A/n: I do not own any of the characters or the plotline, It all belong to JK Rowling and SenLinYu.
TW- MATURE *cough cough* CONTENT
Flashback 28
March 2003
Draco cradled her face in his hands as he returned her kiss, carefully pulling her closer without hurting her left arm. She was half-crying as she kissed him.
She traced her fingers along his neck and pulled at the curve of his jaw to draw him closer. Trying to memorise every detail of him: the scent of the forest and papyrus scrolls, his pulse under her fingertips, his lips pressed against hers, the taste of him.
She had earned this. She pressed her cheek against his hand as his lips caressed hers.
After several minutes, she wrenched herself away.
"I have to go," she said.
He didn't try to stop her, but he reached for her again before catching himself. He stared at her and drew a sharp breath through his teeth.
"Come back. Come back to me—if you ever need anything," he finally said, pulling his hand back.
Hermione stared at him and wanted to say she would. She forced herself to swallow the words.
"I have to go," she repeated, forcing herself to step away.
He stood, watching her leave.
She took a steadying breath and apparated back to the Tonks house.
She knocked quickly on the door. It swung open. Fred stood in the doorway, staring suspiciously down at her.
"What are your parents' names?" he asked.
"Wendell and Monica Wilkins, they live in Australia," she answered, meeting his eyes steadily.
He slumped with relief and dragged her into his arms. She was crushed against his chest as he pulled her inside.
"Good Merlin, we thought we lost you. You weren't there when we woke up."
"I—I was hemorrhaging. I couldn't wait. I had to find someone who could fix it," she said by way of vague explanation.
Fred shook his head, his expression bewildered. "I don't understand; one minute we were fighting, and then suddenly we woke up, thrown all the way past the wards. My whole body feels like I was crushed by an erumpant. All the Death Eaters were dead. You were gone. Harry and Ron freaked and wanted to start a search."
"Someone must have tried to use some dark curse that backfired," Hermione said, pulling out her kit and handing Fred a restorative and a vial of pain relief.
"That's our best guess," Fred said, knocking back the potions with a grimace. "Freakishly lucky. I can't believe how many of 'em there were. Ron's been chewing out Harry nonstop since we got here."
He looked seriously at Hermione,
"His shoulder's pretty bad."
Hermione nodded grimly. "I saw it happen."
He gave her a long look. "That was your curse that saved him, wasn't it?"
She gave a short nod. "This close to a full moon, there weren't many options."
"Well. You won't hear any complaints from me. After what happened to George, I say we kill the bastards. Harry's a bit freaked over it. But he was a right arse to ask you to walk into something like that your first time back into the field. I'm glad you weren't killed;I don't care what it took for you to manage it." He rested a hand on her shoulder.
She nodded. "I've been advocating for lethal curses for years. If anyone was surprised that I used them, they haven't been paying attention."
"Ron's in there. I'm knackered." Fred swung a door open.
Ron sat in a bed. His shoulder had been sloppily bandaged. How so many Order members could be fighting for so many years without being able to perform basic emergency healing still baffled Hermione.
"Mione! You're alive." Ron tried to climb out of bed and looked on the verge of tears as he saw her.
"I'm sorry," she said as she hurried over and pushed him firmly back into the bed before removing the bandages with the wave of her wand. "I should have gotten back sooner."
Harry gripped her shoulder, pulled her back and hugged her for a minute. "I'm so sorry. I thought they caught you. I looked through the bodies, and you weren't there. I'm so, so sorry. I never thought there'd be so many."
Hermione pulled away. "I need to treat Ron, Harry." Her voice was tight as she twisted free.
Ron's shoulder was mangled. The untransformed werewolf had bitten deep into the muscle of his shoulder, tearing huge swaths of flesh loose. The damage was severe.
Someone, presumably Remus, appeared to have dumped an entire container of powdered silver and dittany over the wound.
"Where did you go?" Harry asked, "We looked everywhere for you."
"I got hurt," she said, working to keep her voice low. She cleared away the blood, crusted powder and herbs to survey the extent of the injury. "I was bleeding out, and I needed someone with healing experience."
She handed Ron a vial of pain relief potion. The moment after he swallowed, she cast cleansing charm over the area. He gave an agonized gasp.
Mouths were horribly dirty, especially one belonging to a werewolf with cannibalistic urges.
"Who?" Harry asked.
"A third-party Moody put me in contact with," she said without looking up.
"Bastards," Ron muttered, wincing as Hermione crushed up Wolfsbane into a poultice and spread it into the deepest tears in his shoulder. "Anyone who stays neutral in this war is a coward. What do they think will happen if we lose? I wouldn't trust them."
"Not everyone is cut out to fight, Ron," she said quietly, feeling obliged to defend the fictitious healer.
"I know it. I've been reminding Harry." Ron gave Harry a hard look which Harry returned obstinately.
"We all got out, didn't we?" Harry retorted, dropping into a chair next to the bed. "Probably wouldn't have if Hermione hadn't fixed you up before we went back out."
"The Order needs Hermione more as a healer than you needed her for your suicidal rescue idea," Ron said between clenched teeth. "Moody and Kingsley will say the same as soon as they hear what you did."
Hermione pulled the Wolfsbane poultice away and used the tip of her wand to siphon away all the poison that had been pulled up. Then she sprinkled another thick layer of powdered silver and dittany across the wound and set to wrapping it.
Her arm was shaking from exhaustion as she tried to wrap the gauze firmly with one hand.
After failing again on her fifth try, she stepped back and rummaged for a strengthening draught which she struggled to unstopper with one hand. Finally she pulled the cork out with her teeth, spat it onto the table, and drank the potion.
The trembling in her hand eased.
"Harry...," she said in a low voice. "I need you to give me a hand. I can't manage Ron's dressing with just one. I need you to maintain the tension as I wrap it in order to keep the dittany in place."
Harry stood and came over.
"What happened to your arm?" He reached out and touched the cast tentatively.
"Just a curse." She shrugged. "I had to remove the bones. They're regrowing now."
Harry winced. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine. It wasn't life-threatening," she said. "It just takes a while to get everything restored. Now, hold this here while I wrap. And then, when I bring it around, I need you to hold it here too. We don't want too much tension, just enough to keep it covered and everything in place."
When Ron's shoulder was finally properly bandaged, Hermione started working on all the remaining injuries from his imprisonment. She couldn't figure out how to get the shackle on his right wrist off, so she worked around it. When she finished, she rested her hand lightly on his arm.
"It's not going to heal," she told Ron soberly, nodding toward his shoulder.
He was pale, his freckles standing out starkly. "I know. Remus told me."
"This close to the full moon, you're going to feel it every month."
He gave a sharp nod.
"Remus may have mentioned; we'll need to isolate you tomorrow night. Until we know how severely it's going to affect you during the full moon. This—this is going to change you. You're going to have to be careful. When you get angry, you won't necessarily realize how much stronger and aggressive you'll be prone to get until you do something really dangerous. You—you could accidentally kill someone."
"He won't," Harry said defensively.
Hermione's jaw tensed. "Ron isn't the first person I've treated for bites, Harry. It's not going to be his fault, but if we decide to be careless, he could hurt someone. Bites this close to a full moon have consequences. When the wolf can't emerge with the moon, it tends to just simmer beneath the surface, waiting for opportunities to lash out. Ron is potentially dangerous, and we need to be prepared for that."
"Well, maybe you should have gotten him out like we planned." Harry crossed his arms and jerked his chin.
Hermione flinched, and the room swam slightly as she felt the blood drain away from her head.
"Harry, shut up!" Ron turned scarlet with rage. "It was your fucking stupid plan! Hermione shouldn't have been there. How the bloody hell was she supposed to have gotten me out?"
Harry was raring for a fight. Hermione could see it in his face. He was always angry after someone got hurt. And now, with Ginny away, he didn't have anyone to console or distract him.
He was lashing out in guilt. Because he'd never known how to deal with what he felt. Bleeding to death from the pain of all he couldn't stop himself from feeling.
"I did everything I could to protect Ron."
"Yeah, I saw your idea of protecting him. What was that curse you used?" Harry asked.
She met his eyes. "I found it researching. It's one of the few spells that can kill a werewolf fast enough to stop them, aside from an Unforgivable."
"It was Dark," Harry said, his green eyes flashing. "Probably one of the darkest spells I've ever seen."
"I thought Ron was worth it." If she'd had the magic to spare, she would have hexed Harry across the room.
"We could have brought it down with stunners," Harry said.
"Really? You were willing to bet Ron's life on that? After all the risk to save him?" Her voice was shaking with rage. "I knew the consequences. I accepted them. I used it."
"So what? Suddenly you're an expert in the battlefield? Ripping apart your soul rather than believe that we can win with Light magic?" The hurt and fear in Harry's eyes was visible through his anger. "It gets into your soul, Hermione. Dark Magic. That darkness will stay in you after the war. It never goes away. It's inside you. In your magic."
He took her by the shoulders, and she could feel his hands shaking. He looked ready to cry.
"I don't care." Hermione jerked free from Harry and pushed her jaw up. "I want to win. I don't care what my soul ends up looking like." Then she scoffed. "You were more than willing to risk my life; I don't see how my soul is somehow more important."
Harry took a sharp step back and was silent as he stared at her.
"Well," he finally said, "if that's how little you believe in us then you aren't someone whose help I need. Trust me, I won't ever ask again." He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.
Ron stared at Hermione as she slumped against the wall. His expression was sad and resigned.
"I don't understand why you do this," he said after a moment. "Do you still believe we'll only win if we use the Dark Arts?"
Hermione's arm was throbbing from the bone regrowth, and she was fighting back tears.
"We aren't the side trying to kill everyone. Considering the number of people we're protecting, there are very few means I wouldn't consider worth it," she said, blinking her eyes rapidly so they'd stop pricking.
"You know Harry can't," Ron said seriously. "If he thinks that he's going to have to go Dark to win, it'll destroy everything he's fighting for. He wants to be normal after this. He won't have that if he goes Dark."
"I know. I just want him to stop getting in everyone else's way."
Ron stared at her in silence for several moments. "You think everyone else should. Me and you and the rest of DA and the Order."
"I'm in the hospital ward, Ron," she said, too tired to gesture or even move as she spoke. "Whether you win a battle or lose it, all I see is the cost. Sometimes it seems like you and Harry don't realise how few lives we can still afford to lose. This war is bigger than Harry and his family getting to be normal afterward. What do you think will happen to the Resistance if we lose? What about the Muggle world? Harry doesn't have anyone in the Muggle world he cares about. You don't know anyone out there at all. But my parents are out there. My classmates from primary school. My grandparents and cousins. If my soul is the price of protecting them—of protecting you, that's—that's not a price. That's a bargain."
She straightened, feeling like she was about to fall over.
"I have to go check up on everyone else," she said, stumbling out of the room.
It was mostly simple injuries. When fighting Death Eaters, injuries tended to either be lethal or minor.
Charlie was mostly bruised and grazed with a curse that wouldn't stop bleeding. He'd taken two Blood-Replenishing Potions waiting for her to come back. Fred had a concussion and internal bruising that Hermione got repaired in short order.
Tonks' wrist was badly sprained. It only took a few minutes for Hermione to perform the spellwork and apply a potion.
"Glad to see you're still kicking," Tonks said, staring at Hermione with a serious expression. Tonks' hair was dark and limp; there were streaks of grey in it.
Hermione gave a wan smile as she massaged the potion into Tonks' skin to reduce the swelling.
"Who trained you?" Tonks lowered her voice and leaned forward.
Hermione stilled slightly before she continued massaging Tonks' wrist.
"I was all over Europe for training."
"Don't play dumb with me; that's not what I was talking about. I remember how you used to fight," Tonks said, eyeing Hermione. "You're completely different now. You were deadly. And despite your inexperience in the actual field, it was obvious you know a lot more than you possibly should. Someone dangerous trained you."
Hermione said nothing.
"How many people did you kill today, Hermione? Ten? Fifteen? Do you even know?"
Hermione's jaw started quivering, and she ground her teeth together to stop it.
"Have you ever killed anyone before? You haven't. I'd remember that. Today was the first time, and you haven't even had time to think about it, have you?"
Hermione flinched.
"What have you gotten yourself into?" Tonks asked, reaching out and resting her hand on Hermione's.
There was a pause.
"It was just supposed to be precautionary. I didn't expect to use it all so suddenly," Hermione finally managed to say.
"Who? Who do you know that's that deadly? Moody trained me, so I know it's not his style. Or Amelia Bones'. Or Shacklebolt's."
"I don't have permission to share the information. Moody is aware. You can verify with him."
Tonks blinked and stared at Hermione for several seconds.
"That curse, to save Ron. I've heard about it—you went deep into the Dark Arts with that. Make sure you aren't alone; whoever you've got that you go to, you should probably send a message to."
Hermione nodded absently. The pain in her arm was growing distracting. Internally, she was beginning to feel worn thin; a symptom that she had pushed beyond what strengthening potions could counter.
"Is Remus alright?" Hermione asked. She still hadn't examined him or Harry, but she knew Tonks would have checked Remus as soon as they got back.
"Yep. I checked him carefully. You know how quick he heals from almost anything. He went to report to Kingsley that we got Ron back."
"Alright." Hermione nodded, struggling to stand.
"Hermione," Tonks caught her as she stumbled. "What happened to you?"
"It's nothing. I'm fine. I'm just not used to being in the field. I'm not as fit as the rest of you," Hermione said, trying to step away.
"You disappeared when the rest of us were unconscious," Tonks' eyes were narrowed and then widened. "Did you cast the curse that killed everyone?"
"No," Hermione said quickly, shaking her head. "I don't know what that was."
"But you know how it happened, don't you? Your teacher—came for you." Tonks looked suddenly tense. "How injured were you? Who is it that you have in your pocket with that much firepower?"
Hermione grasped for an explanation that would satisfy the former auror.
"Talk to Moody. If he'll clear you, I'll tell you anything you want to know."
"Since when are you so classified?" Tonks said, her eyes wide with wonder.
"You know I can't tell you that either," Hermione said, pulling her arm away.
"Fine," Tonks said. "Tell me how injured you were then. I'm assuming that's not classified."
Hermione couldn't think of any reason to lie.
"I got stabbed. In the lung. It nicked my liver too. It's repaired now."
"Shit! That doesn't mean you should be standing. You know better than me that just because Muggle injuries can be fixed fast doesn't mean they don't take a huge toll physically. You should be in a bed, and we should be coming to you," Tonks hissed.
"If I told anyone, it would raise questions l can't answer," Hermione said steadily. "It'll be fine. I'll just need a lot of sleep once I finish. I only need to see Harry. Then I'll rest."
"Alright," Tonks stepped back and let her go, but her eyes were still suspicious and concerned.
As soon as Hermione got out of the room, she leaned against the wall. She tried to gather any reserves she had left before going to find Harry.
He was on the roof, staring out over the pond below while he smoked. There were dozens of cigarette butts scattered around him.
He noticed her but didn't make any move to come to her.
She climbed out of the window awkwardly with only one arm to support her. She almost lost her balance but caught herself determinedly. If she fell off the roof in her current condition, she might die. She steeled herself and made her way to Harry, trying not to look down.
"What happened to us, Hermione?" he asked when she got close.
"A war," she said, reaching out and turning his face toward her. There was a gash on his head. His pale skin was faintly red from the blood he'd washed off. His expression was sad, tired, and angry.
"Who changed? Was it you or me?" he asked as she laced her fingers through his hair and pushed it aside so she could close the wound.
"Me," she admitted.
"Why? Do you think I won't be able to do it?" he said. "Are you trying to brace yourself that I'll fail?"
She cast a diagnostic charm on him. He had two fractured ribs and bruising on his abdomen. She pushed him back so he'd lay down before she started healing him.
"I think you can do it. But—the prophecy. It's a coin toss. After Dumbledore died—," she faltered slightly.
"Death is just one curse away from us all," she said after a moment. "I can't just sit back and watch, waiting for fifty-fifty odds to land and assume I know the outcome. Not when there are so many people depending on us. What you have, the way you love people... it's pure, it's powerful. But—how many times have you killed Tom now? As a baby, because of your mother. In first and second year. But he's still here. He's still fighting you. I don't want to assume anything is enough."
"You don't think Good can just win," Harry said. The reproach in his voice was heavy.
"Everyone who wins say they were good, but they're the ones who write the history. I haven't seen anything indicating that it was actually moral superiority that made a difference," she said as she murmured the spells to repair the fractures.
"You're talking about Muggle history though. Magic is different. The magical world is different," Harry said fiercely.
Hermione shook her head, and Harry's expression grew bitter. He looked up at the sky. Hermione began spreading a bruise paste over Harry's stomach and ribs in small circular motions.
"You used to be different," Harry said, "You used to be more righteous about things than me. What happened to S.P.E.W? That girl would never have said Dark Magic was worth the cost. What happened?"
"That girl died in a hospital ward trying to save Colin Creevey."
"I was there when Colin died too, Hermione. And I didn't change."
"I was always willing to do whatever it took, Harry. All those adventures of ours in school. Once I was in, I was in. Maybe you just never noticed how far I was willing to go for you."
"Not for me." Harry said, shaking his head. "You don't get to tell yourself you're doing this for me. I would never ask it of you."
"I know," she said, looking away. "This isn't for you. It's for everyone else. You have to do what you need to to win. So do I."
"You're pushing yourself away," Harry said in a hard voice as he sat up. "Maybe you don't think I see it, but I do. I just don't understand why. You were like my sister. But now—it's like every time there's a crack in our friendship, you walk up and drive a wedge into it. I don't understand—why are you doing that?"
He sounded on the verge of tears. His eyes were so hurt and angry as he stared at her. She felt herself waver.
If she admitted it now, maybe it would fix things. Maybe there was still a chance. The space Ginny had filled and concealed—he was realising it, feeling how far away Hermione had moved.
Her first friend. Her best friend. He was reaching out for her. If she reached back—
She stared sadly at him. "Those cracks were always there, Harry. The person I am, she was always there. The war is just making you see her."
His face shuttered.
"Alright then." He stood up and went back into the house.
Hermione sat for several minutes, trying to muster up the energy to climb back across the roof.
She found an armchair and curled up in it, so tired that even the stabbing pain of her arm couldn't keep her from sleeping.
When she jerked awake hours later, she felt icy. She was freezing cold, to the point that her teeth were chattering. It had been early afternoon when she'd fallen asleep, but the house had grown dark and quiet.
She shuddered with cold, grasped for her wand, and cast a warming charm on herself. It didn't provide her with any relief from the iciness she felt.
She felt—watched. As though there were something in the darkness staring at her.
At the base of her spine, and climbing slowly upward like icy tendrils, was a sense of dull pain. Like she was being infected with something that was trying to numb her as it crept through her system.
Her hand was shaking as she cast a diagnostic on herself. She must have overlooked a curse.
There was nothing.
The painful, icy sensation felt like it was spreading. Blooming through her body into her sternum and across her chest until breathing felt painful.
It was terrifying and awful but there was also a sort of draw to surrender. Pain for relief. Like sitting in the kitchen, cutting lines until it hurt more than everything else did.
Pain like liberation. Like the taste of blood.
She stood sharply.
It was the aftereffects of the Dark Magic she had used. Self-destructive tendencies. Hallucinations.
Now as she thought about it, the sensations were familiar.
Tonks had been right. She should be with someone. Someone who would help her hold on.
She stumbled down the stairs. It was the middle of the night. She made her way to the room Charlie had been in. They barely got on together, but he'd let her hold his hand. She was so cold. He could talk to her and help her keep focused—
Empty.
She checked Fred's. Empty.
She moved on.
Ron was asleep. Moaning in pain. She poured a Dreamless Sleep draught down his throat. As she watched him settle, she pulled out a potion to help reset the ligaments and tendons in her hand and swallowed it.
Harry was asleep in the chair next to Ron. Harry hadn't slept since Ron's capture. Remus had the full moon the next night; Tonks would be with him.
She wandered back out of the room and wondered what to do.
The coldness swallowing her was so painful it hurt to even breathe. She wavered and nearly let herself sink into it.
"Come back to me—if you ever need anything."
She forced herself out the front door and apparated to Whitecroft.
She stepped toward the door, and her fingers grazed the knob, then she froze. The lights were out.
Of course—he wouldn't be there. It was just a rendezvous point. He didn't live there. It had been hours since she'd left. He was probably asleep. Somewhere with a bed.
Or he could be busy.
She wasn't supposed to call him unless it was an emergency. She'd promised she wouldn't. She had given him her word.
She didn't get to call him because she'd had a bad day.
She'd risk his cover—compromise him—endanger the Order.
She jerked her hand back and turned away.
If she could apparate again—there was always someone awake at a Grimmauld Place. She gripped her wand and closed her eyes.
It felt like something grabbed hold of her head. Her knees buckled. Everything vanished.
When the world slowly swam back into focus, she realized she was lying on her back. She stared up at the sky. The stars glittered overhead, dimmed by the moon. Cold.
The day has been so long.
Her skin was crawling. Hurting. Like there was something inside her. In her magic. She wanted to slice it out. If she could just find the spot. She could carve it out with one of her knives—-so it would stop—stop crawling inside her.
She dug her fingers into her chest and pulled at it.
"Granger—what did you do to yourself?"
She became conscious of being lifted off the ground. Hot hands closing around her body, driving away the cold. She was so cold. She burrowed into the heat.
She was delirious, because Draco was there, dressed in Muggle clothing. She had never seen him in anything but black robes.
She pressed herself against him, and he felt like a furnace, driving away the crawling, creeping cold inside her.
"I killed people today," she said, burying her face in his shirt. Even dressed as a Muggle, he somehow smelled the same. "I never killed anyone before. But I didn't even keep count of how many people I killed today."
His arms closed around her back.
"Tonks said—the Dark Magic I used today, I shouldn't be alone. But—there wasn't anyone to go to. Everyone else already has someone—someone they go to after—"
"But you don't."
She nodded.
"What spell did you use?" Draco was asking. "What Dark Magic?"
"I carbonised a werewolf. It was mauling Ron. The day before the full moon, stunners would take so long."
She was having her first hallucination in her life. She was possibly dying. Draco was as hot as a furnace and wearing a light grey hoodie that said Oxford on it and—jeans?
It was almost funny how ridiculous it was. She wanted to laugh as she took it in.
"No wonder you're cold," he muttered.
She felt the pop of apparition, and, looking dazedly around, she found herself in a lavish Muggle hotel suite.
She was bewildered. Of course, hallucinating as a rule made no sense. But this was just bizarre. She stared up at Draco.
"Do you think this is what my subconscious thinks I want?" she asked. "To be with you in the Muggle world?"
His expression was unreadable.
"What do you want?"
Tears welled up in her eyes as she stared at him.
"I don't want to always be alone," she choked out. "I want to love someone without feeling like if they know, it'll end up hurting them. Harry was my first friend. I always wanted friends—but I was always too odd, too bookish, too awkward. I was always alone. No one wanted to be my real friend. Harry was the first person who let me be his friend. I thought we would always be friends. But now—I have to push him away to protect him. And Ron. And my—my parents. And now—there's nobody. I have to love everyone from a distance. And I'm so lonely—" She sobbed into her hand.
"What happened to your parents?"
Her mouth twisted. "I obliviated them after you killed Dumbledore. All their memories of me. Erased them all so I never existed. I sent them away. I thought, if the war was short, I'd be able to get them back. But you can't reverse obliviation after five years."
The heat from Draco's body felt like it was sinking all the way into her core. One of his hands was on her neck, and she leaned into it.
"You don't have to be alone, Granger," he said.
She wanted to believe him, but her mind couldn't quiet itself to give in. It was never quiet. There were always realisations, guilt, and consequences she couldn't ignore—that she couldn't not know. Even delirious, there were things too dangerous to give herself.
She tried to push him away, but it was like trying to shove away a brick wall.
"Why? Because of you?" she said bitterly. "I can't—I don't get to care about you. If I care about you, I won't be able to use you. And you're the only hope I have left of keeping everyone else alive. So I can't."
"So use me," he said. He started to kiss her, but she jerked back.
"No. I can't. I don't—I don't want to do that to you. You don't deserve—I can take care of myself." She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let go.
"You don't have to push me away to protect me," he said in a hard, familiar voice. "I can take it. You can stop being lonely. I won't misunderstand. I know you just want someone to be with. I won't take it as meaning more than that."
She kept pulling away.
"I'm alone too, Granger," he said.
She stilled, her hands compulsively gripping the fabric of his shirt.
"I—," she started.
He swallowed her objections. His hands captured her face as his mouth pressed against hers. She clung to him and kissed him back.
Then he drew his mouth from hers and kissed her forehead. He pushed her back onto the bed.
"Just rest," he said as he seated himself on the edge of it. "I won't go anywhere. Do what you need to stay grounded."
He leaned back against the headboard and took her hand.
Hermione leaned against his chest and gripped his hand, pulling his arm against her chest and curling her head down. She rested her cheek against the back of his hand. She focused on breathing. On the heat against the cold. On the sensation of his fingers wrapped around hers. On his chin resting on top of her head.
She closed her eyes and focused on him. She could hear his heartbeat.
He was alive. He was alive. She had kept him alive.
She pressed her lips against his fingers and felt his grip tighten.
She lifted her head and stared at him.
He looked back at her and didn't move when she let go of his hand in order to reach out and touch his face. She leaned closer and brushed her lips against his cheek. She pressed her lips against his forehead. Then, after a pause, she kissed him on the mouth.
He was fire to touch.
She didn't know if she'd ever get a chance to be with him again. If this was all she got.
She kissed him slowly. She wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled him closer, until his arms slid around her, and his lips began to move against hers.
She didn't know if what she was doing was holding on or letting go.
She slid her fingers into his hair.
His hands slipped behind her head, and he pulled the pins out of her braids. He helped her take off her cast. She studied the regrown bones and all the scars across her wrist. He ran his fingers through her hair until she shivered and looked back up at him.
Their kisses were slow. It wasn't seething or rushed or guilty. It was just desperate, because he somehow always made her desperate.
She kissed him the way she had wanted to. The way she had let herself secretly wish she could.
She could have that. Once.
He cradled her face in his hands. She gave a low sob against his lips.
"This—is the way I wanted it to be," she admitted to him. "With you. I wanted it to be like this with you."
He went still, and she felt her tears sliding along his fingers. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry it wasn't," he said, pulling her closer, his thumbs grazing over her cheekbones.
Had he always been so warm? She wondered sometimes how much of her memory of kissing him the night after she'd healed him had been real. Or if she'd been so drunk she'd invented parts to replay in the moments when everything felt too void of any tenderness.
"It's fine," she said, pressing her head down on his shoulder.
"It's not. Let me give you this now."
He drew her lips back to his and kissed her. Slow and intent.
Like a star, he was glittering and ice-cold from afar, but when the space was bridged, the heat of him was endless.
He kissed her deeply while his hands slid along her body. His fingers traced her spine and over her shoulder blades, ghosting across her skin. He pulled her shirt off and kissed along her collarbones. His hands felt like home as he slid his fingers into her hair, drew her head back and pressed his lips against the base of her throat.
She tugged on his shirt until he pulled it off. Then she brought his mouth back to hers and kissed him again. Her fingers followed along the curve of his jaw, the tendons of his neck, and over his shoulders. He was thinner, and he had so many new scars he felt almost unfamiliar.
He kissed along every inch of her. He pulled her bra off and slid his palms over her breasts. He kissed down her sternum until her head dropped back and she was gasping. The heat of his touch felt like it had kindled itself inside of her. She found herself catching fire until she ached.
He watched her unwaveringly, as though committing every reaction to memory so that he'd always know it.
It wasn't too fast or too much for her to be ready for. He went as slow as she wanted him to.
When he pushed slowly inside her, his eyes were fastened on her face. "Is this good for you?"
She gave a faint gasp and nodded. Because it was. No pain. It was just good.
"This is good," she said, gripping him by the shoulders. She could feel the scars from his runes under her fingers.
His forearms were around her head as though framing her, and his fingers were twisted in her hair. When he started to move, he pressed his forehead against hers.
When he kissed her, it felt like the beginning of something that could be eternal.
At first, it was so gradual she almost forgot that there was more to it. It could have stayed like that, and it would have been enough. The weight, and warmth, and sensation of his skin against hers. She breathed in against his shoulder; he smelled like oakmoss with the undertones of cedar and papyrus sedge. Underlying it was the scent and taste of his sweat.
Her association with beds was as a place of last resort; where everything was cold and empty, and she hoped that whatever nightmare came wouldn't be so awful she'd regret lying down at all.
There wasn't any cold here. The whole world had ceased to exist beyond Draco and his body against and inside her. He knew how to slide his hands across her skin so that she was gasping, kiss her so she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, and move inside her so slowly that at first she didn't even notice the coiling tension inside of her.
But of course there was more, and Draco was looking for it. All his meticulous attention to when her breath caught, and what angle made her move in response. Watching her eyes, entwining his fingers with hers and noting when her hold tightened.
He kissed her and he kissed her. Slowly, the pace, and the friction, and the contact increased and grew into something more than comforting.
But when he slid his hand between her legs, she flinched. She wasn't sure if she could do that part.
It was too—
The last time when he had put his hand there—
"You're no threat to my job now, are you?"
She gave a stifled sob and turned her head away. He stilled, withdrew his hand and cradled her face, kissing her.
"You get this part. This is yours," he said.
"I just—I don't know how to do any of this. The way the books explain it isn't the same," she said, drawing her chin down and speaking quickly. "And last time, when you touched me there—no one ever had before and when you did you said—" her voice broke off. "I always—think about it now. That I'm—that I'm—that I'm—"
"I'm sorry," he said, and his hand entwined with hers tightened. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I've ruined so much of this for you. Let me give you this. Let me show you what it's supposed to be like."
She hesitated for a moment before she gave a cautious nod.
He dipped his head so that his mouth was near her ear. "Close your eyes." His breath whispered against her skin.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and he kissed her.
Without being able to see, everything felt more focused on the sensation. The way his body was pressed against hers. The scent of him. Even the movement of the air.
When she felt his lips brush against the pulse-point of her throat, she moaned. His hand cupped her breast, and he dragged his thumb over her nipple as he started to move inside her again. He was slow but unrelenting, until she was gasping and arching her hips to meet his.
He kissed her as he slid his hand between their bodies again. His tongue slid against hers as he deepened the kiss, and his fingers found the sensitive cluster of nerves between her legs. She gasped raggedly against his lips as she felt her whole body tense under and around him.
It was as though she were being wound tight somewhere inside. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Her breath kept growing shorter and shorter, and her muscles grew more taut. There was fire inside of her nerves. Everytime Draco moved inside her, or brushed his lips across her skin, or lightly teased her centre, she felt as though he were ratcheting up a tension inside her, notch by notch, until she was on the verge of breaking under him.
But she couldn't—
If she broke, there would never be anyone to pick up the pieces.
She stayed suspended on the very edge. "I can't—" she finally gasped out.
"Hermione," Draco's lips brushed against her cheek. "You get to have this. You're allowed to feel good things. Don't be alone. Have this—have this with me."
He pulled her leg up with his arm; it deepened and shifted the angle, drawing the tension inside her further up, and he crushed their bodies together and kissed her.
Her eyes suddenly shot open. She stared into his eyes as her whole world suddenly shattered into shards of silver.
"Oh god—," she sobbed the words out. Her fingernails sank into his back. "Oh—oh—oh god..."
His unfathomable grey eyes stared down at her and watched as she arched and her expression contorted as she came apart under him.
As she started panting and trying to catch her breath, his speed increased. Then, as he came, his mask slipped. As he met her eyes, for a moment before he buried his face in her shoulder, she saw the heartbreak in him when he looked at her.
He shifted off her and pulled the coverlet up over them. He kissed her temple. She turned to look at him and shifted closer until she was pressed against his chest.
She could feel how drained she was, sense the edge of cold that had been planted in her magic where she'd torn it open. She shivered and burrowed closer to Draco. She glanced up at him. He was staring down at her, expressionless.
She reached up and ran a finger along his cheekbone. "I think I've nearly memorised you. Especially your eyes."
The corner of his mouth twitched, and he traced his fingers over the scars on her left wrist. "I memorised yours too." He sighed. "I should have known—the moment I looked into your eyes, I should have known I would never win against you."
She gave a faint smile and closed her eyes. She pressed her face against his chest and felt his heartbeat. "I always thought my eyes were my best feature."
"One of them," he said quietly.
She fell asleep, still drawing in the fire from him.