Chapter Text
January
It was supposed to be empty.
At least, that is what Hermione had assumed when she approached the abandoned safehouse. The small stone cottage peeked out from behind a thicket of trees, as silent as the soft quilt of snow that folded itself over the valley. The wards had long fallen into disrepair as the Order’s use of the safehouse dwindled, then was forgotten, by all except her.
She had always liked the cottage. It was small, just big enough to fit a bed, chair, and bookcase with an eclectic assortment of stray paperbacks. But with a fire in the hearth, it flirted close to something liveable—cozy, even. If just for a few hours.
And a few hours was all she wanted. A few hours without staring at the tactical map that dominated the Order’s headquarters, the black stain of Death Eater territory slowly overtaking the Order’s gold. A few hours where she could forget about the war. A few hours where her mind could be quiet.
So the Death Eater inside was an unwelcome surprise.
She was quicker to draw her wand, leveling him with a stunning spell. Long limbs and black robes buckled, hitting the floorboards with a crack. Silvery-blond strands feathered out from under the mask. Hermione’s breath hitched.
Leave him there leave him leave him leavehimleavehimleavehim.
A mixture of curiosity and trepidation proved a more potent argument. If it was Malfoy… She crouched and slid a finger underneath the mask, lifting it to confirm her theory.
Pale skin. Long lashes fanned out over high cheekbones. Gray eyes that always seemed to burn, just as they were now—
She was yanked closer as his long fingers encircled her wrist with a surprising strength. A flash of light sent her wand sailing across the room.
“Why are you here?” His voice was hoarse, and lower than she remembered.
“Stop—” She scrabbled against him, kicking with frantic desperation. He easily caught an ankle, pinning it to the ground.
“Why, Granger?”
“Let go! Malfoy, please—I just needed somewhere to go!” she cried, tears springing to her eyes. Her heart pounded, adrenaline narrowing her focus to the warm vices of his hands and silver pools of his eyes. And then the spell broke. He stood abruptly, repositioning his mask.
“Don’t come back,” he growled.
When he apparated, the residual wisps of black smoke lingered in the air like a silent, dark ghost.
February
She came back.
This time, with a healthier appreciation for caution.
“Hominem revelio,” she whispered. The sound faded into the twilight shadows surrounding the small cottage. No one was there.
The door creaked open, her wand illuminating the spare interior. Her gaze lingered on the spot where she had stunned Malfoy, stomach flipping at the memory.
Evidence of him was scattered throughout the safehouse. A black jumper draped over a chair. A dog-eared book on the bed. A small folded note on the pillowcase.
I’ll be back on March 15. It’s better if our paths don’t cross.
March 15
“For such a clever witch, you’re actually quite daft.”
He was standing outside, mask dangling from his fingers, arms crossed over a broad chest.
“Oh?” she said curtly, trying to calm the odd flutter in her stomach. Her fight or flight response, most likely. He was dangerous. Muscles tensed and coiled like a viper’s waiting to strike, eyes narrowed to a predatory glint.
They glared at each other, the silence stretching taut before he finally broke it.
“I thought I was clear. We shouldn’t be here at the same time.”
“I agree.”
“Then why,” he said sharply, “are you here?” Hermione saw his fingers twitch toward his wand holster.
“Funny,” she tilted her head, assessing him. “For such a big, bad Death Eater, you don’t seem intent on killing me. You could have killed me at the Manor three years ago. You could have killed me in January. Or just now.”
He smirked. “There’s still time to change my mind.” His eyes raked down the length of her body. “I’ll admit, I’m surprised you’re not trying to bring me in.”
“There’s still time to change my mind,” she hissed. His smirk deepened.
“I think you’re hiding from something,” he said suddenly, narrowing his eyes. Her spine stiffened at the accusation. She was. She was hiding from everything, or trying to.
“What makes you say that?” she asked, attempting nonchalance.
“Because I know what trying to hide looks like.”
Hermione thought back to the jumper on the chair.
“You’re trying to hide here, too.” It was more of a statement than a question. He was silent. “Well, we’re in a bit of a predicament, wouldn’t you say?”
Malfoy stepped closer, the movement smooth, intentional. Intimidating.
“It would seem so,” he said softly. She must have imagined it, the way his eyes dropped to her lips, just for a second, before flicking back to meet hers. The movement knocked her off her axis. Heat prickled in her neck.
“Since we won’t be killing each other, we could make arrangements. If we both want to use this as… ” she hesitated, searching for the right word. “A safe space.”
“What type of arrangements?” His expression was dark with suspicion.
“Wards. So only the two of us to have access here, in case we are followed or—”
“Or in case I invite some Death Eaters over for tea?” he smiled, though his eyes stayed cold. She fought back a shiver, steeling herself against his glare. Her heart had started to beat erratically, each thrum urging her to run run run run.
“Exactly.”
Hermione crouched down, running a finger through the loamy earth. A spiderweb of runes emerged, and she murmured the incantation as she went. When she finished, she deftly sliced open her palm, the crimson droplets dotting her handiwork.
“So the wards recognize me,” she explained.
He stared at her silently, unmoving except for the muscle working in his jaw. For a moment, she thought he would laugh. That, or draw his wand on her. Instead he stalked slowly forward, closing the gap between them inch by inch. Bright red bloomed against pale skin, and his blood joined hers.
He was close. Close enough to see the faint stubble on his jaw. Close enough to inhale his scent—citrus and vetiver.
“Our wands will warm if the other is here. So we can stay out of each other’s way,” she breathed. His eyes cut to hers. Burning. Gray.
“Good,” he said, before twisting away.
April
She awoke, surrounded by darkness and the sound of heavy boots thudding against the floorboards.
A sudden terror squeezed her throat as a silver mask glinted in the moonlight. Cold air nipped at her bare skin as she leaped out of bed, just as the mask slipped upwards.
Red-rimmed eyes stared hollowly back. Malfoy’s face was pale and splotchy, smudged with dirt and blood and streaks of moisture. Had he been… crying? Her stomach dipped with some unidentified emotion.
“Fuck, you’re here,” he said, voice thick. “I must not have noticed my wand—gods this is—I can go—”
“Malfoy wait,” Hermione blurted out. “You can stay.” They both froze. Her pulse fluttered erratically. Why was she offering this? Perhaps it had been because of his eyes. No longer burning, but dull and tired.
His gaze dropped to fully take her in, and Hermione realized she was wearing nothing but a thin camisole and knickers. She blushed, shrinking in on herself as he cleared his throat and looked away.
“It’s alright,” he said stiffly. “I’ll leave.”
“Can you leave?” she asked quietly. “Is it safe for you?”
He swallowed, silent.
“If the safest thing is for you to stay, then stay. We don’t have to talk.”
Malfoy paused, then jerked his head in a nod. He strode over to the chair, gaze still averted, and sat to look out the window. Hermione took a deep breath. This would be okay. Just this one time.
She crawled into bed, and was struck by the realization that if Malfoy stayed, the chair would be… uncomfortable, to say the least. His lean, tall body barely fit against the small wooden frame. The rational part of her screamed to leave it be, but when it came to Malfoy, she always seemed to ignore that particular voice.
“You can take the other side of the bed, if you like,” she said, voice small. His head whipped toward her, brows arching in surprise before evening to a passive expression.
“I’ll be fine here, Granger.”
“I don’t mind. You can stay on your side, above the covers. But if you want to stay in that chair… by all means.” Hermione gave a small, noncommittal hum as she shrugged and burrowed further under the blankets.
Minutes slipped by, then at least an hour before the bed bowed under Malfoy’s weight. As drowsiness sank its fingertips into the edges of her consciousness, she turned the image of him, bloodied and bereft, over and over.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured sleepily. “For whatever happened.”
He didn’t answer for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered. “For everything.”
June
She decided to see him, after weeks of trying to ignore the wand burning in her pocket.
He was lying in a copse of trees a few meters from the safehouse, rays of early June light painting him in a mosaic of gold and shadow. With his eyes closed and hands folded behind his head, he looked younger.
“What are you doing?”
Malfoy cracked a silver eye open. “I was enjoying some peace and quiet. What do you want?”
Hermione chewed her lip, debating how to put her curiosity into words. “After last time, I was wondering—”
“Don’t.” Malfoy’s eyes had fallen closed again, his expression worn. Hermione recognized the look. She saw it in her mirror every day.
She stood, wondering what he had done in the last three years. Not that it mattered, here. The safehouse was an escape; they left the past and present at the edge of the wards.
“Listen,” she said suddenly, a distinct trilling catching her ear. Malfoy sat bolt upright, wand in hand.
“What is it?” he snapped, eyeing the surrounding thicket.
“Oh! No—it’s not like that. I heard a song thrush.”
Malfoy stared at her in disbelief. “A bloody bird?”
She flushed a deep crimson. “They have a very distinctive call,” she said weakly.
There was a distinct pause before a loud bark of amusement rang out through the air, and then Malfoy fell back onto the grass, scrubbing his hands over his face and shaking with a true, deep laughter. Hermione had never heard him laugh before; not in this way, at least.
“Only you, Granger,” he wheezed, “would spout bird trivia in the middle of a war. To a Death Eater, no less.”
When finally quieted, he trained his cool gaze on her again. Burning. Gray. But lighter now, somehow.
“Are you going to stand there all day?” he said, amused.
Before she could second guess herself, Hermione lay on the ground beside him, peering up at the tree canopy. Leaves danced. Birds chittered.
“This is nice,” she murmured.
Their knuckles brushed for a moment, and Hermione’s skin lit up like the warm light of the summer afternoon.
August
“I’m staying tonight,” he said, eyes trained on the worn paperback in his hands.
It was already late. The windows of the cottage were thrown open, desperate for the smallest breeze to cut through the stagnant air.
Hermione wasn’t sure how it had happened, but somehow they had wordlessly amended their agreement. One day, Draco appeared when she was there. After that, when her wand warmed in her pocket, she apparated to the cottage when she could without a second thought.
Sometimes they talked, but never about the war. Most times they were silent, content to simply exist in the in-between together.
“Do you want me to leave?” Hermione asked, looking up from her own book. He glanced at her quickly, something flashing in his eyes, before they darted away.
“You don’t have to.”
They lay on their separate sides of the bed that evening, Hermione facing the small window that let in soft beams of pearlescent light.
A light touch. Hermione would have missed it if every nerve ending in her body wasn’t already tingling, hyper-aware of the Death Eater laying just inches away. He tugged a curl with a gentleness that cracked open an ache in her chest.
“Good night, Hermione,” he murmured.
October
When he knocked, she answered. She always did.
He paused in the doorway and removed his mask. Hermione saw Malfoy’s eyes widen slightly before his throat bobbed and his expression shifted into something darker. Hungrier.
“This is mine,” he said, voice hoarse.
His fingers reached out to trail the hem of a black jumper before he gave the fabric the barest of tugs. The stitches held fast, though Hermione unraveled slightly with something she could finally name: desire.
“It was colder than I expected,” she breathed, eyes locked with his. Where his eyes usually burned, now they blazed. Her breath hitched, heat sweeping from her cheeks all the way down to her core.
It had been like this for weeks now; a push and pull into each other’s orbits, slowly growing nearer before one of them veered away from imminent collision.
He cleared his throat, piercing the stillness between them before he stepped around her and went inside.
December
“Draco,” she said into the dark, “do you ever feel like we’re just pretending here?”
They were staring at the ceiling in silence. At some point, his pinky had found hers, brushing against the skin and bridging the chasm between them. His touches were always small, but left her feeling unmoored in a way she didn’t know how to rectify.
“What do you mean?”
Hermione sighed. “Being here. It’s just—it’s all pretend.”
He propped himself up on an elbow.
“Is it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “We’re hiding from reality.”
“This is real for me.”
His words knocked the breath from her lungs.
“This is real for me. I’m not pretending,” he said, voice firm. “Are you?”
Hermione’s pulse jumped to a frantic staccato. Draco’s hand now covered hers, and she realized he was close enough to feel the heat of his chest. His now-familiar citrus and vetiver scent enveloped her.
“What are we talking about, again?” she asked softly.
“Tell me—tell me I can kiss you.”
She closed her eyes, feeling relief and elation and want crest into a wave that had been ready to break for months. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”
She realized—after he kissed her like she was something precious and fleeting, after she became intimately familiar with the planes and hollows of his body, after he’d coaxed his name from her mouth once, twice—that in the safehouse, with him, she found the safest thing she knew.