching my discarded jumper to her chest.

“What is—”

“Pansy,” Granger’s voice is firm, even. “Will you come downstairs with me?”

“Uhm, no? Why the bloody hell—”

“Because Malfoy needs you too.”

I cannot be bothered to look at either one of them but Granger’s pleading works and a few moments later, I am able to slam the bedroom door shut and collapse to the floor in front of it. Finally, I am alone, without anchor, and I let the tide of my rapidly expanding memories sweep me out to sea.

Chapter Text

I fold myself into the aging windowsill along my bedroom wall and watch Malfoy try to immolate a bramble bush. His mouth stretches around the correct spell but his wandwork is still a tad too unrefined to properly stick the landing. Had he not taken a six day vacation from his training, he’d probably be much further along but it’s no longer my place to care. And I don’t of course. Care, that is.

Or rather, I do, but I am refusing to think about it.

It’s just easier to bury. Avoidance has never been my preferred tactic but it’s not like I’ve got much of a choice. It’s only been 24 hours since I had to sit there and tell him the only person he cares about is dead and, to my shock, he has bounced back almost immediately. I was anticipating several days of secluded, sullen agony on his part, but it’s yet to show. Instead, after that initial retreat into his room, he seems to have thrown himself headfirst into relearning magic. I suppose grief is as good a motivator as escape. 

I’m furious with him. His absolute cowardice in the face of his former girlfriend’s abject cruelty is impossible enough to stomach as is. Coupled with the way he snarled at me the other night, pinning me to the wall with the weight of his fury, I feel nothing but vile frustration and hurt. The latter is harder to manage, unfortunately. I am used to anger, to betrayal even. It’s the heartache that I cannot contend with. My attachment to him is hardly a surprise, of course, but I cannot believe how hollow I feel at his absence. Just a week ago, I would have stood at his side, calmly instructing him on how best to approach his latest spellcasting attempt. Just a week ago, we would have meandered around the kitchen afterwards, quietly making dinner together and discussing the merits of Ashwinder’s egg as a binding agent. Just a week ago, he needed me and now, he doesn’t. It’s like he never did at all. 

It’s as if the last six and a half months have culminated in nothing but a cruel, bitter ache.

When I eventually force myself downstairs to eat, I am greeted by the unpleasant sight of Pansy sitting at my kitchen table. Her fingers are curled tightly around my favorite mug and she watches with rapt attention at whatever spell Malfoy is practicing outside. At my entrance, she glances over, scowls, and goes back to staring. I’ve nothing to say, especially to her, and so I go about making breakfast for myself in silence.

“Is Narcissa really dead?” she finally asks quietly.

“Yes.”

“Poor Draco.”

I hum noncommittally and continue spreading peanut butter on my toast.

“Who killed her?”

“I don’t know.” It’s the truth, unfortunately. When Harry pulled me aside that night, after I’d reduced the Diadem to smoldering rubble, he had little in the way of information. At some point during their excursion, he’d overheard a conversation Moody had with Snape regarding Malfoy and his mother. All he could glean was that she was dead, and had been that way for some time. The shock of Harry even telling me this had almost outweighed the dread I’d felt at knowing I was going to be the one to deliver the news to Malfoy. 

“I bet it was one of you.”

The accusation burrows under my skin. “No, it wasn’t,” I insist.

“As if you’d even know.” Pansy laughs mirthlessly. “You’re so far removed from whatever the fuck happens at the Longbottom Estate, I’d bet my last good robe that even I know more than you.”

The butter knife clangs loudly against the sink when I drop it. “Shut up.”

“I bet it’s been so difficult for you, being left out. Does it sting, knowing that all your sad little mates are off having fun without you?”

“There is nothing ‘fun’ about what they’re doing, Pansy.”

“Sure, maybe not all the time, but at least they get to be together at the end of the day. What about you, hmm? Banished here like an unwanted squib child. Who knew you’d be so…forgettable.”

My jaw aches with the strain of my teeth clenching but I refuse to engage with her vitriolic insults.

“And now you’re here, clinging desperately to Draco Malfoy of all people.” Another laugh, cruel and short. “You’re fucking delusional if you think he’ll do anything other than use you up and throw you out. You’re just another stepping stone for him.”

“And you aren’t?” I spit back.

“Oh I absolutely am,” she says. “I’m just not stupid enough to believe otherwise. I’ve learned not to base my happiness on the needs of others.”

“So, just their suffering then?”

She smiles, wide and mocking. “Of course.”

“You’re despicable.”

“Doesn’t make me less right,” she whispers conspiratorially.

The worst part of it all is that it doesn't. Despite myself I glance out the window to where Malfoy stands, silhouetted against the sea. "I've never thought I was anything to him other than whatever he needed at that moment." At least it's the truth. 

"Good to know you aren't as stupid as you look, then. He's never going to be who you want him to be. Trust me, I'd know." 

Never in my life did I think I'd relate to Pansy Parkinson over something as trivial as heartbreak. And yet, here we are. It's still too strange to accept and so I leave before she draws me any further into her ugliness. 

Later that night I'm walking past his bedroom door when I hear them fighting. 

"I just don't understand where the fuck this is coming from, Draco?" Pansy shrieks. "Your mum is dead. What are we still doing here?" 

"I'm not leaving." 

"But why? There's nothing here for you." 

Malfoy is quiet for so long, I assume he's not going to answer. When I go to step away, however, I hear the rumble of his voice passing low and subdued beneath the door. "Yes, there is." 

Pansy keeps pressing the issue but he has nothing else to say. 

"Nice to see that some things never change," she says to me when I walk through the living room the following day. "Your hair being—" 

"Pansy, will you just shut the fuck up?" Malfoy snaps. The two of us turn to stare at him. "For fuck's sake just stop it." 

I don't know who looks more surprised. 

"Are you seriously defending her?" she demands. "She already hates you, Draco, why waste your breath?" 

He glances at me and his expression is guarded, unreadable. I wonder if he's using Occlumency again. "Maybe I'm just sick of listening to you talk?" 

"Get over yourself." 

"That's bloody rich, coming from you," he says. "You're the most self-centered person I know." 

Pansy yells something back to him but I'm already carrying on. I've no interest in being a pawn in whatever cruel, misguided lover's spat they're having. 

I miss him. 

It's a simple, obvious fact and it's tearing me apart. I knew this was inevitable, that this was the only way it could end, but being self-aware doesn't make it burn any less. Sobs tear through me at night and I bury my head beneath my favorite pillow to muffle the sound. The last thing I want is for them to know how much it hurts.

"There's been a delay," Harry says. 

"Oh. Why?" 

"Tom's gone to ground now that the Diadem has been destroyed. The Manor is crawling with Death Eaters." 

"God…" 

"Ron's got a semi-decent plan to draw them out, some kind of distraction but it'll take time to implement." 

The prospect of dragging this out even just a little longer makes my skin itch. "How long?" 

Harry rubs the back of his neck. "A week, hopefully."

"Fingers crossed." 

"I do have some good news, however." 

"You do?" 

"It depends. How's Pansy's recovery going?" 

I should feel guilty that I have no concrete idea but honestly, I can't be bothered. "Fine, I'm assuming. We don't really speak." 

"Well, she's no longer bedridden, right?" 

"No." 

Harry gives me a small smile. "Wonderful. That means I can bring her back with me."

My stomach lurches. “To headquarters?”

“Temporarily, yeah. I’m not sure where Moody will want to send her now that we’re so close to the end but hey, at least she’ll be out of your hair.” It doesn’t inspire the confidence he’s expecting.

“And what about Malfoy?”

Harry cocks his head. “What about Malfoy?”

“Will you be taking him with you as well?”

“No. He’s still too—the others wouldn’t take it all that well, I don’t think. Least of all Ron.”

I sigh. “I told him about his mum.”

“How’d he take it?”

“How do you think he took it?”

Harry nods softly, intimately familiar with the loss of a parent.

“I’ve been thinking about it, though, and there’s something that’s bothering me.”

“I truly don’t know anything more than what I’ve already told you, Hermione.”

“No no, I know that,” I insist. “It’s about Ron, actually. When he was last here, when he and Malfoy got into that fight.” We both wince at the memory. “Ron mentioned that he saw Narcissa recently, and that she was ill, somehow.”

“If Ron is privy to anything, he’s not shared it with me,” Harry says. “He could have been lying, I suppose. Trying to get a rise out of Malfoy probably.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Are you…alright, Hermione?”

The desire to lie, to placate him, never comes. “No, not really. Things here are…tense.”

“As in dangerous?”

“No, just…awkward. Painful, I guess. Pansy is horrible.”

He looks sheepish and apologetic. “I’m so sorry you’ve been stuck with her. Her timing couldn’t have been worse.”

“Implying that there is a better time for her to get hit in the face by a hex?”

“I mean, yeah, a little. She was supposed to lay low while we were gone but she got spooked, apparently, and in her haste to flee, was caught by one of the Death Eaters she was supposed to be spying on,” he explains. “Not that it really matters now, though.”

“She’s ruined everything,” I confess.

Harry frowns. “What—”

Tears sting the edges of my vision. “Things were—were fine here. Malfoy and I, we’d reached an equilibrium and it was—it was working. I was—and then she showed up and it’s like we’ve had to start all over again only—only now he has no interest in—in—” I swallow a sob.

Silently, Harry reaches out and folds me into a hug. He says nothing as I fall apart, which is for the best because there is nothing I really want to hear right now, at least not from him. Instead, I cry into his shirt and eventually, after some time, gather enough strength to pull myself back together. 

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“You’ve done nothing wrong.”

My hands come away damp as I scrub the tears from my face. “You should probably go.”

Harry glances at his wristwatch. “I probably should. Where’s Pansy?”

“Outside, with Malfoy.”

He heads to the back porch but I linger behind, unwilling to let her see me in such a state. The muffled sounds of yelling make their way in through the closed windows but I’m unable to discern any actual words. I can only imagine the scene Pansy is making and while seeing her unhappy would hardly ruin my day, the potential look on Malfoy’s face could. I already know he’s made a choice, but I don’t have to stick around to see it play out.

There is a bang as the backdoor swings open and she marches inside. On her way past me, she sneers but remains silent. Harry and Malfoy enter shortly after, a very deliberate amount of space between them.

“I’ll be back in a day or two with an update, alright?” Harry says.

“Alright.” My voice is hollow and I can feel Malfoy’s eyes on me. “Be safe.”

“I will.” 

“Remember what I said, Draco,” Pansy warns. 

“I won’t.”

Harry slips an arm around Pansy’s shoulders before she can properly respond and, with one final glare in my direction, she and Harry vanish in a crack of magic.

All at once, the vacuum of their absence presses in and it’s like the air of the room is too heavy to breathe. We haven’t been properly alone in over a week. The last time we even spoke to one another I was telling him his mother had died. Now, every careful tether I have woven between us is frayed to the point of severing and there is this undefinable expectation of something echoing through the room. My heart slams ceaselessly into my ribs. 

“Hermione—” he starts.

“No.” There is too much weighing me down at that moment, I cannot possibly begin to deal with him. “No,” I repeat and retreat upstairs. He does not follow.

The longer we go without speaking, the easier it is to pretend like we never were in the first place. I still make enough food for two, but we no longer eat together. Where he would once sit and read beside me in the living room, I now prepare extra batches of healing potions and he practices magic outside alone. Always alone. The solitude is suffocating me, but I’m not even sure what it is I need to say to him anymore. There is the blatant hurt but it’s not enough, doesn’t represent the full depth of feelings that have festered where there was once only soft light. I want to scream and cry and throw things but it’s still not enough. Nothing is. I lack the words to express the violent something that’s taken root inside my chest. I can’t help but feel like he does too.

I've run out of pain potions. In all the chaos of the last week, I'd failed to keep proper stock of my dittany stores and now I'm without even my most basic of coping mechanisms. Desperate for relief from the too bright sting of reality, I rip through the piles of clothing stuffed haphazardly into my dresser, searching in vain for just a single vial of pale blue oblivion. Again and again I come up empty-handed until I am standing in a small heap, having upended the breadth of my wardrobe at my feet. 

Anger burns through me like wildfire and I slam my fist onto the dresser, accidentally crushing one of the empty glass bottles I'd unearthed. The glass shatters, slicing into the meat of my hand with ease. A cry forces its way out of me, but it’s more frustration than pain. Blood runs thick and dark down the length of my arm, leaving black droplets on my socks. Even in my rage, I know this has to be taken care of. 

Cradling my hand to my chest, I swiftly make my way down the hallway and into the glaringly bright light of the bathroom. Beneath the fluorescence, the wound is particularly gruesome. Slivers of glass glint like ill begotten crystal, mocking me with their very presence. Another cry, visceral and violent, echoes in the otherwise quiet room and I run the water in an attempt to drown it out. 

It doesn't work. 

I'm trying—and failing—to pluck the shards of glass from the wound when there is a knock at the door. 

"Granger? Everything alright?" Malfoy asks, audacious enough to sound concerned. 

"Fine," I snarl through clenched teeth, struggling to hook my nail around an errant splinter. 

"Doesn't sound fine." 

"Go. Away." The blood makes everything slippery and viscous, and my fingers find no purchase. "Just—fuck!" I yelp, accidentally forcing the glass deeper into my hand. 

Malfoy opens the door. I step out of the way just in time and that's how he finds me, hunched over a bloody sink, clutching my hand and crying. 

"Fucking hell, Granger. What wrong?" 

"Nothing! Just go—go away. I don't need your help." 

He ignores what I'm saying and grabs my hand, pulling it towards him. "Gods, what happened? Is this glass?" 

I wrench my hand back. "Leave me alone!" My voice cracks.

Malfoy stares at me, and I can't read his expression and it just makes me sob harder. 

"Just go!" I scream. 

He does, but only for a moment. I can't even properly close the door before he reappears, wand in hand, with an insistent, quiet look on his face. The wound stings from continued exposure to the open air, and blood is still dripping rhythmically into the sink. Whatever strength of conviction I'd possessed washes out from me like a waning tide and, with a defeated sigh, I drop down onto the edge of the tub. 

Malfoy fills the space in front of me, crouching so that we're at eye level. Wordlessly, he takes my hand and balances it on his knee, upturned so he can reach the wound. With deliberate, careful movements he uses his wand to pull the glass from my skin. It takes a long time, longer than he'd like I'm sure, but he is methodical in his work. When the last sliver is free, he pulls the small first aid kit out from under the sink and begins the slow work of cleaning and wrapping my wounded hand. 

I watch him the entire time, enraptured and tense with emotion. He never once looks up at me and I can't tell if I prefer it that way or not. It's the closest we've been in days, a week, and even though it's ill-advised, my body still aches to lean into the warmth of his. There is a small scratch along his neck, ostensibly from his efforts at remastering wand work but the fact that I don't know for sure just breaks my heart all the more. I've gone from being intimately familiar with all the simple parts of him to feeling as though there is a stranger haunting my house; my thoughts; my heart.

He tucks the end of the white bandage in on itself, taps it once with his wand for safe measure, and finally, through the half curtain of his hair, looks up at me. "All done." 

There are a million things I should say to him at that moment. A veritable epic of drawn out, detailed descriptions of all the horrible ways he's made me feel the last eight days but all I can force out, in a strangled whisper, is "I missed you." 

His expression crumples and when I fold forward, he gathers me in his arms and for the second time in as many days, someone holds me as I sob. It feels as if all I've done is cry, and that feeling is thick, suffocating in its uselessness. I want to shove it down, shove him away, free myself from this mess I've let him make of me. 

"How could you?" I demand, buried in the crook of his neck. "How could you just let—let her—treat me that way?" 

"Granger—" 

"You just let—you didn't even—" The accusations are choppy and unfinished and I take a shuddering breath. "It broke my heart." 

Malfoy pulls back, forcing me to look at him but I cannot cope with the starkness of his expression. So instead, I push away from him and lurch out of his grasp, needing space to breathe and to think. I get halfway to the door when he snatches my unwounded hand, holding me back. "Wait." 

"Why should I?" With each passing second, my hurt turns sour, growing hot with anger. "Why should I ever, ever, listen to you again?" 

He stands, and I'm intimately aware of every inch between us. "I didn't know—how to—how to handle it." 

I wrench my hand from his and run it down my face, scrubbing away any remaining tears. "What was there to handle?! She was horrible to me, Draco. Every day, every second, she was horrible to me. And you did nothing." 

"I told her—" 

"Nothing! You said nothing." 

He winces. "I'm sorry. I know I—but its just so hard—" 

"And you think it's easy for me when—when Harry or Ginny insult you?" I demand. "When they chastise me for getting too close? For treating you like a person?" 

"They—" 

"Hate you! They all hate you and I've never cared, not once, not even when I should have." Agony ripples through me and I wrap my arms around myself. "I've always, always, given you the benefit of the doubt. I've always defended you, no matter the consequence. Ron won't even speak to me—" 

"Didn't fucking look like it last time he was here," Malfoy snaps, abruptly indignant. 

"What are you—" The memory of Ron's foolhardy kiss forces its way to the forefront of my brain. "You mean when he—that was nothing! It was the first time he'd even spoken to me in weeks." 

"But you kissed him back, didn't you?" 

I recoil. "No. No, I didn't."

"Did you want to?" 

"Why do you care? You and—and Pansy made it abundantly clear how little I matter to you. So just—just stop. Stop pushing and pulling and pretending that I matter to you at all." I turn and stalk back into the hallway. 

He follows, cutting me off before I can reach my bedroom door. "You're wrong," he says. 

"I'm done playing this game with you. I won't let you humiliate me again, Malfoy." I glare at him. "Move." 

"Granger, please." He looks wrung out, ruined even. "What can I do?" 

"I'm not sure there's anything you can do, not anymore," I say, all at once too defeated to yell. 

"I'm sorry." 

"So you've said, time and again."

"Pansy just—it was safer. Easier. She—" 

"I know. That's the worst part. I know." My tongue feels too heavy for my mouth. "But nothing worth having is easy and it's clear now that you—" 

"But I do—" His teeth snap shut. 

"Please," I beg. "Please move. I can't keep—" 

"You matter to me," he says, breathless and rushed. "More than—more than I know how to say. I just didn't—you're just so fucking golden and I ruin everything I touch and that day at the beach all I wanted was—was to kiss you and I didn't know how to—how to hold you and not break you at the same time." 

"You—" 

"You're all I want," he confesses. "You're all I've ever wanted." 

I stare at him, shocked into near silence. "Why? Why did you—why have you let me think—" 

Malfoy runs his fingers through his hair. "Because I'm an idiot and a coward. Because nothing has ever mattered to me the way that you do and I—I don't know how to cope with that. Because I'm terrified of this, of you and—and of how I'll have to learn to live with myself when you say no." 

"Why—why would I say no?" 

"Because you're Hermione Granger and there is nothing I can ever say or do to be worthy of that." 

I struggle to catch my breath, my brain running a half second behind my mouth. "Don't you dare project your own self-loathing onto me." 

"I—" 

"You mean everything to me. I'd—I'd do anything for you. Don't you get that? Draco, I—" 

He crowds me into the wall, so close that I can feel the rattle of his heart, and presses his mouth to mine. 

It's like nothing I could have ever imagined. Every midnight desire, every ephemeral, aching dream, they all fall short in the wake of this collision. My body reacts immediately, even as my mind rushes to keep up. I run shaking fingers through his soft, perfect hair and he clutches at my hip, at my neck, at the curve of my face, as if he's afraid I'll float away. As if I'm not anchored in place beneath the weight of his affection. 

Everything is strawberry and mint and the sound of the gray sea echoes through my bones, sings savagely through my blood.

I pitch myself forward, rolling myself along the length of him, desperate to be closer. A groan echoes from the back of his throat and his fingers slip from my cheek to grasp at the ridge of my shoulder. An errant thumb presses insistently into my neck. I run my wounded hand down his side, shoving his shirt up so I can feel the topography of his ribs beneath my touch. When he snags my lip between his teeth, I rake my nails down the expanse of his chest. Malfoy keens, and rips his mouth from mine to bite along the edge of my jaw. 

"I—" I'm breathless, struggling to speak even though I've nothing of value to say. My senses are flooded with him. I want to drown beneath the current of our violent desires. My left hand grasps at his hair, pulling it so I can guide his mouth back to my own. I kiss him with feverish, wanton abandon and he responds just as recklessly. 

"You—" He says between stolen breaths, as if there are words to convey the heat building between us. There is nothing, in any world, that I want more at that moment than I want him. 

I detangle my right hand from his body to grasp blindly at the door behind me. Without looking, I wrench it open and begin chasing him forward, pushing him into my room with just the insistence of my mouth. He follows my wordless direction perfectly, and at the last moment bends so we fall atop one another onto the bed. 

The momentum breaks the spell, so to speak, and he pulls far enough away to stare at me. His mouth is wet, lips and cheeks red with want. "Hermione, I've never—" 

"Me neither," I say as if we both aren't already aware of these things. "But I want to. I want this. I want you." 

Malfoy groans and pins me against the bed. "You have me," he whispers into my mouth. "I'm yours. I'm yours. Forever, I’m yours." 

End of Act Two

Chapter Text

And I've never loved a darker blue
Than the darkness I have known in you, own from you
You, whose heart would sing of anarchy
You would laugh at meanings, guarantees, so beautifully

Act Three

When I was a child, I dreamt of drowning. Night after night, I'd lay my head down on the pillow and inevitably find myself falling through a cold, dark ocean. I'd watch the faint light of the sky shrink into the distant nothingness as I sank down in the murky black. The water was cold, still, as if the ocean was just an endless dead void. There was no sound, even as I thrashed and fought against whatever ephemeral gravity that ceaselessly pulled me under. 

I was terrified. Sleeping became an act of self-harm, a subject I was a decade too young to understand the weight of. I'd beg and plead with my mother to give me dreamless sleep draughts, knowing full well they had extremely adverse effects on young children. She'd never relent and would instead sit by my bedside, clutching my hand, and singing a lullaby I can no longer recall. It didn't help, not once, but at least she felt better; proactive. 

They had seemingly sprung up from nowhere. I'd never even been to the beach, let alone swam in the ocean. All manner of Divination experts were called upon as well as healers specializing in sleep and dreams to solve this riddle that was my psyche. And all of them came to the conclusion that, while unpleasant, the nightmares were ultimately harmless and I would grow out of them in time. 

I didn't. 

Instead, I learned to anticipate them, catch them before they caught me, as it were. I'd lay in bed at night and imagine an ocean much like the one from my dreams but with one key difference: an end. A proverbial finish line. Somewhere to land, instead of sinking ceaselessly into the void. A solid place of mud and ground and worn sand. 

I'd imagine that, instead of drowning, I was slipping beneath the surface of my thoughts and heading to this place at the bottom of the sea. A place I chose, as opposed to my subconscious. It was a refuge, one of my own design and making. In time, I built a small house, just one room, and inside, I'd take the fear I'd felt as I drowned and hide it away in orderly boxes. I was sick of waking up drenched in sweat, clawing at my throat as it burned for air. It was methodical and exhausting, but in the end, my mental acuity won and my solution worked. The dreams no longer paralyzed me and, in time, they became less and less frequent until eventually they stopped all together. I'd even begun to forget about them.

Not that room, though. Not my safe house at the bottom of a cold, black sea. No, that became the linchpin of my mental fortitude. It was a coping mechanism, built from childhood fear, that was tailor made to my emotional needs. I coveted it and, as my father brought ruin to us all, it became a refuge once again. When Snape began my Occlumency training in earnest, it was this room that I used to hide the things I didn't want found. I stored away every errant thought and feeling into perfect little boxes until the room was near bursting with the depth of my avoidance. 

It was a balancing act to keep everything contained, but as the years after Voldemort's return stretched on, I found myself with nothing but time. Time to maintain and perfect and organize the house at the bottom of the ocean. And I did a damn good job, but I am not infallible, certainly and especially when it comes to foresight. All it took was a serpent, sprung forth from my own thoughts, a spy hidden in some box in a room under an endless sea. Nagini slithered through sacred ground, upturning things I'd intentionally left buried and fractured the foundation of my identity. I was drowning once more, only this time it was within an ocean of my own making. 

And then there was light, distant and fragile, a whisper in gold. It called to me across the vast expanse of my personal hell and to reach it; I needed to bridge the divide. Only I could drain the poisoned seawater, only I could pull myself out of the black and into the pale, shimmering gold. So instead of sinking into the things I'd spent a lifetime avoiding, I dove in headfirst. I waded through the mire, ripping boxes from the bottom and letting the rotten water soak back into the earth. I dismantled that salt worn room at the bottom of the ocean, rending it into proverbial driftwood. It all floated off on unseen currents, including Nagini. She became nothing but a drowned-out hiss, and the ocean became nothing but a pond.

And there, under an impossibly blue sky, I stood and felt the warmth of the sun on my face. 

Granger rolls beneath me, pressing the length of her body into mine, and it's still not close enough. I want to bury myself beneath her skin, worm my way into the dark, safe chambers of her heart and make a home there. I want to take root around her ribs, grow securely around her spine and show her what it is that she has let bloom. I warned her I never wanted to be friends, and she chose to nurture it anyway. No matter the way the story ends now, she'll have to burn me out of her to kill what soft, fragile thing I've become. 

"Draco," she whispers, and I want to cry at the way my name means something when it comes from her mouth 

I sink my teeth into the tender place where her jaw meets her neck and shudder when she tugs at my hair. There is a frenzied violence to this sin we've committed. The war looms loud and insistent just beyond the light of her room and we've only a precious few seconds to steal for ourselves. Except, I'm selfish, so fucking selfish, that I'd let it all go to shit if it meant keeping her safe and whole in my arms. 

But you cannot hold onto light, no matter how golden it is. 

Her careful fingers rip at my jumper, pulling it off of me in one quick motion. My shirt goes next and before I can return the favor, she is topless and there is suddenly so much skin to be seen. To be touched. To be kissed. 

I press my mouth to every exposed inch of her, mapping the cartography of her body with my lips and my teeth. I want to memorize the expanse that I've come to covet so furiously so that, when she is gone, I'll have something to suffer for. She groans, digging jagged nails into my back, trying to find purchase lest I drag her whining and moaning out to sea. 

There is scant light in the room, we’re more bathed in shadows than not, and yet she is a beacon all on her own. I pull away, just for a moment, and drink in the way she looks then, flushed and hot and wonderfully alive. Our eyes meet, for the first time since I’d confessed the totality with which she has taken me, and the raw affection on her face takes my breath away. She looks at me like I’m something that matters, like I’ve actually earned the spot I’ve stolen in her life. For just a moment, I feel the weight of what she’s done for me, to me, and it’s too much to bear.

Such hesitation must be apparent, my expression betraying my reluctance to be wanted, and she reaches out, cupping the curve of my cheek with her hand. I say nothing, just let the feel of her skin on mine sink deep into my bones. It’s like fire, the way her fingers catch along my jawbone, tracing the lines of my mouth. Every touch, every point of contact, is heated and insistent. I am spellbound, charmed to the hells and back by her every motion. She stares at me, and her eyes are so brown, so warm, and familiar like nothing, like no one, else. I love her, then, as I have for months now, and were I a better man, I’d whisper it softly into her ear, over and over and over again. Instead, I dip down, capture her lips with mine, and return us to the frenzied end.

Eventually, it's just heat, just heaving chests and wanting mouths and hands that wander and touch and grab. I'm dying and drowning and losing myself in this once in a lifetime moment. It's a mistake, as she'll come to decide once her head is a bit clearer, but that's a problem for future me. Right now, I let loose the full breadth of my want for her and hope that my attention does a better job of saying what I am incapable of. 

We come together like a violent wave, bodies crashing into each other as I sink myself into the hot, wet center of her. We spare not a drop of time or energy on words, instead letting the base instincts of our desire guide us through. It's my first time, because of course it is, and I am grateful that I've the presence of mind to hold fast until she reaches her end. It's still over too fast, if only by the metric of I wish to die in this moment and never come to accept the reality of who we are and what we've done. 

Still, the war waits for no one. 

"Did you—" she asks, breathless and boneless above me. 

I nod. "Did you?" 

She nods and bites her lip. "The contraceptive—" 

"I cast it two weeks ago." I don't say just in case because that implies a base acknowledgment that Granger would ever deign to lie with me. But, for what it's worth, it was just in case. 

The heat and the frenzy bleed out of us until there is nothing but the cold light of reality remaining. Awkwardly, as if we've not just spent the last fifteen minutes trying to bury ourselves within each other, she pulls herself off of me and vanishes out the door and to, I can only assume, the bathroom. 

I drop my head back against her bedding and try to contextualize what the fuck just happened. 

She comes back, wearing a robe. I've done us both the courtesy of putting most of my clothes back on. Still, the scent of her clings to me like a second skin and every movement brings it back to the forefront of my brain. 

"So," she says. 

"So," I say back. We don't look at one another. 

"Did you mean what—what you said? About, uh, about how you—how you feel?" Her insecurity prevents me from closing myself off from the fucking torrential flood of emotions I've let loose. The implications of what I’ve confessed hit me like lightning, and I want nothing more than to bury my head in the sand. Except, there is something fragile and vulnerable in her expression that is forcing me to be a better man.

"Does it matter?" 

"I—" 

Harry Potter arrives. It's like a magic trick, pun intended. One minute I am weathering the most uncomfortable conversation I've ever had with Granger, and the next the Boy Wonder is screaming her name up the stairs. She looks at me then, finally, and the abject terror in her eyes answers any lingering questions I'd harbored regarding how much she already regrets what we've done. I say nothing, choosing instead to get up and hide in her closet like a fifth year caught lurking in the girl's dormitory after hours. It's fucking humiliating. 

"Hermione!" He bursts through the door a few seconds later. I wonder if he can smell it.

"Harry—"

"You've got to come back to headquarters now, right now." 

"What? Why?" 

"There's been—they know—George is alive. And he's—they've broken his—"

"The cottage has been compromised," she finishes. 

"Yes," he gasps, breathless from his flight up the stairs. "You've got ten minutes, maybe, to get what you need and then you've got to Apparate back." 

"I'm bringing Malfoy," she says matter-of-factly. I'd kill a small furry creature just to see her face when she did it. 

"I'd assume so." I'd kill two just to see his. 

"Ten minutes?" 

"Ten minutes."

"Alright." 

"I've got to, to warn—" 

"Go. I'll see you back at headquarters," she says. "Be safe, Harry. I love you." 

"I love you, too." 

Well, at least someone said it to her tonight. Potter always was quicker than me at virtually everything else, why stop at emotional revelations? Fucking ponce.

He disappears in a crack of magic and I tumble my way out of her closet a second later.

"Malfoy—" 

"I heard." My hand trembles as I run it through my hair. "What do you need from me?" 

Granger sprints around the cottage, stuffing ingredients and books and spare jumpers into her charmed handbag. I go about destroying any incriminating information we could potentially leave behind, not that there's much. She also instructed me to gather any personal belongings, but aside from my wand and my abject emotional suffering, I've nothing to my name. So instead, I toss her the clothing I've gathered in my six months here, and she packs it without a response, even the hideous gold boots. 

Seven minutes later, we're standing in the kitchen, and she's panting. "Is that everything?" 

I glance at the pile of immolated items sitting on her desk. "I think so." 

Granger looks at me, her eyes wide and shining in the scattered moonlight. "I can't believe we're leaving." 

"We've left before." 

"It's different this time. It's… final." 

We look around the cottage, at the small refuge we've built beside a wine dark sea. Granger once said we can never go home again, but I think she's wrong. I think that maybe home isn't a place you are, but a place you make. "It'll still be here, probably. Can't imagine why they'd destroy it." 

She runs her hand over the tabletop. "I know." 

"Granger—" 

"We've got to go, I know." She reaches for me and the cold, harsh knowledge of what I must do makes me shiver. 

"We made—earlier, us—that was a mistake." I watch her tender heart break in real time and it's brutal but I refuse to look away. I owe her this much. "It can't happen. We can't happen." 

"Malfoy—" 

"Don't, please, don't. Stop trying to logic your way out of this. You know I'm right. We're walking into a—a warzone. The last thing either of us needs is to be distracted by—by something so insignificant." 

"Insignificant?" She breathes. "You said you—" 

"This will only end one way, Granger and I—I'm not going to—to fuck your life up anymore than I already have. You're too vital to the war effort. To your friends."

"Why do you get to decide what's best for me?! I'm an adult, Malfoy, I'm fully capable of—" 

"No, you aren't," I say. "Not in this situation. Your need to fix things, people, it blinds—" 

"Fix things?! What—" 

"Granger, please, I can't hurt—" 

"You think I slept with you out of some misguided attempt to—to fix you?" She vacillates between insult and injury and I cannot decide which is worse. "Do you really know me so little?"

I swallow and the lump in my throat gets no smaller and the nails of my remaining hand are bending beneath the force of me pressing them into my palm. "I'm right." 

Granger scoffs. "By whose warped definition? Yours?" 

I cannot bring myself to speak, I can barely bring myself to look at her. She’d never willingly hurt me and, when it comes to breaking things, I’m much more the expert.

"After all this time, after everything that's happened, and you're still a coward." The look she gives me is scathing, even behind the tears in her eyes. “Why?”

“I’m my father’s son,” is the only thing I can offer that won’t flay me alive just to say.

Her mouth hangs open a moment, ostensibly considering how best to address my failures before finally, "We need to go.” She threads her arm through mine.

I offer no contention and, in the next moment, space sunders, and we are pulled outside of time. The cottage stands empty and alone in our wake.

Headquarters is its only special brand of hell. While technically larger than the cottage by many degrees, the ancestral home of the Longbottom family is in arguably a much worse state. Everything is peeling, from the carpet to the wallpaper. Windows are dingy and foggy, the stairs creak with every step. The cloying scent of musty antiques and ancient furniture hangs about every room. It’s hideous, truly, but that’s not the worst part, not by a longshot. No, the worst part is all the fucking people.

They’re everywhere. Dozens of them, most members of the Order or their families. They spill out of every room, lining hallways with pathetic little beds and piles of belongings. From the moment we arrive, I feel as if I’m suffocating in an ocean of other people. I can barely breathe, having gone from near solitude to the Great Hall on the first day of the year. Instinctually, I want to reach for Granger, to ground myself with the presence of her, but she’s already gone.

Despite it being the middle of the night, the aging mansion is alight with activity. People running to and fro, making food or summoning bandages or practicing stunner spells on one another in the kitchen hallway. Through it all, there is an undercurrent of tension, made only worse by my arrival. Everyone that looks at me does so with guarded danger. Silent, implied wishes of violence. Fucking wonderful.

Luna greets us and from there it's a whirlwind of information I am too overwhelmed to try and remember. My mother is dead. I’ve intentionally burned the bridge I built with Granger, and every other person in this shithole wants me dead. What good, really, is war intel to someone like me? It’s not as if I’ve any fucking use for it. 

“Draco, we’ve made space for you in the attic with Pansy and Theo,” Luna explains.

At the mention of their names I perk up enough to latch onto whatever conversation I’m about to become a part of. “They’re here?”

Luna nods. “Oh yes, very much so. It’s the safest place for them.” Whether it’s from the Death Eaters or the Order, she does not specify. Perhaps it's both. “Hermione can show you where to go. I’ve got to get back outside. We’re training the bullywugs to hunt and it is very time-consuming translating for Padma and Susan.” She leaves, and it is the two of us once again.

“This way,” Granger instructs, marching up the central staircase, not bothering to check to see if I’m following. “It’s on the third floor.”

As we ascend, the crowds of people begin to thin, somewhat, until we’re standing before a sad little door, in the corner of a filthy hallway, and finally, moderately, alone. “Granger—”

“You’ve said enough, Malfoy.” She looks cold and closed off. “Just go upstairs.”

Even though I chose this path, even though I know it’s the safest and smartest course of action, all those weak parts of me still demand to be felt, to be heard. “I’m sorry,” I offer, as if it does anything at all.

“So am I.” It feels very much like a breakup, which is a bitter, bitter pill to swallow. 

I look at her mouth, at the way she chews the inside of her cheek, and my heart clenches. Knowing the feeling of her against me, knowing what it’s like to kiss her, has made everything immeasurably harder, infinitely worse. “I don’t regret it.”

She sighs. “I wish you did. It would make this—it would be easier to hate you.”

In only an hour, I’ve set fire to the only good thing to ever happen to me and now I am standing in the remnants, watching it simmer into nothing. I have to keep telling myself it’s for the best. Because it is. Because it has to be. Because there is no future where it doesn’t end just like this. “You used to hate me once, I’m sure it’ll return easily enough.” I sound as pathetic as I look, as I feel. 

“Draco, you—I’m tired of pulling you back from the edge. I’ve given you every chance to succeed. Why must you sabotage everything, time and again? How does this help? What does this even achieve?”

“Things are—”

“Do you really think going back to the way things were is better ? Were you truly so miserable playing nice with me, with yourself, that you’d rather deny yourself the chance to get better?”

“Fixing people is your calling, Granger, not mine. I was never interested in repairing whatever broken things you saw in me. That was your crusade.”

“Wanting the best for you is not the hero complex that you insist it is. I—care about you. Not in some arrogant attempt to turn you into someone you’re not,” she says. “You are nothing but potential to be someone better. How can you not see it?”

“Oh I see it. I just don’t want it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not what I deserve.” Someone laughs, loud and shrill, and it distracts her long enough to allow me to escape. I slip inside the door before us, face yet another set of stairs, and leave her standing there, at the bottom, alone.

“Did you finally man up and do it?” Pansy asks. We’re sitting on our respect beds, facing each other in the afternoon light. I am still groggy from my attempt at sleep, and she is chewing disinterestedly on a piece of bread.

“What?”

“Granger. Did you fuck her?”

I let out a small, strangled sound.

“I was gone for like three or four days. Plenty of time for you to finally do something about all that sexual tension.”

“Shut up.” I roll over, away from her knowing stare.

“Oh my gods, you did, didn’t you? I mean, Merlin’s absolute bollocks, you actually did.”

I say nothing.

“Holy—I have so many questions. Does the carpet match—”

In a rush, I sit up and toss my pillow at her. “Pansy, seriously, stop. I’ll kill you.”

“Was she any good?” She laughs. “Did she scream? I always thought she’d be a screamer.”

Her taunts continue but I retreat to our shared bathroom before I hex the cruel smirk off of her face.

It is exceptionally easy to avoid Granger when we’re trapped in a house of what feels like a hundred people. After the initial shock of my arrival wears off—something I’m sure she had to do with—I am largely ignored. Perhaps all that vitriol I faced in my early days at the cottage has been repurposed for the looming end of the war. All for the best, because truly I am strung so fucking tightly, the littlest thing is bound to set me off. It’s interesting what heartache does to a person. I’ve never before had the pleasure.

Luna visits at some point in the first day or so we’re there. I’m given a small list of rules to follow—all of which boil down to don’t be a fucking asshole—as well as permission to use the facilities as needed. Aside from food, the sad little dorm they’ve stashed us wayward Slytherins into has everything required to keep someone alive. So in matters of sustenance, I am forced to endure the presence of other people long enough to take meals from the kitchen.

Because everything is in fucking chaos at all times here, people eat at all hours of the day and night. There is some kind of mission room dominating the entire dining room, forcing those of us with food to retreat to the breakfast nook, or the hallways, or even just outside. There is a sprawling, overgrown garden behind the house, complete with a drained swimming pool and a fountain that looks like it hasn’t worked since the turn of the century.

I catch glimpses of her now and again, head buried in a book or in conversation with the people she should be surrounded by. Weasley is nowhere to be seen, thank fuck, but the others are. Faces I remember from our time at Hogwarts, faces I am used to seeing in her company. Aside from some errant eye contact that only brings the full force of what I’ve destroyed back upon me like a violent wave, we do not acknowledge the other’s existence. And that’s fine.

 It’s so late, it’s come back ‘round to being early, and I am in the mercifully empty kitchen, trying in vain to make a cup of tea with one hand. My wand does most of the work, but some things are too specific and require a dexterous touch. I keep my swearing to a volume well below muttering, and rush to get this fucking humiliating task done.

Potter and Granger walk in and it’s like the air is pulled from the room. They were clearly in some sort of heated debate, but the moment we all recognize each other’s presence, it’s as if they’ve gone mute. She looks at me, only a moment, and it is a bitter victory to see how miserable she is. I’ve ruined everything as intended, but at least, even if it was only a small flicker of a feeling, she is suffering too. Not that I wanted to hurt her—truly everything and anything but—however, at least I know it was real. Even for just a second, it was real.

Potter looks between the two of us. “Hermione?”

“I’ve—potions.” She turns and practically sprints from the room, leaving me alone with the Boy Wonder.

I sip my newly finished tea and wait for another of his misguided attempts at defending her honor. It never comes. Instead, he wordlessly joins me at the stove and pours his own cup. We stand a respectable distance apart and watch birds preen themselves in the stagnant water of the fountain.

“So, what’d you do?” he eventually asks, voice the picture of forced casualness. 

I snort into my cup. “What makes you think I did something?”

“Because Hermione told me as much.”

I shouldn’t be surprised and yet, it feels ever so slightly like a betrayal. “Good for her.”

Potter takes a long drink. “I’ve had time to think.”

“That’s a first.”

“And, as much as it pains me to say it, I owe you an apology.” He glances at me.

Shock colors my features before I can stop it. “Why?” I narrow my eyes.

When he sighs, it’s as if his whole body deflates. “Because you were there for her. You saw what was really going on and—and you helped her through it.” He shoves his glasses up to drag a hand down his face. “She’s my best friend. And you’re hers.”

“Jealous, Potter?” I ask, unable to help myself.

“Yeah, actually, I am,” he says. “Destroying Tom and ending this reign of terror is the only priority I’ve been allowed to have, but that doesn’t mean I’ve not missed the things—the people I’ve left behind.” Wistfully, he stares out the window again. “I’d always hoped that once this was all over, I could go back and fix things. Make everything as it was before everything went to hell. And now, now…” he trails off.

“Now, what?”

Potter shakes his head somewhat, pulling himself out of unspoken thoughts. “Thank you, Malfoy.” We watch a sparrow rip a poor, unsuspecting worm from the ground. “You need to apologize to her.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” I say automatically. “What’s done is done.”

“Hermione has never stopped to care what other people think. That’s not going to change now, not after all she’s done for you.”

“I won’t let—”

“A month ago, you sat across from me at a table and said that Hermione will do whatever it is that Hermione wants to do.”

“And you told me that her kind heart would be her undoing, and that I was nothing more than a mistake,” I counter. “That she would never love me.” The truth stings like salt in an open wound. “And you were right.”

“No,” he sounds defeated, exhausted with the weight of the world he’s chosen to bear. “I was wrong.”

I stare at him in silent disbelief. 

“And furthermore, I trust her. So,” and he is the fucking epitome of pained, “so I trust you.”

More silent, abject disbelief.

“Apologize, Malfoy, before the battle arrives and your safety, and hers, is out of your control.” The Boy Wonder downs the rest of the poorly made tea, leaving me to watch the birds in quiet contemplation.

Moody arrives and I realize why things at the mansion felt so disorganized. The moment their intrepid leader sets foot on the grounds, people whip themselves into shape. By the time he’s setting up and gathering the troops into the makeshift war room, it's as if everyone has been holding their breath, waiting for this moment of release.

I linger near the stairs, needing to know what is to come, but unwilling to make myself seen. 

“In four days, we’re going to attack Malfoy Manor.” A raucous cheer echoes through the crowd. “But before that, we’ve got to talk strategy. I’ve put Ron to work planning how to draw out that excess Death Eaters currently flocking to Tom. It’s a solid plan, but only one aspect of the coming battle. Group A,” he gestures to the left half of the room, “is in charge of the actual attack. Once we’re inside the grounds, it will be you who keep as many of the remaining Death Eaters busy as possible. Lupin and Tonks will lead.” 

“Can’t bloody wait!” One of the nameless idiots calls out.

“Group B,” the right side of the room perks up, “is to help with infiltration. While Group A is engaging with the enemy, you are to get inside the manor and clear out any remaining traps, tricks, or Death Eaters. Cho and Neville will lead you through the plan in more specific detail after we’re finished here.”

“We love a challenge!”

“Finally, Group C. Hermione, Ginny, and Luna, you are responsible for getting Harry to Tom. Our sources say he has taken refuge in the upper wing of the manor, and is most certainly barricaded behind all manner of protection. His inner circle is bound to be there as well. Killing them isn’t your concern, just keeping them away from Harry. Understood?”

I watch Granger from where she stands near the front, bushy hair moving as she nods.

“What about the wards?”

My blood runs cold. I think back to what Moody said, that night at the cottage. I never properly answered him, not that I was truly planning on it with the way everything has gone down, but all at once, I realize that I cannot avoid this. I brace for impact. 

“Mr. Malfoy?” Moody calls out and slowly everyone turns to look in my direction, even Granger. 

I swallow and stare back at him, saying nothing.

“The time has come for you to prove your worth. Only a full–blooded Malfoy can breach the wards regardless of intent or invitation, and as I’m sure you’re aware, you are the only living one at our disposal.”

A thousand things come to mind but I wrestle my pride under control. “The moment I step foot on the grounds, they will know. It’s been nearly seven months since I was last there, protections and preventions are bound to be in place.”

“Our sources tell us that the magic remains untouched.”

Fucking Snape. “Even if that’s true, only I can enter.”

“You and whoever you decide to bring with you.”

I scoff. “You want me to systematically walk each and everyone of you through the wards? That’ll take an age. The Death Eaters would arrive long before then.”

Moody shakes his head. “No, Mr. Malfoy, I don’t intend for you to be our doorman. What I need, what the Order needs, is for you to dismantle them.”

The silence is so thick, I can practically taste it. Granger’s gaze is weighted, demanding even though we stand on opposite sides of the room, but I cannot bring myself to look at her. “You want me to break into the manor, sneak past what is sure to be a literal fucking cornucopia of traps, march into my father’s study, and undo three centuries of blood magic without being caught?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a suicide mission.”

Moody says nothing.

“Absolutely not,” Granger snaps, pulling some of the attention mercifully off of me. “No. We’re not doing that.”

“It’s not up to you, Ms. Granger.”

“And it’s not up to you, either. Draco is a person, someone we chose to save, and I will not let you manipulate him into killing himself for this war.”

“It’s not mani—”

“You’ve asked him to prostrate himself for the good of the world in front of a room of people who hate him, Moody. Yes, it is.”

My angry, indignant golden girl. “I’ll do it.” For the second time, I watch her heart break and wish that it is enough to stave off my self-hatred. 

“Draco—”

“It’s fine. It’s not like anyone else can do it, anyway.” I shrug, playing at calm while my entire hand trembles in my pocket. “I want this all to be over just as much as the rest of you. So, fine. It’s fine. I’ll see that it’s done.”

Moody gives me an appraising nod. “Excellent.” Everyone turns back to him, and I sag into the wall to stay upright. “You all have your jobs. You all know by now what needs to be done to prepare for them. Stay strong, stay vigilant. The final battle is at hand.”

Chapter Text

Coming home should feel like less of a punishment. Headquarters is just as I remember it, albeit more frenzied and with a marked increase in occupants. The Longbottom Estate is ancient, having stood proud and tall since before the Ministry even existed. In better days, I'm sure it was gorgeous. The grounds are massive, an overgrown garden giving way to what feels like an ocean of rolling hills. There are at least two fountains that probably inspired awe once upon a time. In its current state however, it's more cobwebs and dust than it is opulent ornamentation. Neville swears his Nan used to take better care of it before the war, but I find that hard to believe. Regardless, I've never been one to put much interest in things like this. The cottage was hardly what one would call nice. 

I miss it, though, my aging house by the sea. We've been here for over a week now and it's the longest I've gone without waking to the scent of brine on the morning breeze. Now when I can't sleep—which is every night—I am unable to sit on a sagging pine porch and watch the ocean beat mercilessly against the pitted black rock. It calmed me, or so I liked to think. If I'm honest, it was probably the company that truly helped. Unfortunately, the brutal truth holds little water when I'm as wrung out as I currently am. 

Withdrawal was easier when it was intentional. In our frenzied rush to abandon our cottage, I had been too wrapped up in the lingering taste of Draco on my tongue to bother grabbing my last two emergency pain potions. Technically I possess everything here to brew another batch but that's currently impossible with Ginny flitting in and out of the relegated potion room every hour to check on me. Not to mention Neville acting as my potions partner means I'm kept under careful observation. I cannot speak to the deliberate nature of it but past experiences tell me coincidence is rarely the answer. 

Therefore, thanks to being unable to make more, I am fully in the throes of withdrawal at this point and the symptoms make it exceedingly difficult to hide. Tremors, short but sudden, wrack my body at random intervals. Every attempt at eating ends in all-consuming nausea. My patience is a razor thin wire stretched to its limit. Everything about me feels brittle and unstable, like clay left too long in the sun. It takes a significant amount of effort not to snarl at Neville everytime he so much as opens his mouth. Communication is paramount to the excessive amount of potions we are brewing and I've sacrificed so much to get here, to this wretched war, I cannot risk it all now because I am irritable. So I muster up the dregs of my once infamous tenacity and keep moving forward. 

At least I don't have to see Draco. Ever since he agreed to be our proverbial lamb marched to slaughter, he's become even more of a ghost. When he's not sequestered in the attic with the other turncoats, he is off in some distant corner of the garden, practicing spellcasting with his new partner, Theo Nott. It appears that the former Slytherin bigot turned Order errand boy has taken up the mantle of helping Draco prepare for his upcoming suicide mission. It brings me a modicum of relief knowing that he is not plunging headfirst into certain doom without at least some forethought. In a perfect world, I'd be the one countering his ever increasingly accurate stinging hexes, but there is only this world, in all its imperfect glory, and I settle for chewing mint leaves to cope with what I cannot have.

So we drift further apart, ships on an endless sea, beholden utterly to the whims of our nameless emotions. 

There is a small glimmer of light, of victory, amidst my new miserable normal. Neville's grandmum, in her long gone youth, used to train magical horses for racing. She had a keen eye for which beasts made for the best champions apparently, and spent decades honing her craft before the practice was outlawed. Which is for the best, of course, because horseracing is abhorrent but her ill begotten gains have given me access to the one thing I've been unable to reach: Abraxan hair. 

I'm three hours into a five hour marathon brew when I glance up to the ingredients cabinet to finally notice the glass jar tucked away on the highest shelf. It glints in the light, the afternoon sun hitting it in just the right way to pull my attention. I squint for a moment, drinking in what it is I am seeing, before letting out a small gasp. 

"Alright?" Neville asks. 

I charm the spoon to keep stirring and, with reverential hands, approach the glass and stone cabinet. "Is this real Abraxan hair?" 

He hurries over to me and we both stare up at the bundle of hair looped in on itself, sitting undisturbed in an otherwise unremarkable specimen jar. "I believe so, yes. Gran used to race em, way back when. Not really surprised she kept a few trophies." 

It's like some dusty, darkened part of me whirs to life and the familiar urge to act descends upon me like an unruly cat. Immediately I want to disregard the third batch of generic healing potion I've been working on and dive headfirst into my illustrious and lofty side project. There is a small pinprick of irony that I remembered to grab my research on the Shield potion but not a single pain potion in our hurried escape. The telltale notebook screams silently at me from where I've stashed it in my extended bag but I, with a tremendous amount of self-control, disregard the siren song. 

"How interesting," I finally respond but by then, Neville has wandered back over to his workstation, leaving me alone with my tempestuous and useless thoughts. 

In another life, perhaps. In a perfect world. 

The body wash in the upstairs bathroom is lavender scented and every time it wafts over me, I feel wrong. Out of sync. Like I'm standing in the doorway, trying to remember what it is I'm missing, even if by all accounts nothing is actually gone. A phantom pain, the echo of the ache. 

"Have you spoken to Ron?" Ginny asks me over breakfast the next morning. 

"No." Not that I've had the chance. He's been in and out all week, stopping by just long enough to shower and eat before vanishing back into the wild. I've yet to be briefed on the specifics of what he's doing and I find that I don't really care. 

"You should." 

"It's kind of difficult to have a conversation with someone who's never here," I respond. "And besides, I've nothing to say to him even if he were." 

"Why? I thought you two made up, or at least hashed it all out, when you destroyed the Diadem." 

I think back to that night and the only thing that stands out is the look of remembering on Draco's face when I told him his mother was dead. "We didn't really have time to talk."

"You should make time now, before the battle." 

With a notable amount of exasperation I set my half eaten toast down onto the plate. "There is no point, Ginny." 

"Hermione, he's one of your oldest friends!" She admonishes. "And someone you claimed to love, at least once upon a time." 

How trivial it all seems now, in retrospect. How banal. "Ron has made it abundantly clear how he feels about me and my choices as of late. He wants me to apologize as if I've done something wrong when I haven't. My friendship with Draco—" 

"What friendship? I've yet to see the two of you exchange so much as a hello since you got here. Bit fairweather of him, don't you think?" 

Beneath the table, I dig my nails deeper into the side of my leg. "Things are—complicated right now. Coming here has upset what was a very delicate balance and truly, I've other more pressing matters to deal with." It's a non-answer and the look on Ginny's face confirms it. 

"Hermione," she reaches across the table and grabs my other hand. "I won't pretend to understand or even like whatever bizarre peace you've struck with Malfoy, but I know now that you cannot be talked out of it."

"I—"

"That being said," she hurries on, "I do have to ask if it is worth throwing away your friendship with Ron." To punctuate the question, she gives me a searching look. 

"He threw me away first." 

The words hit her like a curse and she recoils. "What? No he didn't! What are you talking about?" When I fail to elaborate, she shakes her head. "If this is about your—your accident, then—" 

My palms hit the table so hard, the teacups threaten to rattle right over the edge. "Punishing me for what was the single lowest point of my life is not as constructive as you think!" 

The few others eating in the dining room do a poor job of pretending not to listen. Ginny glances at them, and then back at me. "You think we're punishing you?" she asks, one octave below a proper snarl. "Hermione you—you nearly died. What were we supposed to do? You couldn't carry on here, not in that state. It's not as if we're burdened with free time and opportunities to get you the help you needed. What would you have had us do, hmm? Just let you step back into the role that almost killed you? We had no other choice!"

"You could have asked me!" I shriek. "You could have asked me what I wanted, what I thought would help." 

"Yes because you were in such a rational state to begin with. You would have refused any help, Hermione. You would have just picked yourself up and carried on as if nothing had happened."

"So you lock me up? You—you ship me off like some bastard child? Ginny—" 

"What else could we do?!" She demands, voice breaking with a sob. 

"I don't know!" I am crying, even though I am indignant. "I don't know but—but we could have found out—you could have tried ."

We stare at each other across the table. There is always a table, always an obstacle, always a divide forced between us. 

"You're right." Her eyes are so blue, and she looks so very much like Ron. "We could have. But we didn't."

"But you didn't," I echo. 

Her shoulders roll forward, as if her entire body wishes to curl up into something safer and softer than this. "So what do we do now? How do we move forward?" 

It's bitter all the way down to the root. "I don't know if we can." 

She nods, trembling, and walks out of the room. Our audience watches her go and when they turn back to me, I am already gone. 

Sleep is such a novel idea at this point, I wonder if I've ever properly known how it feels to not be exhausted. It feels as if I've been fighting this war my entire life. I cannot possibly imagine a world in which I am not. Perfect indeed. 

The ceiling of my room is upsettingly different from the one back in the cottage. It lacks the water damage, for one, and is overlaid with some sort of vaguely French design. I wonder if the Palace of Versailles sports such ostentatious ceilings and if so, I wonder who inspired whom. Regardless, it's a world away from what I'm used to and does little to soothe me into slumber. Luna's gentle snoring definitely doesn't help. 

The clock reads 3:10 am and I give up on my pursuit for the night. With a silent stretch, I slip out of bed. Might as well enjoy a change of scenery. Pulling on the jumper I wore when Draco kissed me—it's gray, because of course it is—I close the door behind me with a click and steal off into the dark. 

It takes careful maneuvering to navigate the human minefield that is the second floor hallway. There are bodies everywhere, dozens of last minute allies come to support the cause, with absolutely nowhere to put them. It's chaos most of the time, but the subtle sounds of others sleeping is a nice backdrop to my trek to the window on the far side of the estate. 

It's just as I remember, caked in dust and cobwebs save for the bottom edge where it's been pulled up and down a dozen times. Clutching my wand between my teeth, I shimmy it open just enough to squeeze through and scamper up the incline of the roof. There is a small area, where the roof of the floor below meets the one of the attic and creates the perfect perch to sit on and watch the world go by. As I crest over the top, I am met with the green-eyed stare of Harry Potter. Fitting, truly, because this always was our little secret. 

He doesn't appear surprised at my arrival. Instead, he wordlessly slides over and I settle in close beside him. It's familiar, but in a way that does not sting and burrow. Home is still a foreign, lost concept, but it is comforting to sit side by side with my oldest friend and feel the bony press of his shoulder into mine. 

Or at least it is until a tremor quakes through me. His head turns slightly and he gives me a cautious look. 

"I'm in withdrawal," I confess because to lie now seems monumentally irrelevant. 

If he is disappointed, he doesn't show it. "I thought you quit." 

"I know." 

"Are you gonna be alright?" 

"Eventually. It takes a while for my system to re-calibrate. It's uncomfortable but it'll pass." My tone is reassuring, as if he's the one who needs help. 

"Can I do anything?" 

"Not really, no." 

Silence, heavy but not tense, and then, "Is this still because of Ernie?" 

Bile rises unbidden in the back of my throat and I swallow down the urge to puke myself into a stupor. "I don't know, honestly. Yes and also no."

"You could have told me, Hermione. You could have told me about Ernie." 

"No, I couldn't," I say, "but I wished that I could." 

Harry scoots closer to me, as if we could let the lines blur and melt into the other. Maybe home isn't a place. Maybe it's a person. "I spoke to Malfoy." 

Despite it all, I tense. "Oh?" 

"He's… I apologized for some of the shitty things I said to him. He doesn't deserve it, in my opinion, but I'm trying to see him as you do." 

"Why?" 

"Because you're my best friend," he sighs, "and you're in love with him." 

Again, to lie would be pointless and so, "I am." 

"Does he know?" 

I shake my head. "I don't think so, no. He's sure that I'm just trying to fix him. He sees himself as a broken project that I'm desperate to repair." 

"And that's not the case?" 

"Maybe once upon a time, yes, but not now, not anymore. I stopped trying to fix others when I failed to fix myself." My leg is tight, the ruined muscle aching in response. 

"I heard about your fight with Ginny." 

"The whole house has by now, I'm sure." 

"I'm sorry, you know, for the way we treated you." Harry stares forlornly out at the dark, rolling hills. “There’s no excuse but, all the same, it was never supposed to be a punishment. We were just—we’re all so young and the amount of life we’ve lived is exceptionally small.” His shoulder sags further into mine. “I just don’t think we knew what to do with you. We were scared. We still are.”

“And that’s the crux of it all, I suppose. We’re all too young and scared to know what to do, and yet we must keep doing it.” I take a deep breath. “I deserved better but I also cannot in good faith say that I would have behaved any differently, had it been one of you.”

“Hermione.” It’s the way he says my name, weighted and deadly serious that sends a shiver up my spine.

“Harry.”

“I—” A shudder passes through him and into me. “I’m going to die.”

“Wh—what?”

“It’s me. I’m the final Horcrux.”

My heart thumps violently into my chest and there are no words to be found. All I can do is shake my head in disbelief. 

“The diary that Luna had to translate it—I started to suspect there was more than just Nagini and after speaking with Snape about it—it’s as the prophecy said. There’s no other way.”

My fingers shake as they reach out and grasp the side of his face. “There must be.”

“I’ve got to be destroyed in order for Tom to die. It’s… inevitable.”

“Are you sure?” It nearly kills me to ask.

Harry’s face is a ruin of the worst kind: broken resignation. “Yes.”

“Who—who else knows?”

“Just Moody. I told him my suspicions before we left to get the Diadem and he… he agrees with me.”

The heartbreak on his face when he said goodbye that day shifts into cruel, clear focus. “I don’t… this is so…” I shake with withdrawal and rage and the blinding unfairness of it all. Tears sting my already raw eyes.

He just drops his head on my shoulder and nods. There is nothing more to be said and so we sit in jagged silence and let the grim inevitability of it all bury us alive.

Except, I refuse to accept this bitter end until I am sure we’ve run out of options. I am simply too indignant and proud to admit defeat, even in the face of rigid prophecy and the whims of fate. So the next morning, I hunt Neville down.

“I need your help with something.”

“Of course. What did you have in mind?”

“So, you know the Shield spell…”

Harry has asked me not to tell anyone else, despite the significance of his confession. It's an exceptionally heavy secret to bare alone, but the terror in his eyes when he begged for my confidence haunts me. Therefore, I keep my frantic and desperate motives to myself and instead pretend that I am doing this just to try it, and not because the fate of my oldest friend hangs precariously in the balance.

Neville and I have had to significantly alter the original design of the formula to make up for the lack of time we have to actually brew it. Still, I had enough forethought to bring the lingering remains of my last attempt with me when we left the cottage, in addition to the tattered notebook of observations, and both are indispensable in reverse engineering the base. The Abraxan hair is unbelievably potent, thankfully, and works exactly like Malfoy and I had hypothesized. 

The fact that he isn't around to be smug and annoying about it dampens a lot of the success I should be feeling. At least Neville is in good spirits. He chatters endlessly about the potential applications of our little last ditch effort and makes several plans to experiment with it once we win. 

The "if" at the end of that statement goes unsaid, even as it lingers like a bad aftertaste. 

Days blink by and the battle looms on the coming horizon. The tremors abate but my fingertips tingle and nausea washes over me at odd, uncomfortable intervals. It's miserable, and the tension thrumming through the estate does nothing to help. 

Everyone is stretched too tight, like taut wire, and the energy of every room swings wildly between excitement, anticipation, and fear. There've been several screaming matches born of that tumultuous mix of emotion, and I've walked into three different rooms to three different couples in varying states of undress. The impatience to end this four year long hell is like a fever sweeping from person to person. We're all coping in our way. 

Ron comes back. At one point we find ourselves alone in the dining room and the cavern of expectation between us is yawning, endless. The things left unsaid could drown us if we let them. I look to him to set the scene. 

"Alright?" he finally asks. 

"Alright." 

And that, apparently, is that. 

With tense, bated breath, and without a single drop to spare, Neville and I pour our only completed batch of Shield potion into an innocuous glass vial. It's gray, like the North Sea at the backdoor of my cottage by the sea. There is the slightest shimmer when the sunlight hits it and we have no idea if it'll even work. It's the most beautiful thing I think I've ever seen. 

The day of the battle arrives in a quiet rush, the dawn breaking cold and blue over the rolling hills of the Longbottom Estate. As the dew dissipates with the rising sun, the Order comes to life. We aren't slated to attack until well into the late, late night, but there are still things to be done. Molly Weasley runs around, making a massive, indulgent breakfast spread and losing herself in the momentum. I spare her a gentle smile but the look in her eyes is distant and detached. If she makes it through this with her remaining children intact, she'll still never be the same. None of us will. 

When Harry appears, a cheer ripples through the crowd of people crammed into the kitchen. Hands clap forcefully against his back and I wonder if anyone sees him flinch. His expression is slightly pained, but it can easily be misconstrued as humbled, uncomfortable with the praise. We make eye contact across the room and I want to burn the ugly acceptance from his green, green eyes. 

At some point, the adoring masses abate and he slips unbidden into the mercifully empty living room. Wordlessly, I follow him and we enjoy a cup of tea in companionable silence before I launch into my counter–attack.

I take the vial out and hand it to him. “Here.”

He glances down at it, dubious. “That looks dreadful. What is it?”

“It’s a distilled version of the Shield charm, suffused into potion form,” I say. “It’s the only dose we were able to make in time and I must admit, I’m not sure if it will work.” 

“Hermione.” Even Harry, for all his slacking and admittedly understandable distractions during our years at Hogwarts, can appreciate the depth of what I’ve just handed him. “This is…how?”

“Lots of hard work, tears, and several midnight excursions with Dra—Malfoy.” I swallow the last mint leaf I’ve tucked behind my teeth. “And a last minute, extremely clutch ingredient on behalf of Neville’s grandmother.”

He has yet to take it and instead, after a few more moments of staring in wonder, gently pushes my hand away. “I—I can’t.”

“Harry—”

“No.” Though it is soft and low, his tone is still dangerous. The dying desperation of a dying man. “It has to be this way. I have to d—I have to, alright?”

In the end, I knew he would do this. I knew he would say no. Just as I knew that logically, he is right. Tenacity, though, and a healthy dose of arrogance go a long way to burying that denial. “I—” There are a million things I wish to say and to scream but truthfully, there is no point. “Alright.”

We embrace and wallow in silence that it is probably our last.

Luna puts on a record and drags Neville into the parlor. They sway to the music as the sun sets on our final day and it moves me so greatly, I retreat. I've got something to do, anyway. My work is done, all the potions that could be brewed are and have since been passed around to those that will carry them into the fray. All but one.

We collide on the second story landing, in a rush of emotion. It appears he was looking for me just as desperately as I was looking for him. Something about the inevitable end, and the grim fate that potentially awaits us all has inspired that last bit of courage necessary to stop pretending as if we do not want this.

Draco grabs my hand and drags me into the nearest room. It is empty, save for us and the magnitude of what we must still say to one another. Distantly, the music drifts upstairs and it is melancholy made real. We don’t touch, though my body keens for it. 

“I have something for you,” I break the stilted silence and hand him the vial. “The Shield potion, I finished it. I’m not sure if—if it’ll work but I need you to have it. To take it, I mean, when you—when you go do what it is you must do.”

Draco looks from the swirling gray liquid to me and back again. "Granger… how?" 

"It doesn't matter." 

"Is this—what about Potter? If anyone has to live through this, it's him." 

I shake my head slowly. "He—he can't. And as much as I wish it weren't true, it is, and so I'm going to use this to—to keep at least one person I love alive." 

His face is inscrutable in the dying light and I cannot put together how he reacts to my confession. For a while he looks down at the vial in his hand, rolling it back and forth as if it will help him come to whatever decision he has to make. Downstairs, the record skips and something familiar and forlorn begins. It’s the song from the Yule Ball that we all danced to, when things were easy and simple. When my biggest worry was whether or not I’d step on my dress and not if the man I love actually wants to love me back.

“Will you dance with me?” he finally asks, slipping the vial into his pocket to offer me his hand. 

I stare at it and wonder what he’s doing. “I’m not very good.”

“I don’t care.”

With trepidation, I lace our fingers together and let myself be pulled softly to him. We press ourselves together, connecting with touch and heat and something ephemeral, something important. Draco drops his forehead to mine, and leads me through the dance. It’s hardly graceful, between my rigid leg and his lack of left hand to properly guide me into each step, but it’s perfect in the way I wish the world was and I indulge in the fantasy of what could be.

Despite it all, he still smells like imitation strawberries. It takes me back to the nights we trudged through shadowed forests, and he wormed his way persistently into my heart. I wonder if I could pinpoint the moment he stole it. I suppose it was inevitable, like the waning tide and the coming end. We were on a collision course from the moment Harry brought him to my door and I wonder if I am better for having loved him. I like to think I am, even if he is convinced that I don’t. That I’m not. 

He kisses me softly at the very edge of my mouth, and brings his lips to my ear. “I won’t say it,” he whispers, “if you don’t want me to. We can just be this, such as it is, and that would be enough.”

“I want you to.”

“Are you sure? Because I cannot take it back, I cannot unspeak the words, even if they ruin everything.”

“They won’t,” I insist.

The song ends and he steps away, breaking every point of contact we’d created. Though the space is small, less than the length of my hand, it feels like an ocean. “I love you.” It’s as if the words burn their way out of him. “I love you and I—I don’t know how to cope with it. It's like I'm drowning inside my body, like I'm—I'm fucking adrift in this life I've made with you. I've never—I didn't even know I was capable of this. And now I'm hopeless. I'm fucking hopeless and I love you and I cannot fucking deal with it. It's too big, too bright, you are just so—it's like staring into the sun. Even if I look away, the afterimage of you lingers, burned permanently into the black everytime I close my eyes.” He runs his fingers roughly through his hair. “You haunt me, Granger.”

“But I love—”

“No. I can’t bear it, please,” he begs, desperate and swift. “Not here, and not now. Not with what is waiting for me, with what I must yet do.”

“Draco,” I reach for his hand. “This may be the only time I’ve got to—to say it. Don’t rob me of this. Please.”

He shakes his head slightly. “If you say it then I’ll break and there is no threat of violence or war great enough to force me into that fucking manor one last time. I will steal you like a thief and drag us from this fucking place, this broken world, into somewhere safe. The promise of hearing you say it is the only thing keeping me in line.”

I stare at him, bewildered and silent.

“I need something to come back to,” he says.

“And I’ll be here! I’ll be here even if I—”

“Yes, but you’re frustratingly adept when you’re denied something you want. This is a wrong you wish to right and I’m betting on that stubbornness to see you through this nightmare alive.” He kisses me, urgently, desperately. I want to argue, to demand he listen to reason, but I want him, and I want this, more. 

The depth of our shared desire carries us backwards and into the wall, his body pressing me harshly into the faded wallpaper. His deft hand skitters across my skin, as if he wishes to memorize every inch. I slip my fingers beneath his shirt to feel his chest, his ribs, the way his heart hammers anxiously in its cage. I too wish to remember, to sear the map of his body into my brain. 

“You aren’t allowed to die,” I whisper between frenzied kisses.

“I won’t if you won’t,” he murmurs back.

I pull back just enough to see his face, to catch the starlight in his lovely features. “Promise me, Draco.”

“I love you,” is all he says in return.

All at once the door swings open and Luna rushes in. He tries to spring away but I cling to him, anchoring him in place. Luna doesn’t even have the grace to look surprised. “It’s time.”

And so the hourglass runneth dry.

I kiss him again, even with the audience of one, and reluctantly let him go.

I don't notice the little gray vial he slipped back into my pocket until it is far too late.

Chapter Text

"Are you scared?" Theo asks. "I'd be." 

I stare out over the darkened, overgrown lawn. We're standing just at the edge of the light that spills from the open door, lingering at the fringes of the crowd while Moody gruffs his way through an uninspiring speech. Potter is beside him, turning all shades of green, and fidgeting with his cloak. The soon to be savior of the Wizarding world looks ready to puke. "No more than the Boy Wonder is, I reckon." 

Pansy makes a small noise, somewhere between humor and indignation. "As if he's even going to be doing anything." 

"He has to kill the Dark Lord," Theo admonishes. 

"And we have to kill everyone fucking else. Hardly what I'd call fair." 

"So you'd rather go up against the Dark Lord?" 

She gives him a sour look. "I'd rather go home, actually, but the Order burned it to the ground last month." Her attention shifts to me. "Reckon by night's end they'll destroy yours, too." 

"Good," I say. "Let it fucking rot." 

Moody makes a sweeping gesture and the people around us make a single, subdued attempt at cheering. The mood is tense, however, and revelry feels perverse in the face of what we're about to do. 

"For those we've lost," he bellows. 

"And for those who are left!" They respond. 

Potter raises his wand, sending a jet of white light streaking into the black sky. It signals the end and the crack of Apparition thunders around us. As the crowd thins, Moody lumbers over to me. 

"Ready, Mr. Malfoy?" 

I straighten my shoulders. "Yes." The time for being a smarmy fuck has past, left behind alongside my brittle self-preservation and a small, impossibly silver vial. I can feel the weight of her stare from across the lawn, but I cannot bring myself to meet it. 

"Group C will accompany you to the edge of the Manor and you'll wait there for Ron's signal to begin." He checks a battered watch clinging to his wrist. "It should be less than five minutes from when you arrive." 

"Alright." 

"Do you remember the plan?" 

"Yes." 

“And the contingency?”

“Yes,” I say, swallowing down the accompanying wave of nausea. 

Moody nods, his ragged features shifting into something a stupider man would call respect. "Your actions tonight will not go unnoticed, Draco." It should be a compliment, but I know it's a threat. 

"I'll bring the wards down." As if I'd betray them now. 

"Then the Order and the Wizarding world at large will owe you a great debt." 

Anger bubbles beneath the surface of my skin. "I'm not doing it for the fucking Order. I'm not doing it for any of them." 

He doesn't argue, just dips his massive head and turns it towards Potter and the others. "Constant vigilance. Get in, complete the task, and get out. Yes?" 

The four of them nod. 

I look over at Pansy and Theo. "Don't die." 

She smirks. "Oh please, as if I'd die wearing muggle clothing."

"We'll be fine," Theo insists, "it's you that needs to be careful." 

I grunt, unwilling to make false promises. “You remember the codeword?”

They confirm with a nod. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell—”

“No.”

Theo frowns, glancing her way. “Draco. You should—”

“He’s made his choice, Theo.” Pansy threads her arm through his. “Let him live with it.”

Were we better friends, or even just proper friends at all, this is the moment where we'd embrace but that's never been our status quo. I’ve entrusted them with something more precious than gold, but that’s only for lack of someone more deserving. With one final, grim look in my direction, they twist and Apparate away. 

Moody claps Potter roughly on the back in lieu of a goodbye and he too vanishes, leaving me with four soon to be famous War heroes and one hand. 

"You alright to Apparate?" Potter asks.

I don't dignify that with a response, choosing instead to flick my wrist and disappear with a crack. It takes all my mental fortitude to focus on my destination. This is the furthest I've traveled alone, being unable to practice any respectable distance while holed up in Longbottom's ugly fucking house. 

The earth rushes up to meet me and I land in a heap, sprawling but with all remaining appendages still intact. I stand, brushing debris from my clothes when the others arrive. 

Granger is first, ever the perfect soldier, and still I don't look at her. I can't. Instead, I let my attention be drawn to the eerie, shadowed expanse of my ancestral estate and the towering manor that looms on the distant horizon. Seven months, give or take, since I'd last set eyes upon it. The yawning hole in my recollection screams at me and panic hisses along my spine. 

The rest of my babysitters arrive and soon the five of us are standing at the edge of the property in silence that would be delectably awkward were we not preparing to march into hell itself. I can feel the ancient arcane magic of the wards licking at my skin, calling me home. I shiver in my threadbare sweater. 

"Draco, your aura is so bright tonight," Luna announces. I try not to think about the moment she walked in on and silently beg her to shut the fuck up. "I'm glad you finally told the truth." 

My jaw clenches to the point of pain and I nod tersely in her direction. "Yup." 

"Her—" 

"I hope Ron's plan works," Potter of all people cuts her off, sparing Granger and I the humiliation of Luna's ramblings. 

"He walked me through it about seven times," Ginny says. "It's sound." 

Potter looks unconvinced. "It's reckless and we're putting a lot of faith in the predictability of the Death Eaters." 

"It'll work," Granger responds. "It has too."

"Yeah, Hogwarts is important to Tom. I mean, Merlin, look at the Horcrux—" Ginny snaps her mouth shut and all eyes fall on me. 

"I know about the Horcrux," I say icily. 

"Moody told you?" 

"I did," Granger answers her.

Ginny looks deeply unhappy with that revelation but keeps any further whinging to herself. 

"Do you, uh, have any other questions, Malfoy?" Potter stutters through the bizarre attempt at camaraderie. 

"Sure. Why are you still such a ponce?" 

To my undying annoyance, he just grins slightly and pulls his angry girlfriend into some irrelevant conversation. Luna starts counting stars and Granger stops pretending we're not speaking. 

"Snape is going to meet you at the kitchen entrance." 

"I'm aware."

"He's been briefed on exactly what you have to do and he's promised to help in any way he can." 

"I know." 

"Assuming Ronald's plan works, it should be—" 

"Granger?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Stop talking." 

She wrings her hands, picking wounds into her fingertips and steps up beside me. "I could just say it." 

I go still and cold and weak all over. "Yeah you could. But you won't." 

"And why is that, exactly?" 

My strength wavers and I meet her measured gaze. She is luminescent, even in the darkness, and I am so fucked beyond all comprehension. "Because I asked you not to." 

She gives me a withering, angry look and even in apt indignation she is breathtaking. "That's unfair. You don't get to—" 

"No, I don't. But I'm going to anyway because I don't give a fuck about this war or this manor or the monster inside it. I'm doing this for you , Granger." My hand trembles with the effort I expend not to touch her. "Because you care and that's enough for me." 

"Liar," her shoulder knocks into mine and the contact nearly kills me, "you care too. You just want to pretend otherwise because it's easier to swallow." 

"Stop being clever." 

"Stop being difficult." 

Affection, like a rising tide, rushes through me. "Stay alive, Granger," I say. "This world's not worth saving if you're not around to appreciate all my hard work." 

"Draco." Her expression twists and I let myself drown, just for a moment, in the memory of her mouth on mine. Oh how I pray to gods I don’t believe in that I won’t lose it by night’s end. 

Potter hisses and pulls out a coin. "It's Ron." We all look over at him expectantly. "We're up." 

Before I can stop her, Granger throws her arms around me and buries her face in my neck. Luna beams, the She-Weasel grimaces, and Potter stares at the ground. 

"Granger," I murmur into the chaos of her hair. 

"Just the wards, alright? Nothing else." Her eyes are shining even though her face is the picture of determination. "No heroics." 

I scoff. "Please. As if you lot will leave any for the rest of us."

Her hand comes up and cups my cheek and even with the wholly unwanted audience, I lean into her touch. "I mean it. Come back to me, please." 

"I love you," I whisper back because now that I've said it, I cannot stop, and there is a creeping fear that I’ll never be able to again. Before she can break the last remaining tether of my resolve, I press a final kiss onto her forehead and untangle myself from the warmth of her embrace. An unseasonably cold breeze washes over us, sending a shiver through us all. 

"Don't die, Malfoy," Potter offers unhelpfully. 

"Remember to duck!" Luna sings. 

"Try not to fuck it up," Ginny grunts, begrudging and hostile. 

With these parting words, I step through the unseen barrier and into the waiting dark. 

It's deathly quiet save for the slip of my trainers on the damp grass and the slam of my heart into my chest. Every part of me screams to turn around, to run, but I cling to the conviction that this is my penance. Regardless of the grace Granger has afforded me, I'm not a good person and the contributions I've made to this fucking war cannot be understated. Potter was right that I don't deserve her and while throwing myself into the snake pit won't change that, it will help alleviate the guilt that suffocates me from the inside out. 

I want the Order to win, of course, but not for some misguided, altruistic notion. I want them to win because it's the only outcome that offers her a chance at peace. Her suffering outweighs the sins of my father and I'd let him burn if it meant she slept soundly at night. The self-preservation attributed to the Slytherin title has always dogged me, feeling more like cowardice than something honorable, but as my childhood home grows large before me, I finally understand the importance of it all. My sense of self has been fractured and mended twice over now and in the end, the only constant left is Granger. It's easy to lose myself in her if it means I don't have to face the rot still festering within. 

Contingencies wrapped in the harsh light of day send me cringing from any further ruminations on my identity, and the ways it will slip further from me should I be forced to show my hand.

I cast several disillusionment charms on myself, praying the hours I've spent flinging spells back and forth with Theo have done anything. As the last yards fall away, the familiar miasma of dark magic and death roll off the Manor in a continuous wave. It smells of decay and violence, the scent of blood heavy in the night air. There are a few flickers of light on the second floor, casting faint shadows from my parents bedroom. The parting memory of my mother flashes in my head and I swallow the urge to puke. She's dead, she's always been fucking dead. 

The House Elf entrance to the kitchens is a fucking meter tall and I have to crouch when I knock. It's a small, quick noise. My knees tremble with fear as the lock clicks and the door swings open. There is movement in the darkness, a sinister swirling of shadows, before Snape's severe visage comes into view. 

"You've made it." 

"Obviously." 

He throws a sneer down the length of his nose at me and disappears into the house. I follow at his heel, ever the good and dutiful boy. We navigate the maze of kitchen cookery before stopping at the entrance leading to the rest of the Manor. Snape spins back around, pressing the tip of his wand into the soft skin of my neck. "You are to stay absolutely silent, do you understand?" 

"Ye–" he digs the pointed wood further into my throat. I swallow the retort and nod mechanically. 

"Good." Snape lowers the wand. "He is in your parent's rooms, accompanied by his chosen few. I've done what I can to clear the path to your father's study but both Nagini and Bellatrix are both unaccounted for." 

At the snake's mention my silent resolve wavers. "Nagini isn't with him?" 

"Shut. Up." 

"She's—" 

In a flash he grabs me by my collar and heaves me into the nearest wall. "The amount of sacrifice and work it has taken to make this moment possible is beyond comprehension, Draco. You will not ruin this with your insipid, idiotic babbling. Moody assured me you were briefed on what to do. Was that correct?" 

I try to murder him silently with my eyes. 

"Good. Then for once in your miserable, thankless life do as you are told." Just as quickly, I am dropped and have to scrape along the jagged stone to keep from hitting the floor. "Let's go." He does not wait to see if I follow. 

The Manor is still and silent, a perfect embodiment of the tomb it has become. Shadows gather, thick and seemingly impenetrable, at every corner. The stench of things unforgivable and horrific rolls over us again and again as we slink through the halls. Father's study is tucked away in the far left wing of the second floor, as physically far from the kitchen as it could possibly fucking be. The white-knuckled grip I have on my wand does little to stop the trembling of my hand. 

"Wait," Snape whispers, the word nearly inaudible. He reaches out without turning and, to my surprise, shields my body with his. Before I can comprehend the implications of this, the sound of footsteps on ancient marble echoes faintly off in the distance. I hold my latest breath tightly within my chest. Snape is as still as stone. We are statuesque in our fear. 

The footsteps carry on for what feels like a millennia before they eventually fade back into the vast nothingness. Still, we let another thirty seconds pass before we push on. In lieu of ascending the grand staircase like it's the fucking Yule Ball, we instead opt for the servant's stairs. They provide another layer of safety between us and the monsters lurking in the dark. Unfortunately, they're also archaic and, halfway up, begin to creak. 

The short noise erupts into the silence, on par with the scream of a fucking Mandrake in the mausoleum we find ourselves in. Snape goes rigid, which is quite the feat for someone already as stiff as he, and signals for me to stop. As if I needed to be told that. 

An agonizing minute drips by and, when we aren't met with hexes or death, I finally take a small breath. 

"Move," he hisses. 

I move. 

A house elf, beaten beyond recognition, trudges up from the depths seemingly out of nowhere. It literally made not a sound, as if appearing on the step below us out of thin fucking air. For a moment, the three of us just stare at one another. There is pain etched into the very essence of the pathetic creature's face and so I cannot fully discern how it feels at having discovered us lurking. 

"Wh—" 

Snape shoots out a silent curse, wand flicking viciously in my peripheral. The house elf locks up and I watch the light leave its bruised, blackened eyes. Just before its body can crash noisily to the floor, I reach out and grab it by its withered, ragged hand. The limp figure dangles from my grasp and, swallowing every humane response left in me, I turn to Snape for guidance. 

"Leave it." 

I do as instructed, laying the unmoving house elf down on the step below me. The light shifts in such a way that I get a proper look of its face and realize I don't recognize it. This does not inspire relief, however, because the implications of a new house elf mean something ugly and wretched regarding the state of the old ones. I shake the thoughts from my head, take a centering breath, and follow Snape once more. 

The door to the second story is just as short and cramped as the others. We crouch side by side, ears pressed to the door to listen out for dangers like giant snakes or deranged aunts. Our faces are uncomfortably close together. 

"Is she really dead?" I can't help myself, I have to know. Hope is insidious and cruel and I cannot keep carrying around the shell of it when I'm already burdened beyond salvation with guilt and disgust. 

The urge to bludgeon me is clear as day on Snape's severe face, but the blow never comes. Instead, the edges of his mouth dip ever so slightly and he doesn't even need to speak for me to know. "Yes. She is." 

Ever the idiot fucking child, I blink back tears as if this was, in anyway, a surprise. "Did I…"The remainder of the question dies an undignified death on my tongue. 

"Not now," is his only response. The lack of resolution shakes me and it is only by remembering the promises I have pressed into Granger’s skin that I am able to carry on. Snape gives me a once over, accepts whatever sham courage I've mustered, and slowly opens the door. 

Crouched like a pair of fourth years sneaking through the castle kitchens, we slip from the servant's staircase and into the darkened hallway. Nothing moves, not even the air. I hold my breath once more to keep from shattering the stillness.

As we creep through my childhood home, memories unwanted and bitter roll through my mind's eye. In my efforts to detangle the mental mess left behind from years of Occlumency, I've come to appreciate just how deep the self-deception went. And by appreciate I mean fucking detest with my entire being. Now that I'm without a reliable coping mechanism, I am unable to keep the past from demanding to be re-lived at every turn. 

I'm under no illusions, I've never thought myself to be good and just. I was a spoiled, wretched child that grew into an angry, selfish man. No amount of ill-advised affection on Granger’s part will ever purge me of those sins. When this is all over, the chances that I spend the remainder of my life wasting away in Azkaban are still remarkably high. And such a fate would be deserved, at least in the eyes of the victors. 

I don't bother to dwell on what will happen should the Death Eaters win. There is no future to be had in that scenario, just an abrupt and violent end. 

So much of my history is steeped in blood, it's a wonder the walls of the Manor don't weep with it. The Malfoy's have never shied away from the grandiose, if the entire wing dedicated to Mother's sculpture collection is any indication. Still, for all the gilded opulence, now that I am seven months removed from it, I can smell the rot lurking beneath. Everything we've ever had has been ill gotten; even the wealth that sustains us is stolen from countless enemies of ages past. It's a legacy of violence and pride and unfettered indulgence. I hope that by night's end the entire festering structure is raized to the fucking ground. 

We round the final corner and the engraved, ostentatious door of my Father's study looms before us. There is only the faintest slant of moonlight breaking through the heavy curtains and it obscures the final stretch in shadow. Still, I am foolish enough to believe we've done the impossible and for one precious moment, feel the swell of relief build within me. 

"Well, well, well, isn't this a surprise?" Bellatrix's shrill voice hits me like a torrent of ice. "Looks like I’ve stumbled upon some unlucky intruders." She steps forward from the dark, willowy body rippling as the concealment charm drops. "And my wayward nephew, as I live and breathe! Aren't you supposed to be dead?" 

Instinctively I step closer to Snape, my poor excuse of an ally in this the hour of my demise. He doesn't even bother to speak and as Bellatrix raises her wand, his only reaction is to fucking Apparate away. Fear chokes me as I make eye contact with my aunt. Perhaps I am dead and everything that came before this moment was just the prolonged death-rattle of a doomed man. 

She strikes fast. Even at my best, with both hands and a distinct lack of enduring trauma, Aunt Bellatrix would have been a formidable opponent. She is ruthless, focused, and deadly beyond measure. My chances of success are slim, if not outright nonexistent, but I made a promise to Granger and I've nothing left except her faith in me. 

The first curse is aimed straight for my heart and I careen sideways to avoid it. The movement throws me off balance, sending me crashing into an antique marble bust. It hits the ground with a crack, scattering shards of rock at our feet, but the disruption doesn't even register to her. The snarled expression on her face is fractured and joyous, betraying the depth of her bloodthirsty nature. 

I shoot a stinging hex at her but she glides effortlessly out of the way, laughing. 

"Nephew," she coos, "you've grown sloppy!" Fear robs me of the ability to speak and I respond with another curse that she deflects with ease. "Where's that precision I taught you?" Her next spell hits my ribs with a breathtaking show of force. "Where's that famous Malfoy skill?" 

Winded, I tremble and drop awkwardly to one knee. The shield spell is dispelled before I can even finish casting it. 

"Oh don't look so sad, love! I'm not going to kill you." 

"Even if I say please?" I wheeze. 

Her responding smile is lecherous and terrifying. "Oh Draco, I've missed you." 

"Pretty please?" 

Another laugh, shrill in the way that makes my toes curl, and she finally puts me out of my misery. As the creeping black crowds my vision, I cast my thoughts out towards the horizon and the weight of Granger’s hand on my heart. 

Awareness hits me like a bludger and I jolt awake in a fit of abrupt violence. My senses return in an overwhelming cacophony to find me sitting on a chair, arms hanging limply at my side. The stench of death is overwhelming. My head lolls, heavy and awkward upon my neck and I blink into focus the scene before me. 

Once upon a time, this was probably my drawing room, but has since evolved in my absence into a tomb of seething horrors. Viscera, thick and rank, clings to every surface like a macabre crust. Each shallow breath coats my lungs with the residue of dark magic that permeates the still air. The only light breaching the dark is the low, quiet fire burning in the tarnished hearth. Figures, cloaked in Death Eaters uniforms, crowd the edges of the room; an identical sea of unmoving white masks. Lying prone on the table before me is the body of George Weasley, rotted half to hell and back. Only the shock of ginger hair remains of his once familiar visage. And at the center, at the festering heart of it all, sits the Dark Lord.

Voldemort looms, lounging like a coiled snake at the head of our dinner table. His eyes flicker with intense, muted lunacy. “Draco,” he hisses. “You’ve come home.”

I silently inspect the state of my body and find it more or less as it was before I blacked out. They didn’t even bother to tie me up. I’d muster up the gall to be insulted if I was slightly less terrified for my life. My wand, of course, is nowhere to be seen.

“We’ve missed you here, at the manor.” He makes a grand sweeping gesture as if the pit of hell we’re in is something to be lauded. “Your mother, especially.”

“My mother is dead,” I say without thinking. 

Voldemort lacks the lips, facial muscles, and general humanity to smile and so he must settle for an eerie, slow tilt of his head. “Why would you ever think that?” His hand flexes and one of the Death Eaters shifts out of my peripheral view. “And your father. Mustn’t forget Lucius.” The disdain rolls from his tongue like honey.

“What do you want?”

“Must I want something?” He asks. “I was under the impression you have nothing much to offer.”

“I don’t.” The words come too fast to be convincing. 

“Then why are you here?”

Throughout the various meetings I had with Moody and his ilk regarding my part to play in their grand finale, this is the scenario whose contingency I’ve dreaded the most. Not just because Voldemort is a walking, talking nightmare made real, but because I am now literally burdened with knowledge worth more than my life. A plan, ugly and heavy where it sits in my mind, was formed to make sure that information never fell into the hands of the Dark Lord. I sat with Cho Chang, Moody—and Lupin of all people—and came up with a way to do just that. My skills at Occlumency were invaluable in its creation, and will remain just as vital in its execution. Fear of my death pales in comparison to the fear of what I am about to lose; who I am about to lose.

My silent ruminations on the level of fucked that I currently am apparently take too long for his liking. “Having trouble?” He leans forward. “Here, I’ll help.” 

“Don’t—” I yelp, one final and useless plea that is quickly silenced by the piercing of his mind into mine.

Before my unraveling, before my having to break apart into pieces small enough to swallow, I had a line of defense against a mental breach such as this. Voldemort’s Legilimency skills are legendary, but I’ve always been a particularly deft hand at Occlumency and my poisoned little house beneath the sea served a very real, very necessary purpose. But just as it was useful, it was also built with rotten wood and its excision was crucial to my continued efforts to survive. As I sink rapidly into the writhing dark, however, that fact is woefully irrelevant to me.

In my hand, there is a seashell. It’s not particularly noteworthy. The shine is dulled by the ephemeral nature of its mental construction. The only feature of any real interest to the untrained eye is the shimmer of gold that dances across its rippled body. It’s the way she looks, the way she moves, the way she lights up whenever she solves the latest problem laid at her feet. It's her, it’s the sum-total of every memory of every moment we’ve ever shared. My golden girl, all wrapped up in red.

I’m stalling for time. The maelstrom of danger and violent intention that is Voldemort’s Legilimency hounds me through my own mind. He won’t stop until he has whatever it is that I’m failing to keep from him. The depth of hatred I feel for him, for the things he’s forced me to do, forced my parents and my friends and my loved ones to do, is like a tide that pulls back suddenly and silently from the shore. I let it wrap me in its writhing embrace and turn to face the coming storm. Just before we crash, I take one last look at the gilded seashell, say goodbye, and crush it into my fist.

I surface back into reality, gasping for breath. Sweat coats me like a second skin and I struggle to understand what is happening. The Dark Lord stands before me, positively seething. Memories of the last few minutes, hours, days, months, slip through my fingers like sand and by the time he opens his wound of a mouth to speak, I realize how empty I am.

“Clever, aren’t you? Clever, clever, clever boy.” The Dark Lord hisses this word at me, as if I’m supposed to understand what it means. “Do you even know what it is you’ve lost?”

“No,” I answer truthfully, half inside this moment and half inside my head, ripping empty boxes from fading walls, trying to close a leak I cannot see. “Do you?”

He hits me hard and fast with the back of his hand, splitting the skin of my lip open. “Shut up!” Bellatrix glides into view. “What did he say when you found him?”

“Nothing, my Lord. Nothing, I swear.”

They continue to bicker but I sink fully beneath the waves before I can follow the thread of their words. Mother is sick, she’s been found out. No, it’s worse. We’ve had to leave. We tried to leave? We didn’t? My hand is gone? My hand is fucking gone! She’s dead. Oh, fuck, she’s really dead. I have to do something. There is something I have to do. The wards. Father’s ancestral blood wards. Yes, those. I have to break them? Why? How? 

The scent of something sweet, something bright and earthy, chases my thoughts. It grounds me, reassures me. If what the Dark Lord said is true, I’ve Obliviated myself intentionally. The wards then, no matter the cost.

I stand up. Bellatrix shoves me violently back down.

“It doesn’t matter,” the Dark Lord snarls and retreats back to his usual seat at the head of the table. “He’s come crawling back home, hasn’t he? Let’s give him a proper welcome.”

Her Crucio is like a current of savage lightning that courses through my veins, reaching every far flung corner of my body. My spine arches to an almost unnatural degree and the distant screaming doesn’t register as my own until far too late. I fall from the chair to writhe unseemly upon the marble floor. My nails dig uselessly at the ground, scratching themselves into bloodied, blunted tips.

Eventually it stops and I lay breathless and untethered as they trade another set of meaningless words. The wards run through my mind like a looping song, a record that skips no matter the effort expended to fix it. The wards the wards the wards the wards. Strength belonging to a version of me that no longer exists forces me onto my hands and knees. I heave and gag with the effort but manage not to collapse.

“Down, boy.” Bellatrix kicks me in the ribs. I go skidding across the ground. My lungs stutter and falter and barely manage to keep hold of the air I am struggling to catch. Another Crucio and my phantom resolve begins to crack. A mind devoid of context screams about the fucking wards but my body isn’t having it. It is done, finished, ready to lay here and let the waiting end make its inevitable arrival.

Someone else arrives first.

The pain stops yet again and the surprise in Bellatrix’s voice is the only reason I turn to look at our newest guest. It’s father, actually. Father and…Snape? I stare up at them from my sprawling position on the floor. Father catches my eye, just once, just for a second, and whatever broken thing he sees in my face is mirrored back in his own.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demands.

“Are you questioning your Lord’s choices?” Bellatrix threatens. “Who are you to challenge his decisions?”

“He’s my son!”

“He’s supposed to be dead,” the Dark Lord says coldly. Had I anything close to the necessary mental fortitude remaining, such a reveal would probably be quite interesting. As it stands, unfortunately, I am barely here. “Isn’t that right, Lucius?”

“I—I thought he—after Narcissa—he—” Father stumbles over words and gives me a pleading, pathetic look.

“Lucius,” Snape’s tone is clipped, strained even. 

Father turns to the Dark Lord and raises his wand. “I won’t lose him, do you hear me? I won’t lose him. Not again.”

Bellatrix howls but the Dark Lord holds tight to her leash. “Need I remind you of your loyalties, Lucius, and where they’re supposed to lie.”

“They lie with my family,” he snarls. “With my wife, in her cruel facsimile of a grave. And with my son, who has come back from his.” 

There is one moment of tense, unnaturally still silence and then the Dark Lord’s voice rings out, clear and steady. “Very well.”

The room explodes. I am dragged backwards from the chaos immediately and pulled into the hallway just in time to see my father meet the killing curse head on. Something old, something faded and half gone, screams out from my mouth after him. A younger version of me, long since buried, cries for his father and for whatever fate has seemingly befallen him. Snape doesn’t stop, doesn’t seem to care in any way for my childlike fear.

“Draco,” he kneels beside me, sticking a wand in my face. “Draco, what have you done?”

I drag my eyes from the closed door and the sounds of screams to his severe, pointed features. “I don’t know.”

“What do you remember?”

“The—the wards. I have to break them?”

He nods and the confirmation that I’ve done this unthinkable thing intentionally helps to quell the panic building behind my ribs. “Can you?”

We both look at my missing left hand. I feel as though I should be more surprised and horrified than I actually am. The me that is gone now must have accepted this fate. I’ve no choice left but to do the same. “I assume so.”

“That’ll have to be enough.” Snape pulls me to my feet and I stand precariously on shaking legs. “Go, quickly.”

“Aren’t you—aren’t you coming?”

“I can’t. I’ve got to try and keep your father alive. I owe it to your mother; to you.”

This irritates me for reasons I am incapable of naming. “Keep your fucking guilt.”

Snape’s face is grim, steady. “Go.”

I do.

The hallways are familiar, thankfully. I’ve seemingly only removed the memories from the last few months—years?—and kept everything else intact. Curiosity, serrated and useless, picks away at me but I’ve only strength enough for the wards and their necessary destruction. Post-Cruciatus spasms wrack my body but I cannot stop, cannot let the momentum I’ve built run out. I’m afraid that once it does, I’ll never get back up and I refuse to die without completing this final task.

The doorknob is cold in my hand as I wrench it open. There is a fire lit in the hearth, burning brightly and illuminating my father’s study. The Malfoy family blood seal sits in its permanent place, an archaic and fragile sigil kept safe beneath a dome of enchanted glass. I am so entranced by the sight, by the realization that I’ve made it to this my phantom finish line, that I fail to notice Nagini coiled tight and still beneath his desk.

She lunges, fangs first, and sinks them into my ankle. A scream, strangled and broken, erupts out of me. Pain, as acute and visceral as it is all-consuming, burns up my leg and my knees threaten to buckle. There is a wet sucking sound as she detaches herself and rears back for another bite. I kick awkwardly in her direction and the force of movement shoves me backwards and onto the ground. Her mouth splits open, a maw of teeth that yawns like a waiting void, and I swear she smiles.

I try to crawl backwards but my foot keeps slipping in the pool of blood streaming from my leg. It feels as though she has bit clear through the appendage and it is only by virtue of still feeling my foot that I know she didn’t. Terror, far, far greater than what I’ve ever felt towards the vile snake, grips me like a vice. My shoulders bump into the bookcase against the far wall and I realize with creeping doom that there is nowhere left for me to run.

Scales wet with something thick and rotten slide across the floorboards towards me. I am so caught up in the fear choking me I fail to appreciate the very real danger I am in. The snake rears up, hideous mouth unnaturally agape. I stare into the beckoning gullet, mesmerized. As she lunges, a dreamy voice echoes out as if through time itself and I duck, missing the death strike that was aimed at my neck.

I've no time to collect myself. Nagini coils up, muscles going taut as she prepares to spring forward once more. The writhing black mass seems too large and too numerous to be real. Her fangs glisten with blood and venom in the flickering firelight. I clutch my wand in my shaking hand and ready the only spell that comes to me.

She strikes and I cast and Nagini erupts in a burst of green light and dark magic so thick, so sinister, it nearly knocks me out. In the immediate aftermath there is a ghastly scream and a wisp of something impossibly like a face dissolves in the air above me.

Chunks of snake rain down like a grotesque shower of glitter and the wet sounds of flesh hitting hardwood slip into the background as I struggle to catch my breath. Were I whole and complete, a man with a mind totally unsevered from its memories, I’m sure I’d need a few more minutes to get my shit together. Fortunately—or unfortunately depending on who you ask—I am not that man. I’m not even sure I’m a man at all. I’m just a tool, wielded by the ghosts of my lost, former self, shot into the dark to do one thing and one thing only.

I try to stand and slip in the blood and the viscera that covers the floor. My leg weeps openly and I swear I can feel the venom pulsing through my body with every violent beat of my heart. Physically, I am done. There is no coming back from this, but with that knowledge comes a quiet sense of calm. All I have to do is break these fucking wards and then, finally, I can rest. 

Grabbing father’s gilded letter opener, I bring the impractically sharp tip to my finger and slice it open. The enchantments require blood, pure and fresh, in order to be broken and I don’t want to risk muddying the work with the poisoned source pooling at my feet. The crimson flashes garishly on the golden blade and once more I smell something tangy and earthy and deliciously sweet.

Shaking my head to clear thoughts that most certainly do not belong to this latest, broken version of myself, I drop the letter opener and draw our family seal in blood atop the glass dome. The enchantment is severed with a small burst of old magic. I toss the now mundane cover into the mess behind me, barely registering the way it shatters. The ward, the centuries old blood sigil that has kept Malfoy Manor impenetrable from outside forces looks up at me. With a firm sense of pride—ever the Slytherin, even here and even now—I take my wounded finger and drag a jagged, broken nail through the ancient blood. 

The wards break violently, throwing me back into the desk. My head cracks against the priceless mahogany and I collapse back to the gorey ground. Relief, consuming and without end, pulls me under and, with a name I don’t recognize on the tip of my tongue, I fall backwards into the dark.

An angel. Golden light. The cry of my name. Of loss. Of bittersweet and absolute victory.

I slip beneath gray waters. The sun follows.

Chapter Text

The curse slams into my ribs, forcing the air from my lungs. I shudder against the pain and hurl a hex back. One of the Carrow twins, Alecto I believe, has me pinned at the top of the stairs and is slowly advancing on me. When she’d descended upon us, it was Ginny that initially offered to stay back, but I couldn’t ask her to do that, couldn’t ask her to separate herself from the person she loves most, even if I love him nearly as much. I know Harry doesn’t want Ginny there, at the end of it all, but favors are for the living and he won’t be able to protest from beyond the grave.

Speaking of graves, I will have one foot fully in my own if I do not free myself from this bottleneck. At first I was managing well enough against the Death Eater but before long her absent sibling made his appearance and now, despite the height advantage, I am cornered. He leans around the edge of the hallway and tries again to petrify me. His insistent desire to incapacitate instead of kill me speaks to insidious and ugly things that I do not have the time to think about. 

“Nowhere to run, girlie!” Alecto sings out and her next cast withers the potted plant next to me. I taste almonds and my skin crawls.

Witty banter and a clever tongue were never my forte and in lieu of a response, I try once more to petrify her. She’s ten meters away now, possibly less. I can see the fine silver stitching along the collar of her robes and for a second I am struck with the wild wonder of who designs their outfits and why. My thoughts drift and it nearly costs me my life.

Amicus, sensing victory, springs from his hiding place and runs at me. I’m just about to toss out another Expelliarmus when an explosion rocks the foyer. Clouds of dust and debris billow outward from the door and I use them as cover, launching over the overturned table I’ve been using as a shield, and skidding into banister. Even through the chaos, I know the Carrow twins are relentless. A dark shadow wavers before me and I petrify it, taking the victim by surprise. They hit the ground with a thud, and I chance the danger to ensure I’ve hit the right person. A shock of dull red hair confirms my suspicions. I drag the deadweight of his petrified body around the hallway he was just cowering behind, making sure his feet are visible. 

A cacophony of chaos, rich with the sounds of violence, have erupted around me. It feels safe to assume that Ron’s efforts at distraction have run their course and the Death Eaters left standing at Hogwarts have made their return. I press closer into the wall, praying that I can count on Alecto’s hunger for destruction. Several tense seconds slip by, married with the stench of blood and Dark magic, before I see the flash of her pale white mask in the firelight. Her attention snaps to the pair of boots I’ve left out and before she can look up, I petrify her.

In a perfect situation, I’d then drag them into a room to further incapacitate but if the Death Eaters really have returned, and the sounds of screaming indicate that that is the case, then I must make haste. I summon chains to bind them to the floor, and each other, before taking off into the macabre labyrinth of Malfoy Manor.

By my rough estimation, it’s been seven minutes since I sent Harry and the others onward without me. Assuming they’re not met with too much resistance, they could feasibly be at their destination already. Merlin, it could already be over. My stomach sours further at the thought of Harry already dead. I hate it, this feeling of a total lack of control. The vial of Shield potion feels like an anchor where it sits in my jean pocket. All that work, all that time, and it’s gone totally unused. 

I’m nearly to the stairs that lead to the third floor suites when the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Theoretically there shouldn’t be anyone left in this wing of the house but those seven minutes I spent fighting for ground with the Carrow siblings were long and chaotic. I turn around and stare into the shadows that bath the hallway behind me. This place is a mausoleum of terrors and there is bound to be something dark and dangerous lurking outside the light.

For a few tense seconds, nothing happens and I resign myself to that, intent on carrying forward, when the shadows along the floor begin to shift. They darken, twisting and writhing as though they were alive, before finally, as if from thin air, a figure steps forward from the nothingness that was before me. 

It’s been four long, horrific years, and yet Bellatrix looks exactly the same. The wild glint of madness in her expression is as bone chilling as ever; her crooked teeth like daggers in a mouth that is open too wide. The skin of my arm stings, a phantom burn reminding me of how dangerous and deadly she is. My lungs seem to constrict, no longer willing to function as fear takes hold of my insides. There are no exits to my left or right, just the stairwell behind and the monster creeping ever closer towards me.

“Little Mudblood, I do believe you are lost,” she whispers, letting the ever shrinking space between us carry her words. “But that’s okay, I’m—”

I hit her with a stinging hex, aimed straight for the face. She counters, immediately, never once taking her eyes off of me. We go back and forth, and even though I struck first, she is too close and the hallway is too narrow for me to properly fight back. 

“How’s your arm?” she asks. “How’s my artwork? Still there, I hope.” Her hair is a nest of black curls, its tendrils seeming to reach out as she tosses her head back to cackle. I use the momentary lapse in eye contact to my advantage, and use a repelling charm to send her stumbling backwards. It hits, and when again our eyes meet, there is a feral violence to her that makes me shudder. 

“That wasn’t very nice.”

“I’m not nice,” I say and send another stinging hex her way. She feints left and I shift to the right. My leg, already overwrought with the exertion of running for my life, goes taut and I stumble. A cruel look of understanding drapes itself across Bellatrix’s face and even though I know it’s coming, I am unable to react fast enough.

She hits me in the thigh, the locking curse taking my already stiff muscle and paralyzing it. I cry out and my knee gives, sending me to the floor. Another laugh, arrogant and deranged, echoes around us and I cannot believe that this is how I’m going to die.

“The Dark Lord is going to be so pleased to see you. It’s been ages since our last show.” Her bare feet slap against the cold marble as she approaches. I lean heavily into the pain, hoping that I can pretend to be weak enough to get her within reaching distance. Magic may be failing me at this moment, but that doesn’t mean I am helpless. I reach down carefully and wrap my fingers around the hilt of the dagger I’ve stowed in my boot. Bellatrix may be a monster but she bleeds just like everyone else.

“You’ll never take me alive.” Just a little closer. “I’ll kill myself before I let that happen.” I chance a look up at her, and her face is alight with violence. 

“We’ll see about that.” She saunters slowly toward me, dragging out the last bit of distance. I carefully slip the dagger from its hiding place, and prepare to strike. She approaches, and the moment arrives. I spring into action, and the look of surprise on her face is one for the ages. With practiced precision, I swing outward and slice through her forearms as they come up in defense. She howls, seemingly distracted by the sight of her own blood, and I press forward, needing every advantage possible.

“You filthy bitch,” she snarls and leans out of range of my next attack. It doesn’t matter. I lurch forward, dragging the deadweight of my leg with me, and stab at her once more. The dagger makes contact with her, but only enough to cut through the front of her bodice. 

Something loud crashes behind us, but we’re both too well trained to let it distract. My window of opportunity is rapidly closing. The wounds I’ve inflicted on her forearm are deep, but not enough to maim, certainly not enough to kill. I go again, feinting high and swinging low. Another point of contact, but it barely scratches her. Bellatrix dances back, fully out of reach, and my time runs out.

I reflexively throw up a shield as movement behind her catches my attention. She raises her wand toward me and I brace for an impact that never comes. A familiar, freckled hand appears over her shoulder and the tip of a willow wand digs into her throat. I finally look away from Bellatrix and make eye contact with Ron. 

“Go, Hermione.”

“But—”

“Get back to Harry, I’ll be along.”

Bellatrix tries to move, but he wraps an arm around her and slams them both into the wall. A scuffle ensues and as much as my heart breaks at the thought, I know I need to leave him behind. We’ve planned for this, we know the drills and the protocols but even still. Even after the ugliness between us, all the bitter dysfunction, he is still my second oldest friend. He’s still the first person I ever loved. Choosing to willingly leave him behind, caught in a power struggle with the woman who nearly killed me is almost impossible. 

Almost.

With one last glance, I run off, holding onto the hope that the very last image I have of Ron isn’t him pinning Bellatrix to the floor, rearing back as she tries to claw out his blue, blue eyes.

I crash up the stairs, any pretense of stealth long since abandoned. My leg is still half petrified and I need to find a place to pause and catch my breath, heal my wounds. There is dried blood splashed across my face and the pull of my skin every time I breathe speaks to an unseen wound in my side. The moment I crest the top of the stairs, I open the first door I see and fling myself into the room, wand at the ready in case something vile lays in wait.

At first, I believe I am alone. There is no monster hiding in the shadows of this bedroom. And what a bedroom it is. An ostentatious four-poster bed dominates the center of the space, but there is a stillness clinging to everything that reeks of abandonment. The moonlight that breaks through the barely opened curtains catches on a silver frame atop the dresser to my left. I shuffle over, immediately transfixed by what I see. 

It’s a picture of Draco, perched atop a broomstick, beaming at the camera. He couldn’t be older than ten, possibly eleven. There is a wonder to his expression, something reserved only for children, and I stop myself from reaching out to touch the frame. Glancing around, understanding begins to dawn on me and I sadly realize that I’m in his room. Posters for Quidditch teams line the walls, garish enough to clash with the auspicious decor. There is a pile of clothing on the floor, covered in a layer of dust, and the door to what I assume is the bathroom is open slightly. 

I feel like an invader, as if I’m seeing something never meant for me, but as much as I want to leave, I need to handle my leg. Turning my attention to the bed, I start to shuffle over and it is then that I finally see her.

Narcissa Malfoy looks peaceful in death, her pale hands placed perfectly over her stomach. Her dual toned hair is expertly styled, not a single strand out of place, as it fans out around her on the pillow. She is dressed in gorgeous robes of emerald and silver, the very picture of opulence and class. She looks like she did the last time I was here, immaculate to the point of clinical detachment. Even her boots, dragonhide by the looks of it, shine in the gray light. I stare at her, so transfixed by her serenity, I half expect her chest to rise. 

It’s obvious some sort of stasis spell has been cast over her, staving off the onset of decay. There is a sickly, pale pallor to her skin that betrays her, announcing to anyone close enough to notice that there is nothing left alive inside the shell of her body. Inexplicably, I want to cry. Has Draco seen this? Has he seen her? Is this worse, somehow, than never seeing her at all?

Thoughts of him plague me, and I worry for his safety, for his very mortality. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered running straight for where I know his father’s study is, praying he’d be inside. I am torn between my loyalty to the cause and the burning desire to end this nightmare once and for all, and my attachment to him. I love him, a fact that is as clear as day to me, but one that he has yet to let me speak aloud. It kills me to consider the fact that I might never get the chance. 

The bedroom door swings open, breaking my reverie, and I whirl around, hex at the ready. 

“Wait!” It’s Snape. He looks terrible, disheveled and covered in viscera. “Wait.” Before I can respond, he rushes inside and closes the door.

“What are you doing here?” I demand, keeping my wand trained on him.

He doesn’t answer at first, choosing instead to glance down at Narcissa. “I’m here for her.”

“What? Why?”

“I promised Lucius,” is all he says.

At the mention of the Malfoy patriarch, thoughts of Draco come rushing back in. “Where is Draco?”

Snape sneers at me, arrogant enough to take a few steps forward. “Why?”

“Tell me where he is.”

“No.”

I take a shuddering breath. “I’m not going to hurt him, I promise you that is the last thing either of us wants. I just need to know where he is.”

The look of realization on Snape’s face tells me I’ve betrayed too much of myself, of my feelings, but here at the end of it all, I cannot be bothered to care. “You’re the reason—”

“Where is he?” I cut him off, unwilling to hear whatever cruel accusation he wants to level at me. 

Snape regards me for a moment. “Gone, presumably.”

It takes every bit of willpower I still possess not to wilt. “Gone…where? Is he…” I cannot bring myself to say the words.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “If I had to hazard a guess, he fled. Ran off while he still had the chance.”

It doesn’t alleviate much of my suffering, but it does track with what I know of him, how he operates in moments of danger. I can’t even be bothered to blame him, even though it hurts to think he’d leave without so much as a goodbye. “You haven’t seen him, then?”

“Not since he went to break the wards.”

I lower my wand. “Fine. I believe you.”

“I don’t care whether or not you believe me.” Snape marches up to Narcissa, and moves to lift her up. “Potter is in the formal dining room, downstairs.”

“I thought Tom was up here, though. He’d made his nest—”

“Circumstances have changed.”

“What circumstances?”

Snape doesn’t answer and busies himself with gathering Narcissa’s body into his arms. I watch in morbid fascination as her form crumples inward, lifeless. Even knowing that she’s dead, it’s a difficult thing to reconcile when she truly looked to be sleeping at first glance. “There is no one on this floor. You may take a moment to recover.”

Surprise colors my expression. “You’re helping me?”

Cradling the body like it’s something divine, he looks at me. “I’ve always been helping you. I risked my life to help all of you.”

“It’s the least you can do.”

“And so I did it.” He turns to the door. “And now it is done.” Before I can respond, he disappears beyond it, and it closes behind him with a click.

I immediately fall onto the bed. The pain radiating from my leg is bad enough that I can feel myself slipping into shock. My concentration is shaky and my hand trembles, but I am able to remove the locking curse Bellatrix left on me and heal whatever minor contusions I can find. There is still a pulsing agony in my thigh and hip, but it is manageable enough for me to get downstairs. I cannot take another hit to it, though, and I know it.

I dig the potion vial out of my pocket and watch it roll around in the palm of my hand, contemplating the path before me.

It’s all self-sacrifice and martyrdom up until it isn’t. The loss of the self can only be justified so many times before it begins to lose meaning. Time and again I give myself over to the cause, to the good fight, to the righteous and the moral. I’d break any rule, burn any bridge, smother any fire if it meant safety and light and that sickeningly deceptive sense of correctness that accompanies the rush of victory. Immolation only feels good when it matters, when it’s seen. I’ve always thought I was above such base needs for attention, for the unflinching loyalty that you only find in the young and the brave. It was easier when I could frame my self-destruction as an inevitability, something that had to happen in order to ensure our coming out on top.

Standing here, in the empty tomb of a childhood bedroom, I realize that it’s never been about the finish line. I’ve never stopped being that awkward eleven year old girl with no friends and too much hubris to properly flourish. In the end, it was only for the sake of being useful, being needed, being loved, that I burned and in the end, it doesn’t matter.

In the end, I’m alone.

And in the end, the only choice I have is myself.

I rush back downstairs, the hallway where I left Ron and Bellatrix empty save for a puddle of blood. Fear creeps up my spine but I don’t have time to linger. I spent too much of it already just having to heal myself. All I can do is hope that it belongs to her and carry on. The sounds of fighting from the floor below have lessened significantly and I choose to be optimistic about it. Pessimism will do nothing for me now. 

I round a corner, the shield coating my body giving me a sense of invincibility that is dangerous but needed. I cannot afford to creep around, preparing for danger. I need to get to Harry, need to do whatever possible to ensure his sacrifice is not in vain. Still, I at least have enough good sense to prepare a hex, should someone cross my path. And someone does less than a minute later.

To my endless relief, it’s Luna. There is a nasty gash along the length of her forearm and it looks as though her hair has been burnt but her expression is one of determination. “Hermione!”

“Luna! Where’s Harry? Have you been with him this whole time?”

“No no, we got separated but that’s alright,” she says cheerfully. “I went to find Draco.”

My heart stutters. “Did—did you?”

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

She gestures behind her. “You’ll see, come on!” Before I can say anything, she takes off, leaving me no choice but to follow her. We pass by a veritable gallery of debris, and even a few mangled bodies, before reaching our destination. She pushes right through the door to the office, me right behind her, and all at once there he is. 

He’s prone, unconscious but breathing, in a pile of blood and venom. His clothes are a mess, and the wound that is eating away at his ankle is nasty. I drop to his side, immediately checking his vitals. 

“He’s stable,” I say more to myself than Luna.

Luna nods emphatically. “You should take him home. He needs it.”

“I—I can’t. Harry is downstairs and I need to—”

“I’ll go see to Harry, Hermione. You get Draco out of here.” She gives me a reassuring smile.

“Luna…”

“It’ll be fine. Harry’s already come and gone, so you’ve nothing left to worry about.”

I recoil. “He’s dead? How—”

“Of course he’s not dead!” She insists. “Now go on.”

“Are you…are you sure?” I don’t want to leave, at least not without seeing Harry’s place among the living with my own two eyes. “I’ll come right back Luna, I swear.”

“Pish posh all that. Go, go!” She drops a kiss on the top of my head and flutters out of the room, leaving me slack jawed in her wake. 

Draco groans in his slumber, though, and it brings me quickly back to earth. I do what I can to heal his ankle. The overwhelming presence of snake venom speaks to something I cannot deal with yet. We knew Nagini was dead, Harry said he felt it the moment it happened, and now I think I know how. It appears Draco took the concept of defeating his demons quite literally. 

I slip my arm under him and heave us both to our feet. He’s heavy, nearly unbearably so, but my efforts at healing his ankle have brought some awareness back to him. “Hng,” he moans.

“Draco, can you hear me?” I ask. “I need you to walk. Can you walk?”

“What….who…?” His head rolls to face me and the expression of confusion in his eyes weighs me down like a stone. “What…”

“Can you walk?” And to illustrate it, I take a step forward, bringing him with me. He stumbles at first but eventually finds his footing enough to prop up a fraction of his own weight. It’s not much, but it’s preferable to carrying him out of here. “Okay, stay with me, alright? Just focus on walking, I’ve got you.”

We take a few lumbering steps towards the door. It’s awkward at first but we find enough of a rhythm that I’m able to somewhat pick up the pace. Draco keeps mumbling but I tune him out, needing to focus on our escape. We cannot Apparate from inside the house, not unless he was the one doing it and he’s certainly in no state for that. This means that we’ve the impossible challenge of somehow getting downstairs, through the destroyed foyer, onto the front lawn, and past the Apparition block before we can get to safety. The Shield potion shimmers against the dirt coating my arms and I pray to gods above and below that it is enough.

It’s a slow, arduous thing, carrying a half-conscious person who is a full head taller than you through the wreckage of a sprawling, gothic estate. We have to stop every few minutes in order for me to catch my breath and bring Draco back from the brink of sleep. He keeps asking half formed questions but I waste no effort to answer; I’m sure he’s delirious with blood loss. I hope.

The stairs are nearly impossible. I lean heavily into the wall, using it to prop myself up enough to get us down them. We catch and stumble over a near constant minefield of debris and viscera, and it is through good luck alone that I don’t send us both tumbling down. There is a cacophony of spellcasting coming from where I can only assume the formal dining room is. Part of me screams to head in that direction but I can’t. Draco’s life is once more in my hands and I must do whatever I can to get him to safety. 

The foyer is a ruin of destruction. What I can only assume were the massive front doors is now nothing more than a jagged opening to the outdoors. Bodies line the path we must take outside, and I shove any glimmers of recognition to the back of my mind. There will be time enough later for such revelations. As long as it’s not Harry, that is enough. It has to be.

Dark magic clings to the exterior of the house like a vile second skin, filling the air with the choking sensation of decay. My leg revolts with every step and I need to stop, need to take a moment to catch my breath, but we are so very, very close to salvation. Draco groans, asking about house elves, and I try not to fall apart. Exhaustion seeps into the marrow of my bones. I misjudge the last step of the entrance because of it and we go careening onto the still immaculately maintained front lawn. 

Something snaps in my ankle and pain ricochets up my good leg, stealing the breath from my lungs. Draco crumbles beside me and I lay there, on the cold wet grass, and cradle my wound. But only for a second, not even long enough to consider healing it. Even if I have to drag us there, we will get past the block. We’re too close now to fail. Not after everything, not now.

“Nephew!” Her voice shatters the unnatural quiet of the night. I lurch forward, back onto my knees, and place myself between his prone form and her rapidly approaching one. 

“You’re still alive,” I rasp, knowing now whose blood it was that decorated the upstairs hallway. 

“Miss me?” She looks worse, somehow, and even more unhinged. By the amount of dried blood coating her arms, it appears like she didn’t even bother to properly heal the wounds I’d left on her. Not that she’d even be able to. Bellatrix isn’t the only one capable of cursing a dagger.

I don’t bother responding, using my energy instead to try and drag myself to my feet. My ankle bends unnaturally but I force it back into place. At the end of this, it’ll be a miracle if I can even walk at all. At least I’ll survive whatever Bellatrix throws at me; the potion can withstand a lot of damage and lasts for nearly an hour thanks to the Abraxian hair. Just like Draco said it would. The irony of using that, coupled with my desperation to share it with him, eats at my conviction. 

Bellatrix is a mere meter away when the crack of Apparition thunders around us and once more our duel is interrupted. Lucius Malfoy occupies the space between her and I, clutching his wand. 

“What a family reunion we’re having!” Bellatrix squeals. “All we need now is Sissy.”

Lucius recoils and looks over at me. “Go.”

I hook my arms under Draco and try to drag him back into an upright position. The pain in my legs so fully engulfed me I’ve come back around to numb. He is fully unconscious now and I’m too drained to fix it. Lucius shares words with Bellatrix that I don’t bother trying to listen to. I don’t care. In this moment, any salvation will do. 

“I won’t let you,” Lucius snarls.

“But you’ll let her?”

I don’t turn around, I don’t acknowledge it at all. We’re roughly two meters from the boundary at this point. Draco stumbles, feet catching on each other and we go right back to the ground, landing awkwardly. The sounds of a struggle fill the night but I ignore them. With a strangled groan, I go to my knees and begin dragging Draco behind me to our destination. A scream pierces the air and I strain as hard as I can to go faster. The gash on my ribs reopens with the effort I exert and I just let it happen. We’re there, we’re right there.

“No!” The despair in Lucius’s voice is too great, too foreboding, and I look back. Bellatrix is scrambling across the lawn toward us, every bit the creature of violence and hate that she has become. Magic shudders over me as I break through the Apparition boundary and dig in my heels, wrenching Draco along with me. Her hand wraps around his ankle, tugging him back. 

I hiss at the sudden lurch in weight distribution and nearly tumble back through. Lucius dives towards Bellatrix, sliding across the lawn and wrestles to pull her off of Draco. Once more I pull the knife from my boot and stab blindly at her fingers. It doesn’t matter if I hit Draco, it’s my cursed weapon. I’ll stop whatever damage it seeks to do to him. Her hold is ironclad but I dig the blade further into the back of her hand, severing something vital. The claw of her grip goes slack and I yank backwards with all I have to get us away. 

Lucius rolls around the lawn with her, a sight wildly beyond the pale of whatever I could have imagined. Draco is useless to help as I somehow pull him into a kneeling position. Apparition is best done with two conscious, prepared magic users, but the time for safety has gone. I wrap myself around him, burying my face in his neck, and shove us through the threads of time. 

The table breaks beneath us the moment we land. I roll off of him and let the flood of relief flow through me as I realize we’re back at headquarters. And mercifully, we’re not alone. Tonks rushes into the kitchen, taking in the scene we must make. “Hermione?”

“Help,” I rasp. 

From there it’s a blur. We’re carried into the dining room, once more acting as a medical clinic. Had I the presence of mind to appreciate it, I might even find it funny. Instead, I drink a flight of the potions I’ve spent the last week brewing and explain everything that I possibly can to Tonks. “I’ve got to get back.”

“No.” She doesn’t bother looking up from Draco’s form, now so still it chills me to the bone.

“Harry needs me.”

“Harry has the full force of the remaining Order behind him, Hermione.”

“But I’m—”

“Your loyalty is admirable but your injuries are astounding. Absolutely not.”

I finish the final blood replenishing potion. “I want to be there when…when he…”

Finally she meets my pleading gaze. “Why?”

“He…he needs to know…”

“Hermione,” she says gently. “He knows.”

I wait for the telltale tingling of the health potions to wash over me but instead it is the heavy, dangerous press of pain relief. In my frenzied state, I didn’t bother to notice the pain potion amidst the fountain of other vials I was downing and a new kind of fear takes hold. “The pain potion…”

“It’s one of Neville’s designs,” Tonks explains, and guides me back down onto the cot. “Don’t worry.”

“But…”

“Get some rest.”

Every cell in my brain rallies against the command, but I am too spent, my body too broken, to heed the call. The edges of my vision go dark and I let go, sinking silently into the waiting black.

“Hermione.” A disembodied voice echoes around the boundaries of my awareness. I groan, instinctually turning towards it. “Hermione, can you hear me?”

I can, I try to say, but my body is sluggish and slow to respond. After what feels like a century of effort, I manage to crack open my eyes enough to drink in the surreal sight of Harry looming over me. An undignified croak lurches from my throat. “You…”

He smiles and it’s brilliant. “I’m here. We did it.”

“We…”

“We won.”

It takes Draco two full days to wake up. Nagini’s poison had made its way dangerously deep into his system and the antivenom almost wasn’t enough to save him. I’d been mildly hysterical about it upon properly waking, once the visceral joy of Harry’s condition and the state of things had worn off. Even though, as a healer, I knew that everything that could be done, was done, and it was now just a matter of time.

In that space between my coming back to reality and the two days that followed, a myriad of things came to pass. We celebrated our victory and mourned our dead. Ginny and Ron are the only remaining Weasleys. Even Molly was lost, in the end, though Ginny swears she died defending her, defending them. Seamus, Hannah, and several others are also gone. It takes time to gather their bodies back at headquarters, but all of us are determined to pay them the proper respects. I feel lucky beyond understanding at the amount of us remaining. It is bitter, though, and comes with a heavy sense of incompletion, that Moody is dead. There is a balance to it, I suppose, that he gave up his humanity to ensure our victory. In the end, even his life was worth enough to gamble. I’d have liked to say my piece to him, but really, it wouldn’t have brought me much relief.

Pansy Parkinson survived, unfortunately, and refuses to leave Draco’s bedside. I don’t bother to fight with her. It seems that Theo, as well as the few other Slytherin purebloods that eventually joined our cause, were lost in the final battle. Only Draco and Pansy remain. There is real grief marring her features, and I am still human enough to afford her grace even when she’s never once done the same to me. 

Harry tells a tale of wonder regarding his still being alive. “I did die, though. I had to.”

“Then how are you here? How did you come back?”

The Resurrection Stone is an ugly, blackened thing, but as I stare at it sitting lightly in Harry’s palm, it is more precious than gold. “What will you do with it?”

“Lose it.”

“Harry, it’s—”

“Dangerous. And unnatural. It belongs in the past, in a fairytale, to become a distant memory just like the wand.” 

Ron and I accompany him to Dumbledore’s grave. The stone slips back into the golden snitch and we tuck it, along with the wand, alongside the old headmaster. Regardless of my feelings toward him, he died to ensure we got here, in the end, and that is enough. We embrace, and we cry, and we let it lie.

On the dawning of that third morning, I come downstairs to check on Draco to find him sitting up in bed. He looks at me, the empty expression a horrible foreshadowing of what is about to happen, but I am too blinded to care. I grin at him, beaming and light.

“You’re awake,” I say, and take the seat normally occupied by Pansy. She’s over at the other end of the dining room, having a whispered argument with Tonks. “Draco, I was so—”

“Granger? What the fuck are you doing?”

And I know. Immediately, instantly, with the very cadence of his tone, I know, and my heart breaks. “What have you done?”

“I—” he looks lost, terribly and horribly lost. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve….you Obliviated yourself, didn’t you.” It’s not a question, it’s a revelation. Logically, it makes sense, especially if he was captured, which I can assume now he probably was. There had to be a contingency, Moody wouldn’t have orchestrated it any other way. But in all the chaos leading up to things, with the bittersweet taste of his confession, I never thought of it, never even considered what was at stake. 

“Apparently.” 

I search his expression for a hint, a glimmer, of the man I’ve come to know—come to love—but there is nothing, nothing at all. “Oh.” It’s all I can bring myself to say.

“Pansy mentioned that I was working…with you?”

I nod, because if I open my mouth, it will be nothing but anguish. 

“Can’t fucking imagine why.” He looks around, the sneer on his face so familiar it makes me sick. “Where’s my Mother?” There is a bandage around his wrist, as if it’s injured, and he gestures it rudely in my face. “And what happened to my fucking hand?”

All at once it’s too much. The chair squeals obnoxiously as I shove out of it and it draws the attention of Tonks and Pansy. For every bit of compassionate regret in Tonks’s expression, there is an equal amount of cruel satisfaction in Pansy’s. My heart lurches, crawling violently up my throat. I can’t even cry. 

“Hermione,” Tonks begins but I shake my head. I cannot do this. I can’t. Trembling so hard it hurts, I turn around and leave.

My ankle has begun to heal well enough. Whatever damage I’d done to it has been properly repaired and I can walk without limping. The prognosis of my left leg is less than good, but it appears to be more or less in the same state that it was prior to the final battle. In the hours and days after first waking up, the desire for a pain potion nearly broke me but I held fast, knowing that it would be nice to tell Draco that I’d abstained. 

Now I stare at the blue vials tucked into the corner of the empty potion room and wonder what it is that I am supposed to do now. Harry finds me before I can do anything rash and gently guides me away from dark temptation. Instead, we go up to the roof and sit in our spot and mourn all that it is that we have lost.

More time passes. People begin to leave. There is an entire Wizarding community out there that needs to be repaired, a government that needs to be rebuilt. Harry keeps me abreast of the Ministry and what is being done to regain control over it but I barely listen. I don’t care and he knows it, but telling me helps distract me just enough to matter.

Word of Draco’s…decision has gone around and Ron gives me a wide berth. It is for the best. He’ll never understand, but he at least knows me well enough to leave me be. Ginny tries, but it’s awkward and forced. Luna just pretends that everything will be fixed soon and carries on doing whatever inane activity she’s occupied with. It’s really just Harry but mostly just me. I sleep for a time, but that feels unproductive. The drive to do something takes me so I focus some effort and some anguish on cleaning the mansion. It’s rather irrelevant in the grand scheme of things but it helps to keep myself busy.

I don’t cry, not really. I don’t really feel much of anything at all. I avoid the clinic at all costs and no one says anything to me about it. An elephant sized void follows me from room to room and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming. I wait in brutal anticipation for the numbness to fade. I can’t even be properly upset with him because it was the only choice he had. There is no one and nothing for me to blame and so I wallow and fester like a rotten piece of fruit left too long in the sun.

I wish he’d died, if only to better understand what and how to grieve.

“You look like shit,” Draco says the first words he’s had for me in nearly four days. It appears his time in the clinic has run its course. 

I flinch, woefully unprepared for how achingly familiar he sounds, and force myself to look at him. “What do you want?”

He leans against the door to the upstairs parlor, blissfully ignorant of the dance we shared here less than a week ago. If I close my eyes I can still feel the weight of his hand in mine. “I’ve been told by Potter to come talk to you.”

“Since when do you take instruction from Harry?”

Draco shrugs. “I don’t. But he kept fucking moaning about it and said that if I want to leave, I need to do this first.”

Leave. Right. Because why would he stay here, in a den of strangers. My eyes sting and I look back down at the book in my lap. “Well he was mistaken. I’ve nothing to say to you.”

He takes a tentative step into the room. “It’s come to my attention that we were flatmates apparently?” 

I say nothing. 

“Lived in some sad little cottage by the sea, according to Pansy.”

My heart aches for my former home. Harry and the others have long since cleared it of any danger but I cannot possibly bring myself to go back. Not now. It’d be like living with the ghost of what could have been, something I cannot bear to consider. 

“Sounds absolutely mental to me.”

“Dra—Malfoy, what do you want?” I snap, the razor wire of my conviction stretched taut. 

His gray eyes widen slightly at the venom in my words. “Seems you’re still just as prickly as ever. You’d think us being flatmates would have, I dunno, changed that.”

“You’d think.” I can’t help but murmur.

“Did we really live together for seven months?” There is a genuine curiosity to his words that just makes everything so much worse. 

I sigh, closing the book. “We did.”

“And we didn’t kill each other?”

“Not for lack of trying.”

He snorts but the gentle upward curve of his mouth betrays him. I clench my fists to keep my hands from shaking. “Right. Well.”

I stare at him but all of a sudden he’d rather look anywhere else. 

“Thanks, I guess.”

“For what?”

“For keeping me alive. Pansy mentioned you’d done that. So,” he shrugs again, doing a poor job of feigning indifference, “thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” I say and try not to beg.

When he turns back to me, we lock eyes and it’s agony. “Alright, Granger?”

I blink away tears. “Sure. Yes. Alright.” We just stand there, staring at one another. I cannot bring myself to move, cannot command my feet to carry me out of this heartbreaking moment in time. 

“Did…”

I know what he wants to ask. I’m giving away too much of myself not to betray the truth. 

“Were we…”

“Draco?” Pansy calls and as she wanders into the room, I silently tell myself over and over that it’s for the best. He can never know what happened, what we became. As far as he knows, we hate one another and I’ll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of anything else. We’re enemies again, like we once were, perhaps like we’ve always been meant to.

“Yeah Pans?”

She approaches but stops short, looking curiously between us. “Everything alright?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I ask, too fast to be casual.

“Tonks is looking for you,” Pansy finally says. 

Draco scoffs, immediately slipping back into the skin of his proper self. “Fucking hell, of course she is. She acts like we’re family. Like I’m suddenly going to give a fuck about her because my parents are dead.” He says it so easily, I wonder at how he took the news. “Fucking pathetic.”

“She’s in the kitchen.”

He heads for the door. “You coming?”

Pansy nods her head. “I’ll be right there, just need to talk to Hermione.”

He looks perturbed, but disappears without complaint.

“What did you tell him?” She immediately turns on me. 

“I—nothing. There is nothing to tell.”

She laughs. “Oh please. Don’t bother denying it now. Everyone can see you walking around here like a rejected teenager.”

Anger bubbles within me, rage begging for a proper outlet. “Fuck you.”

“What’s going to happen to us?” she asks, fully disinterested in my fury. 

“It’s not for me to decide.”

“Moody is dead so I think that it is.” Her shooks click obnoxiously on the hardwood as she walks around. “You said you’d vouch for Draco.”

“I will.”

“Even with him like this?”

“He doesn’t…his clemency was never contingent on our friendship.”

“Oh, so it was a friendship now?”

I head for the door, unwilling to put up with her wanton cruelty. 

“Fucking hell, can you stop it with the sullen shit for a second?”

“Pansy, I swear to god if you—”

“You love him, don’t you? Merlin’s tits you actually love him,” she admonishes. “And he had the fucking audacity to love you back.” 

“This—”

“Of all the people in the world he could have preferred over me and it was a fucking mudblood.”

I take a slow, measured breath and walk back over to her. “Call me that again, Pansy, and I’ll ruin the other side of your face.”

She sneers, the expression pulling at the tight skin still healing around her mouth. “I always knew you weren’t the saint everyone pretends you are.”

“You—”

“Promise me you’ll vouch for Draco.”

I glare at her, half-incredulous and half-disgusted. “Just Draco, Pansy. There is no amount of groveling that will put you in my good graces.”

“Please,” she scoffs, “like I’d ever lower myself to it.” We have a silent stand-off for a few tense moments before her shoulders relax. “I expect gratitude for this.”

“For what?”

Instead of answering, she turns on heel and marches out the door. I look around as though the answer lies drifting through the sunbeams mottling the floor, but there is only the emptiness left. The book in my hands feels heavy and the thought of spending another second in the parlor is suddenly too painful to bear. Cautiously, I step into the hallway, not quite sure where it is I’m supposed to go. It’s something I’ve grown used to in these dark days following our victory. A sense of listlessness, a lack of direction. We won. Harry is alive. Voldemort is dead. And yet, somehow, everything is worse.

Pansy’s retreating form disappears down the curve of the staircase and I drift forward, curious and uncomfortable. Despite the warren of hallways that is the Longbottom Estate, it is mostly devoid of life these days, and so I track her at a distance, just far enough away to say I am not intentionally following along. 

Tonks is in the kitchen when I arrive several seconds later, feeding young Teddy spoonfuls of something yellow and mushed. Draco lingers awkwardly near the edge of the table, as though torn between whether or not he would be welcomed to sit. At my entrance, only he looks up and when our eyes meet it wounds me viciously at how familiar the expression on his face still is. Confusion, discomfort, that undercurrent of arrogance. It is almost painful enough to send me back out into the hallway and as far from him as physically possible.

“I need to speak to Snape. Is he back yet?” Pansy snaps at Tonks.

“Good afternoon to you, too Pansy. Why yes, I am doing quite well,” Tonks replies, attention still focused on her young son. “You’re welcome again for repairing your broken arm.”

“Cute.” At Pansy’s response, Teddy grins as though it were directed at him, and she scowls. “Snape. I need to speak to him.”

“Good for you.” Tonks makes a face at Teddy who makes it back. “Why?”

“It’s about Draco.” 

Everyone turns to look at him, though I refrain from letting my gaze linger. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” he snaps.

“It’s none of your business,” Pansy says with a classic Malfoy sneer. I wonder who taught whom. “Is he back yet?”

“Ask Harry.”

“Ask Harry what?” As if summoned, he appears in the far doorway. 

Pansy glares at him, though it lacks the previous vitriol. Such a thing would have been interesting once upon a time, but the interpersonal machinations of most everyone no longer hold my attention. “Where’s Snape? I need to speak with him.”

Stepping into the room, Harry frowns at her. “Wh—”

“It doesn’t bloody fucking matter why. Just tell me if he’s returned yet.”

Harry glances at me as though I’ve an insight into her mercurial foulness and all I do is shrug. “Snape said it could be upwards of a week,” he replies, “and he’s only been gone five days.”

“Gone where?” Draco asks, once more pulling attention onto himself. I stare forcefully at the floor. “He was here?” Something close to hatred—an emotion I know intimately in Draco’s tone—colors his words.

A charged look of something passes between Harry and Pansy and I begin to reconsider my lack of interest in their exchange when Teddy babbles loudly and gestures at the front door. “Ape! Ape!”

“Speak of the bloody devil,” Tonks murmurs and gathers the toddler into her arms. “I don’t need to be here for this. I’ve seen enough bloodshed.” And she saunters off, giving me a quick look of apology as she passes. 

Snape rushes in, frenzied much the same as he was in Malfoy Manor last we saw one another. He looks Draco up and down, cruel mouth in a worried slant. “Is it done?” he directs the question at Pansy.

“Does it look done?”

“What the fuck are you two talking about?” Draco demands, clearly just as confused as me. 

Ignoring him, Snape steps further into the room and gestures at Pansy. “You were supposed to do this yesterday. We agreed—”

“It wasn’t a good time, okay?” She snaps. 

“A good time?” The oil slick of venom in the old Potion Master’s tone sends me careening back to Hogwarts, to the simple discomfort of childhood.

“Oi!” Harry shouts, cutting Pansy off before she can even open her mouth. “Enough. What is going on?”

Snape looks from Harry to Pansy and finally to Draco, the sharp glint in his eyes softening ever so slightly. “Before the battle, Pansy came to me. Told me of your stupid little contingency plan.”

“I’m fucking alive, aren’t I?” Draco says. “Couldn’t have been that stupid.”

“At the cost of almost destroying your brain, yes. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“What do you care?”

“Because I need to know what you’ve lost in order to undo it.”

I must make some sort of sound because Harry snaps his eyes to mine. Hope, horrible and bright, coils around my heart. Before I can speak, Draco replies with a sneer, “I don’t want it undone.”

“Yes you do,” Snape insists.

“No, I don’t.”

“Listen to me, you aren’t—”

“Alright, fuck this.” Pansy turns to me, expression cold. “What’s your favorite fruit?”

It is so wildly out of place, so sudden and strange, I struggle to register the words. “What?” 

“Fruit,” she says slowly, enunciating every letter. “Your favorite one.”

“I don’t—”

“Pansy, wait,” Snape starts but he is so very far away. “He needs to be prepared first, otherwise the shock could—”

“Strawberry,” I say with all the conviction of a hopeful, lovesick fool. “My favorite fruit is strawberry.”

Everything goes still, quiet, in that grave and unnatural way. Harry looks from me to Draco to Pansy and back. Snape hovers at Draco’s side, arms outstretched to catch him. I meet his impossibly grey eyes and his brow furrows in confusion. “Hermione?”

“Draco?”

His eyes roll back, and he goes limp, sliding awkwardly into Snape’s waiting embrace.

Chapter Text

The cottage looks exactly the same as it did the last time I saw it, down to the rotten shutters and overgrown garden. The air is heavy with the threat of rain, the clouds that familiar, violent gray. I can hear the ocean slam restlessly into that jagged cliffside, even if I cannot yet see its endless expanse. I stop for a moment, let the sting of salty air settle into my lungs, and ground myself in the moment. Leaves, golden and red, swirl gently at my feet.

It’s been four months since that night at the Manor. In that time, the Wizarding world has done a remarkably shit job at pretending everything is fine, paving over wounds with placating press releases and the hiring of muggle borns to mid-level Ministry positions. Hogwarts reopened last month to fanfare and everyone’s overwhelming relief, as if Death Eaters weren’t trawling its ancient halls the last three years. Everything is washed out, coated with new paint, as though the plaster of time is thick enough to hide the rot. 

Voldemort is dead. My parents are dead. And yet somehow, everything is easier now.

Snape is gone, off to Durmstrang to teach Potions to the next generation of brutish, Russian wizards. He left me with nothing more than a brisk nod, as though he hadn’t spent four months painstakingly putting me back together. It’s a funny thing, memory, and bloody fickle. In retrospect, total Obliviation would have been an easier hell to crawl out of. But oh no, I had to show off, ever the little shit, and make it specific, make it clever. Fuck, what an ass I am. 

Still, Snape did his measured best, and exhibited a depth of patience I would have never expected from someone as feral and cold as he. If I choose to ruminate on it, I can probably assume that it’s the guilt of my mother’s death, coupled with the indignity of her life leading up to said death—and apparently proceeding it—that truly motivated him. It doesn’t matter, though, not really. I’ve more important things to worry about.

Like coming to terms with my life, such as it is. An orphan, though hardly young enough to qualify, but I do love the weight of it. Helps add to my snobbery, my arrogance. Pansy says it makes me tragic in that alluring way. She’d know I suppose. Regardless, things are a far cry short of the way they were just over a year ago. 

Even though I’ve been impressed upon otherwise, I do blame myself for my mother’s death. It was my carelessness, my desperation to run, that got us caught in the end. The serrated memories of our time in the dungeons of our own home, at the hands of my deranged aunt, were particularly grueling to get through. It’s no wonder Snape Obliviated me of them before handing me off to the Order. In the state I was in, I’d have found any means necessary to forget. 

Ironic, of course, that in remembering the only good thing in my life, I also remember the worst.

The front door is shut and I remember the rush of fear that ran through me when fucking Weasley knocked on it on those months ago. That was the first time I held her hand, I think. Incredible, the detail to memory. Even more incredible is the absence of it. Why were we even in the front room in the first place? What did the Weasel even want? I cannot say, though not for lack of trying.

I peer through the skewed curtain, to the stillness of the living room beyond. It is empty, silent, like a monument to better, if less stable, days. Maybe I’m too early. Maybe I’m too late.

In the end, it was the memories of my time here, in this fucking dreadful cottage by the sea, that were the hardest to reclaim. Bit by bit, often day by day, I had to sit in that haphazard ruin of a mental palace and stitch the history of us back together. Fuck me, but I loved her so much sooner than I was willing to admit. Perhaps if I had been less of a coward we could have had more time together, to be something more than the almost and the maybe that we were.

The door is unlocked and I take it as a good sign. As far as meeting places go, it felt the most apt. It’s not like we know who we are together outside of these salt-soaked walls. I never gave her the chance, I never gave myself the grace. Mistakes, like sand, coating the edges of everything. At least I got this right. At least this. 

Snape wouldn’t let me write to her, let alone see her, until he felt that my recovery was complete. The depth of my attachment to her was the throughline of every lost memory and he was worried that it would destroy my fragile house of cards before it was done being rebuilt. He was probably right, but I cursed at him viciously for it all the same. My last moment with her before everything unraveled and Snape spirited me away to some rancid shack of a house in the hills of Ireland for four months of mental anguish, was a painful one. The look of heartbreak in her eyes, the way she struggled not to let me see it. If I wasn’t overwrought with reasons to hate myself, that alone would be cause enough. 

The scent of parchment and earthy, herbaceous plant life washes over me as I walk inside, transporting me back to a life I want desperately to reclaim. Scent is, of course, most closely tied to memory. Perhaps that was my logic in picking ‘strawberry’ as a command word. Fucking stupid, really. It’s hardly uncommon. Imagine if I’d been in public somewhere and heard it? I probably would have died. Snape spent the better part of a week scolding me for it but who is he to talk, really? A doe Patronus? Honestly. Talk about lovesick.

With each careful step forward, I move through time. So many horrid books, bland meals, miserable rainstorms. A veritable dragon’s hoard of itchy, ill-fitting wool sweaters. I run my fingers along the seam of my cuff, letting the intricacies of the knitting catch against every imperfection in my skin. It’s dark blue, darker than I remember it being. Pansy—really, Pansy of all people—tossed it to me when she found out I’d been set free, said it had been among my things she’d taken from the Longbottom Estate. Even though I never told her, even though I never said a fucking word, she knew what I wanted, she knew where I’d go, to whom I would run. I don’t deserve her loyalty. I never could.

I round the small doorway into the kitchen, stopping at the ancient wooden table bathed now in the gray afternoon light. Every scuff mark is familiar to me, every dent and divot. So many meals, so many memories. I think the first time I ever wished to kiss her was right here, in this dreary little excuse of a room. It was my birthday, and she was baking. I loved her so much, it was like something had bloomed within my chest cavity, and struggled to be seen. I never thought she would see me, though, and I certainly never thought that she would love me.

Through the open window, there is the sea. It is angry, roaring in its ceaseless bombardment against the jagged black rocks. I stare at it fondly for a moment, like the arrival of an old friend. I’ve missed it, impossible though it may seem. That background cacophony, that persistent presence of it in every moment spent here ties it irrevocably into the fabric of the person I am now. 

From the sea, I focus inward, to the porch, to the figure illuminated in diffused sunlight. Even though she said she’d be here, there was still that lingering doubt that she would not. At the sight of her, my breath catches, and for a second I feel the panic creeping in. It’s been four months. Four months of no contact, not a word, not even a glance. I couldn’t even say goodbye to her, so swiftly was I ushered off with Snape. Truthfully, I wouldn’t have been able to but it bothers me all the same. My momentum is arrested at the thought of her expression when she sees me. Doubt follows panic like a faithful companion, gnawing at my recently healed edges. 

I wrote her a dozen letters, and burned every one.

She shifts, looking to the left, down the porch at the gate as though she is expecting me to come from that direction. It calms me slightly to see the anticipation in the tension of her shoulders. Perhaps she is as nervous as I. Perhaps we are still tethered in some as of yet unknown way. A shuddering breath or two work their way through me and I walk out the back door. 

“Granger,” I say, letting the word hang in the air between us. It’s not a hello, but it’s not not one either. She springs to her feet, and looks at me and fuck, it is damned annoying how right every bloody cliche seems to be. Time stops, just for a second, and even the sea holds its breath. I search her expression for something to cling to, some harbor in a storm to hold fast within. 

“Malfoy,” she responds, tone deliberately, delicately neutral. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.”

“How are you?”

“Well.” It’s like reading a script, a poorly written play about how this is supposed to go. It feels forced, it feels fake. I shake my head. “That’s a lie, I’m terrible.”

She frowns, brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

I laugh, a brittle thing. “Oh you know, just all of it.” My empty sleeve waves uselessly as I gesture at the ocean. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Of course I’d come. You asked me to and it was the first time I’d heard from you in four months—”

“Four months, two days, and,” I squint up at the sky, “fifteenish hours, by my estimation.” Despite the nerves, I grin. “If one wished to be specific.”

“You’re wrong.” She takes a step forward and my body reacts far before I ever could. Soon we are but an arm’s length apart. 

“I am?”

“It’s seventeen hours.”

“Hmm,” I hum. “If you say so.”

“I do.” There are snapshots of normalcy woven into the moment, but they are far outweighed by the awkwardness of it, of the aborted expectation. Of the fucking maybe’s. “How is your…” she trails off, gesturing at my head. 

“Just as loathsome as ever,” I say with a smile. The wind shifts, and cheap strawberry scented body wash rushes over me. It makes my heart wrench, like a teenager asking the girl he fancies to the Yule fucking Ball. 

“But you do remember everything, don’t you?” There is such hesitation in her tone, it wounds me. “You remember me? You remember…us?”

Shaking, because I am terrible at playing it cool in situations as dire as these, I raise my hand to tug lightly on an errant brown curl. “I remember a lot of things. I remember I made you promise me something.”

She chews her lip to keep from smiling. “You did.”

“What was that again?” We look at each other properly then, drinking in the relief of one another’s presence. Just the way she occupies the space around me is like every good thing I could ever hope to have wrapped up into one tiny, human shaped package. Her face is the same, her features as familiar as I know them to be. That faded scar that runs the length of her jaw, the divot in her cheek when she tries not to grin. Her hair, impossible and wild and perfect. I love her. I’ll die loving her, though I would much prefer to live.

“That I would wait to say it.”

“Ahh yes, of course.” Even in the sincere relief of our reunion, there is doubt still, because I am still the man I’ve always been, no matter the bruising and the breaking. “Do you…still wish to say it?”

I watch the mirrored reflection of my insecurity flash in her expression. “Only if you still wish to hear it.”

“I do.” And I do and I do, over and over again, until it is only the sea that remains.