The Locket

Harry Potter defeats Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts, but only in a duel. There is another Horcrux, and the Dark Lord has not vanished. His forces continue to wage war against the Wizarding World in his name, and Hermione is sent to meet with an informant who is willing to play spy for the sake of the downfall of the Dark Lord. She doesn’t know who the masked Death Eater is, only that he’s providing vital information to the Order, and that he’s willing to wear her necklace around his neck.

double agent draco x handler hermione wartime AU.

Notes:

Hello, welcome to the fic I wrote instead of working on any of my WIPs!

I do not own any of the characters. Any mistakes are my own.

Any overuse of semicolons and/or em dashes is done by my own hand, because I like them, and not by AI.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

The first time she enters the old cottage and finds a Death Eater waiting for her, she nearly loses her footing from shock. She shouldn’t be shocked, of course; she’s meant to be meeting him there. He’s meant to have information for her. She supposes, for whatever reason, she wasn’t expecting the Death Eater spy that Kingsley had asked her to make contact with to be just that: a Death Eater.

She regains her composure in the open doorway, the sound of waves crashing against the rocky shore coming back to her as she catches her breath. He’s tall, and every inch of his form is covered, either by his dark robes, by his mask, or by the shadow of his hood. He’s silent as she takes him in; if he has any thoughts about her surprise, he does not share them.

She’s at a loss for words, so she initially elects not to say anything at all. She waits for him, but he too remains silent, so eventually she says, “Kingsley said you would have something for me…”

Her voice isn’t as sure as she’d meant it to be; the silence is razor sharp. He doesn’t have his wand drawn, she notices, but he does have it holstered and within reach. He steps forward, and she jumps back on instinct, only to remember she’s here for information. He’s volunteering to help them. She recollects herself and takes the small scroll he’s holding in his outstretched, gloved hand. He steps back, and before she can say anything else, he disapparates with a thunderous crack and a whirl of black smoke.

The first few meetings go similarly; Kingsley finds her in whatever corner of a safehouse she’s occupying in between raids and reconnaissance meetings and informs her that their spy has made contact. She waits until the designated time and apparates to the cottage, where she steels herself outside the door before entering. He says nothing, hands her whatever documents he has for them, then vanishes. She always returns with so little time passed that Ron and Ginny speculate how a task from Kingsley that’s important enough to be confidential could take only minutes to complete.

In between these visits to the cottage by the sea, villages are being razed to the ground by squads of Death Eaters. Members of the Order are deployed to play defense or conduct cleanup. Snatchers are stealing Muggles from their homes and torturing them for sport. Members of the Order are trying to reunite families. The Prophet is publishing a daily Muggleborn Watch List next to articles congratulating generals in Voldemort’s Army on a succcessful raid-well-done. Harry Potter is somewhere in Scotland, looking for the Horcrux that wasn’t supposed to exist. Ron is rescuing Muggle children from Death Eater gangs, and returns to the safehouse bloody and disheartened. Hermione is patching up wounds, brewing potions, strategizing, rescuing, fighting, fighting, fighting.

And now, meeting.

One day, he speaks.

She’s met with him a few times by this point; he always hands her something, either a scroll or a few documents, and he leaves. On their fourth meeting, when she arrives, she notices he’s empty-handed.

“Tell Kingsley that the outpost at Plymouth is moving to Exeter. Whatever he’s been doing to the water in Plymouth has been working. The camp is moving further inland.” His voice is garbled, either by the mask or by a charm, and she suspects it’s intentional. The tone is jumbled, but the cadence is crisp and lilting; not from the north, then, she thinks.

She’s so startled by the sound of it that she speaks without thinking.

“What is he doing to the water in Plymouth?” she asks.

“Shouldn’t you know?” He scoffs, then disapparates.

She still doesn’t know who he is.

After this, their meetings begin to become more complicated.

He’s started bringing maps, battle plans, records of supply runs, and the like. He walks her through whatever documents he’s brought that day, explaining how to read them and what the implications of them are. She asks follow-up questions, asks him to elaborate, to clarify. He does. He doesn’t leave until she’s certain she could relay this information to the Order strategists with absolute understanding. In these moments, she feels flung back in time, to being sixteen or fourteen or twelve, to late-night library sessions and to planning with Harry and Ron. In these moments, she finds she appreciates his attention to detail, his elegant penmanship.

Then she remembers what he is, and her appreciation sours.

It’s during one of these meetings, where he’s reviewing Greyback’s latest plot to turn an entire village in Suffolk into werewolves, that she snaps.

“How can you be okay with this?” He stops mid-sentence at her outburst, his silver mask turned to her.

“He’s going to—turn—all of these people! There are children who live there! Families! This is just—it’s horrid!”

“Clearly. That’s why I am sharing it with you.”

“How can you just stand by and watch him do this?” she shrieks, and he stands abruptly. She follows him.

“You know nothing of what I do,” He growls.

“I know you fight for him. With this—“ she gestures at the table. “—this foul excuse for a man, side by side. How can you see this happening and do nothing?”

“I am doing something!” He roars. “I’m here, aren’t I? This is me doing something.”

“It’s not enough! You sit by and watch while we intervene, when you’re right there! You could—“

“You have no fucking idea what I could do. What would happen.” He’s fuming now, chest heaving. His cold, hard mask mocks her. “Your righteousness is a luxury—one you’ve clearly never had to abandon to survive.”

He vanishes before she can reply.

She doesn’t think she’ll see him again after their row. Weeks go by, and she assumes he’s requested a different handler from Kingsley. Or, worse: he’s thoroughly pissed off and refusing to cooperate with them at all. She hopes it’s the former.

After a month of silence, she’s requested at the cottage again. He’s at the table when she enters, and she sits. He says nothing about their argument, only discusses the documents he’s brought her. If it weren’t for the additional tension in his shoulders, she’d wonder if she’d hallucinated their last conversation altogether.

The Order is attempting to retrieve an artifact from the Restricted section of the Cambridge Library when they get ambushed. The team of six splits into groups of two, each spreading out in different directions. Ginny and Hermione head for the woods, casting protective wards behind them as they sprint through the trees. The girls are fast, but they’re tired and malnourished from days on the road. Their pursuers are gaining ground when Ginny trips, and Hermione has only seconds to drag her into a bush and out of view. The girls huddle together and fight to keep their breathing shallow, but it’s no use; the branches they’ve huddled underneath are ripped from their roots. She can’t see the face of the Death Eater that has discovered them, but she can practically hear their sneer when they call out, “Look what I’ve found!”

Another Death Eater approaches, and Hermione hears Ginny whimper behind her.

“The Dark Lord will be pleased to hear I am the one to bring him Potter’s Mudblood, and a spare as well!” The first Death Eater croons. The second Death Eater seems to just stare at them, silent.

The last of her hope is dying in her heart when the newcomer turns their wand on their comrade, aiming a sharp avada kedavra at their chest. Their captor crumples, and she hears Ginny gasp behind her.

“Go.” The Death Eater grunts. Their mask pointed at her. Both girls are frozen in shock.

“GO!” He’s shouting now; a distinctly gurgled male voice.

They scramble up from the forest floor and run, Ginny limping behind.

“What the hell was that?” Ginny shrieks as they reach the edge of the apparition line.

“I don’t know,” Hermione lies.

She’s transferred to another safehouse, near Falmouth, to help rehabilitate injured Order members and provide medical care to the town. The days are long, and the work is busy, but she still finds her mind drifting to that day in the woods. She hadn’t realized it was him, of course; he looked like every other Death Eater. He is any other Death Eater, she thinks, until she realizes that he isn’t. Not if he’d be so willing to kill one of his own so she could escape. Not if he’d so willingly deliver information to The Order, information that could be traced back to him.

She’s reading The Prophet, another demoralizing article about Voldemort’s Courageous Fighters Led To Victory by None Other than Pureblood Prince General Draco Malfoy, when Kingsley’s Patronous arrives with another meeting time.

She hasn’t seen him since the fight in Cambridge nearly a month prior, and it’s been even longer still since their last meeting. He looks more or less the same, of course; Black cloak, black attire, black boots, gloves, hood, silver mask.

“Why?” She asks instead of a greeting. Instead of sitting down to receive information. Instead of anything.

“It would have been a tactical misstep to allow you to be captured.” He replies, but it seems hollow.

“Who was that? That you…” she trails off.

“Amycus Carrow.” He says.

“Oh,” she says, relieved. “I’m not sure whose name I was expecting you to say. I suppose it’s good…that it was someone so vile.” She’s surprised when he nods in agreement.

“Thank you.” She adds, and he just shrugs.

The Order ambushes the Death Eaters holding Tutshill, and they’re successful; they manage to drive the legion out of the town, and sustain very few injuries. The Order celebrates the capture of three Death Eaters and the slaying of five, and Hermione wonders if any of them are her informant. If he’s been killed or taken before she ever really knew him.

She is summoned to the cottage, and her worries are abated.

“I thought something might’ve happened to you in the fight in Tutsill, and we might not have spoken again.” She tells him.

“You shouldn’t worry about me. If something happens to me, the world will be a better place for it.”

She’s not quite sure she agrees, but she stays silent.

She tries to give him a coin, charmed with the same Protean spell the other members of the Order use to communicate.

“So you can tell me if…if something has happened.” She explains, but he shakes his head.

“The Dark Lord knows about these. If it’s found in my possession, he will recognize it instantly.”

She thinks for a moment, then removes her necklace. She lays the thin gold chain on the table and duplicates it, then performs a similar Protean charm.

“Take this then.” She holds it out to him, the small charm dangling from her outstretched hand. “If anything, it could be something you stole from a raid, or it was a favour from someone you shagged.” His hand, outstretched, pauses for a moment as she says this last part, but he takes the necklace anyway.

“Fine.” He says, stowing it in the folds of his cloak.

UNDESIRABLE NO. 1 CAUSE OF MASS TERROR IN GODRIC’S HOLLOW

Hermione rolls her eyes and flips through the rubbish printed in the paper. Voldemort’s Ministry has been controlling The Prophet for months, and she doesn’t know who she still bothers to read it.

Another win for The Order: taking back Harry’s birthplace. The Death Eaters had occupied the town since her last visit there with Harry, and the surprise attack they launched was successful. Despite only two civilian casualties being reported, both borne by Death Eater wands, the paper spun things to make it sound like Harry is to blame.

There were many Death Eater casualties, and Hermione wonders once again if any of them were him.

GENERAL DRACO MALFOY AND LT. THEODORE NOTT LEAD VOLDEMORT’S LEGION TO OCCUPY SOMERSET

She wished she hadn’t kept reading.

The next few weeks pass by with no word, and her worry grows.

The next time she’s summoned to the cottage, she is alone. She wonders how she could’ve beaten him there when her eyes fall on a scrap of parchment resting on the table.

Exmoor Stadium will be dust by the end of next week. Make sure all Muggles are far away by then.

She’s glad he’s still alive, but her worry is not fully abated.

It’s just days after the Exmoor explosion when her charmed necklace burns.

No one else is awake at 3 AM; this alert is only for her.

She wakes the others and insists they evacuate. She doesn’t know why she knows that’s what he’s telling her to do, but she does it.

The safe house is bombed only hours later. There are no casualties.

The next time she sees him, she has to stop herself from running to him. She does not know him, not really.

“You saved us—my friends, and…me.” She says, looking up at him. She hates that she’s looking at metal instead of man. “Dean was gravely injured and wouldn’t have survived another raid.”

His head hangs slightly, pointed away from her, as if he cannot look at her while she tells him how much this means to her.

“I wish I knew who I’m thanking.” She whispers, her hand reaching up and touching the cheek of his mask. It’s nothing like touching his face, so cold she can’t even pretend. Still, it’s the closest she’s ever been to him.

He lets her touch linger there for a moment.

“You won’t like what you see.” He murmurs before taking a step back, away from her. He takes a scroll out of the pocket of his robes.

“These are the maps for Nott Manor that Shacklebolt asked for. They should be straightforward enough. I’ve marked all of the entry points.”

When she’s taken it from him, he takes another step back and speaks once more before disapparating.

“Goodbye, Granger.”

It’s the first time he’s addressed her directly by name; the first time he’s acknowledged who she is. The way he says Granger is familiar, but she isn’t sure why.

Hours before they are set to raid Nott Manor, her charm burns.

She convinces Harry and Ron to wait a few days to raid, and nobody gets hurt that night. She learns from the papers days later that Voldemort was at Nott Manor the night they’d planned to execute their mission, and so was Malfoy; she thinks it’s a relief they avoided both of them.

They raid a few days later, and they’re successful; the cursed mirror they’re searching for is there, and they retrieve it without setting off any alarms.

She meets with him a few days later. He is all business.

“Tell Kingsley I won’t be able to investigate the Lestrange Estate as soon as I’d hoped. Rabastan has been sent to Gloucester, and I’m not sure when he’s supposed to return, so I’ll have to wait for Bellatrix,”—she flinched at the sound of the witch’s name, and unfortunately, he noticed—“to return home.”

She nods, fighting the instinct to grab at the forearm marred by goblin silver and cruel intentions.

“I’ll let him know.” She replies, and they’re both silent.

The quiet feels heavy, so she breaks it.

“Thank you for the warning last week. Harry was leading that raid, and if you hadn’t told us, he might’ve been captured.”

He shakes his head.

“Still relying on you to keep him from another reckless decision, is he?”

“Oh, and you know him so well, do you?”

“Please, Granger. Everyone in the bloody country knows you’re the brains of any operation that Potter is at the helm of.” He retorts, his voice dripping disdain, though she’s fairly certain there’s a compliment in there somewhere.

“You think he’s so incompetent? And yet, here you are, delivering information to him again and again.”

“That has nothing to do with my faith in him, that’s for sure.”

“Then what does it have to do with?” She snaps, and he scoffs.

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Isn’t it, though?” She pushes. “I come here every time you call on the Order. I have no idea who you are. I have no idea why you’re even here!” Her voice is rising with agitation.

“I risk myself coming here, and you won’t even tell me what’s in it for you! Y-you could—“ her words catch in her throat, her frustration becoming something more muted.

“—you could do…anything…to me, here. I risk it every time I come here.” Her voice has been a whisper. “I risk myself every time I take information from you, every time my charm burns. And…I don’t even know who you are.” She says, finally.

He’s silent, his face turned away from her. She doesn’t know when they drifted towards one another, but now she’s close enough that she can hear his soft sigh against the metal of his mask.

“If Potter wins,” He says eventually. “I will likely die, but Shacklebolt has granted my mother asylum, regardless.”

“How noble of you,” she sneers.

“If Potter doesn’t…” he continues, and she holds her breath. “If Potter doesn’t win, I may live for another year or two, but I may as well be dead. What I am living now…is not life. What my mother is living now is not life.”

“Your mother…is she…” she trails off, her eyes casting down towards where she knows his dark mark lies, hidden beneath his clothes.

“No,” he says. “She is beholden to the Dark Lord in other ways, but she is not Marked. Somehow, my father spared her that fate.”

“But not you?” She asks. A pause passes between them.

“No, Granger.” He sighs, and she swears it sounds familiar. “Not me.”

“I’m sorry.” She’s upset, but she’s sincere. She’s been meeting him long enough to know he is a less-than-willing participant in the Dark Lord’s army, but he still scoffs.

“Save your pity. I dug this hole myself.” He steps back, preparing to disapparate again.

“Wait!” She gasps, and his hand freezes in the air.

“If you get caught by the Order, they’ll kill you.” She says.

“Probably, Yes.”

“If you get caught,” she tries again. “Or if we meet on the battlefield…how will I know it’s you?” He seems to consider this for a moment.

“I’ll make sure you know it’s me.”

He disapparates with a crack.

The small town where the safehouse Hermione is staying in is raided. The enchantments on the safehouse are broken in seconds. Hermione escapes, but Seamus and Ernie are taken hostage.

She apparates to the safehouse, bloody and sooty and filthy from the fight and furious. She’s not expecting him to be there, but he is, equally filthy, and pacing. She can’t see his face, but when his head turns to where she’s standing in the doorway, she sees his shoulders sag in relief. She doesn’t have time to ask him why he is here, why he was there, or what any of it means.

“Your bloody—“ she storms up to him, her palms pushing hard against his chest. “—horrible—foul, evil—“ she keeps pushing him, and he lets her. “—vile, terrible fucking friends—“ tears are streaming down her face now, making tracks across the dust caked onto her cheeks. “—took Seamus, and—and Ernie!” She wails. Her fists give out, and her voice breaks, her breath heavy. She feels, suddenly, adrift.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She whimpers, pathetically.

When he responds, his voice is softer than she’s ever heard it.

“I was called in from Edinburgh. I didn’t know until you did.”

“You have to get them out. You have to. They’ll kill them. Or worse, they’ll…oh god,” she continues to sob, her head hanging, her fists clenched against his chest. She feels his hands wrap gently around her wrists, slowly lowering them to her sides. The leather of his glove is soft on her skin when his finger rests under her chin, tilting her face up. She stares into the black, soulless eye holes of his silver mask, and she knows this gesture alone is more than he’s ever given her, and yet, she wishes she could feel just a bit more of his humanity.

“I’ll find them,” He murmurs in garbled tongues. She shuts her eyes; she’s not sure she can take much more of this tender nightmare.

“Ernie Macmillan and Seamus Finnegan.” She says as she breathes out, her eyes still shut. She feels his thumb catch a fresh tear from her cheek before he pulls away completely.

She doesn’t open her eyes again before she apparates away.

He does get them out.

She doesn’t know how he accomplishes it, and Seamus and Ernie don’t seem to know either. They’re only a little worse for wear when they are unceremoniously deposited at the old cottage via portkey; they don’t have any memory of anything after their capture three days prior, but their injuries are otherwise superficial.

She doesn’t hear from him for a while after their return. She begins to worry that he got in trouble for whatever he did to secure their safety. She begins to fear, truly fear this time, that he’s dead. Se still does not know who he is. This man, whom she has started to care about.

As the days turn into weeks, she looks through the papers, searching for any mention of fallen or exposed Death Eaters. She expects little.

The headlines remain the same:

TRIUMPH IN EDINBURGH! General Draco Malfoy Integral to Establishment of New Wizarding Checkpoint

Undesirable Nos. 2 and 3 Spotted Outside of Appleby

If You See Something, Say Something: Report Any Suspicious Mudblood Activity Directly to the Muggle-Born Registration Commission And Be Rewarded

She looks at the photo of Draco Malfoy standing in the rubble of what was once a Muggle home outside of Edinburgh Castle. He’s taller than she remembered—his chest broad and his stance certain. He stares directly at the camera, his expression hard, but his silver eyes look devoid of life.

But what terrifies her about the photo, what makes her stomach bottom-out and makes her chest constrict, is the familiar gold chain hanging around his neck.

This time, it’s she who activates the protean charm. She hopes he understands that it’s a summons and not a warning.

For the first time, she arrives at the cottage first. It gives her some time to collect her thoughts, but not enough.

She’d considered that it might be him, of course. In the depths of her mind, in the late hours when sleep evaded her and she found herself thinking of their meetings. Of who it could be that might’ve ended up on the wrong side of things, who might’ve wanted something different. He’d lowered his wand, Harry had seen it. He hadn’t identified them that day in Malfoy Manor.

She’d brushed aside the possibility of him every time another Prophet article graced her windowsill.

She’s seated at the table when the familiar black fog of Death Eater apparition sweeps through the window. She jumps up from the table and points her wand at him, her expression hot. His body tenses, but he doesn’t reach for his wand.

“I know it’s you.” She spits. “Take it off.”

“You don’t know anything.” He snaps, and she wonders how she never recognized his voice, even through the distortion charm, even though it’s been years since he’d spat slurs at her in the halls of Hogwarts.

“I saw it. You. In the paper. I…” she trails off as she realizes the reality of what she’s asking him to do. Of the spell between them that he’ll be breaking.

“Who did you see, Granger? Say it.” He barks. He’s so close to her now. She hadn’t realized they’d moved closer to each other—she hadn’t realized she’d lowered her wand.

“Say it.” He pushes.

Her throat constricts, but she pushes the words out anyway. They’re almost sad.

“Take off your mask, Malfoy.”

The face that she sees when the silver metal vanishes is not quite the one she saw in the paper. He looks bristling, petulant, angry; he looks ready for a fight. He looks tired, but more animated than any other photo of him she’s seen. A few locks of white blonde hair rest on his forehead, grazing his furrowed brows. He’s looking down at her, furious, but what she doesn’t see in his stormy grey eyes is contempt. She doesn’t see disgust.

“Congratulations,” He sneers, his voice clear for the first time. “Guess you are the Brightest Witch of your Age after all.” He’s waiting for a reply from her, for her vitriol. She can tell he's ready for it, ready for her to denounce him. To scream. To shout. She wants to, but more than anything, she wants to cry.

There was a part of her that had hoped she was wrong, of course. Hoped that the person who had tipped her off so many times, who had time and time again delivered strategy plans and weapon lists integral to disassembling the opposition, was not, in fact, one of their enemy's main operatives. How could she possibly reconcile the person who'd saved her from peril countless times with the person whose face graced the papers every time another tragedy struck?

When she remains silent, his expression shifts from fury to apprehension.

"Surprised, Granger?" Sorry I'm not Longbottom in a different cloak." His taunts have no venom.

"You got them out…” she whispers.

“Yes.” Without the mask, she’s close enough to feel his breath ghost against her skin. She can see the emotion in his eyes now. She can see the pain.

“Why?”

“Because you wanted me to.”

She can feel a flush creep up her cheeks when he says this.

She breaks eye contact, looking down at the fabric covering his collarbone, where the copy of her necklace sits. The small engraved H taunts her, glints as if to say, Of course it’s him. Who did you expect?

A nameless, faceless, low-level grunt never would have had access to the level of knowledge and foresight that he had.

“What are you doing here?” She asks.

“The same thing I’ve been doing.”

“Why?”

“I told you, my mother-“

“Enough about your mother. Why are you cooperating? Why…this?” Why me?, she wants to ask.

“This is all I can do.”

“I find that grossly hard to believe.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. It’s surreal to watch, given how much the mask has hidden from her for so long.

“Anything else will get me killed. If I am anything except truly and utterly devoted to the Dark Lord, I am dead. If I so much as argue with Greyback, I am dead. If Bellatrix is in a mood, I am dead. If Yaxley thinks I’m getting too soft, I am dead. My mother is dead. Your spy will be dead.”

“Is there so little trust among comrades?”

“Between Death Eaters, you mean?” He laughs incredulously. “Absolutely. They will take any information they have to the Dark Lord if they think it will raise their standing with him. It’s how they survive.”

“Is that how you survived? You’re a general, aren’t you? Who did you sell out to get your position?”

“No one good.”

“And are you any better?”

“Probably not.”

She sighs, the fight leaving her.

“But…you’re here.”

“Yes.”

“So…maybe, better.”

“Don’t try to paint me in a better light, Granger. If you saw me in the papers, then you know what I am. What I do.” He sounds tired. Exasperated.

“Does anyone else know?” She whispers.

“I think Shacklebolt can guess. But, otherwise…No.” He says, then takes a step forward. “No one can know.”

“I understand.”

“Not even Potter.”

“Harry doesn’t know I meet with you. I’m not sure he even knows there’s a spy at all.” He rolls his eyes, and she chooses to ignore it.

She steps back from him.

"I need to go." She says.

"By all means, then." Her eyes snap up to meet his, her glare matching his.

"Whatever, Malfoy." she spits, then disapparates before he can.

It means nothing, she thinks.

It doesn't mean nothing, though.

His identity clouds her thoughts. Everything he'd done in the past is cast in a new light; every time her necklace burned, it was his hands on the other end of the charm, pressing fervently into the metal, his touch rife with warning and intent. Every annotated map, every asterisk in his own smooth hand. Amycus Carrow, dead at Draco Malfoy's hands, for only her to know. The same hands that were beneath the soft leather that pressed against her cheek, brushing away her tears.

It could've been romantic, if he hated her less. If his prejudice hadn't gotten him in this position in the first place.

No, she thinks. That isn’t quite right. He'd said it more than once...he didn't have a choice. She knew Voldemort had been occupying his home since the end of 6th year. She knew his father heavily influenced his decision to take the Mark. Even if he'd felt differently, he'd likely be beholden to the same fate.

She realizes she never asked him how he feels.

Her charm burns. She finds herself second-guessing it, now that she knows who is summoning her. She goes anyway.

He's not wearing a mask. His body looks tense, his eyes look frantic. There's an impatient air about him. She spots the chain of her necklace peeking out from the collar of his shirt.

"Malfoy."

"Took you long enough. Come look at this, quickly."

He shows her a complicated arithmancy problem.

"You need to memorize this. Copy it down, or something. This is the equation to decode a bit of confidential correspondence I am in the process of acquiring from the Lestrange Estate. I have to return soon, and I need to bring this back with me. Can you remember it?" He explains. She stares at the numbers and symbols, attempting to commit them to memory.

"How do I solve this?" She asks.

"I'm not sure. I haven't tried it. I didn't have time."

"How long until you have to go back?"

"Minutes, probably. They haven't noticed I took it, so I need to get back before they do." She nods, pulling a scrap of parchment out of one of the drawers in the cottage cabinets. She scribbles the problem down quickly, and he stows the document in his cloak.

"I'll work on it," she says. He nods and steps back, his mask shimmering back into view.

"Thanks, Granger." He says as he disapparates.

She realizes he must have taken his mask off only for their meeting.

She doesn't hear from him again for several weeks.

She tries to work out the problem in the safehouse, but finds she is regularly interrupted. She doesn't want anyone to discover what she's working on—it seems pertinent to keep as few eyes on this as possible. She ends up retreating to the cottage in the late hours of the night to be alone with her thoughts.

The arithmancy problem isn't straightforward. She starts bringing additional reference materials to her evening study sessions. On more than one occasion, the soft pull-and-crash of the waves outside lulls her to sleep at the kitchen table.

She knows he must be there too, slipping in and out between the days and hours she spends there. She's taken to leaving her study materials scattered about the kitchen table, and some days, she returns to them to find the space tidied up, her notes organized. Her inkwells refreshed.

She doesn't know why he's also coming and going; he doesn't summon her. He leaves her no notes. For a while, the only trace of his presence is his little tweaks to her workspace.

One morning, on a whim, she peeks in the bedroom and finds the surface of the linens still warm.

She knows him now, but only a little.

There's another success for the order in Birmingham; Harry manages to get his hands on a goblin blade drenched in basilisk venom, and he destroys the mirror they swiped from Nott Manor many months ago.

As Voldemort weakens, his supporters work overtime to make it appear the opposite:

VOLDEMORT'S ARMY TO SET UP STATE-OF-THE-ART HOLDING CELLS ON THE ISLE OF MAN

Minister Deems Destruction of Edinburgh Castle a "Necessary Sacrifice" to Eradicate Mudblood Presence in UK

Is Your Neighbor Under an Imperious Charm? Report All Magical Misuse To Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge and Protect Our Citizens!

Hermione should stop reading the Prophet, but she reads it now with a second intent: to see if any more photos of him will surface. She both hopes they will and hopes they will not. She hasn't seen him in over a month, but she knows any photo of him printed in the Prophet will be bad news for her.

It's during a battle outside of Leeds when she sees him next.

A report of the Dark Mark painted across the sky causes a call to arms for Order members. Upon apparition, they find Muggles strung up in the streets, Dementors feeding on fear, Death Eaters taking Muggle-borns hostage, and the like. A skirmish breaks out the moment they arrive—bolts of green magic fly immediately in their direction from all angles—and lasts for hours.

The fight is frantic; her mind is a tunnel of only dodge, duck, disarm, run. The protego shields and anti-apparition wards surrounding the town are under constant pressure, the air is a macabre kaleidoscope of spellwork, and dust rains down from destroyed buildings hit with rogue bombardas.

Hermione has taken down three Death Eaters and endured a minor gash on her arm by the time she spots him. She's just finished sticking a portkey on an immobilized Death Eater when a spell nearly singes her leg. She shoves forward, rolling under a wheeled cart. Her disillusionment charm settles just before her assailant is upon her, and she lets out a small breath of relief as he passes her hiding place.

She crawls out from under the cart when the coast is clear, and that's when she sees him down the road.

She doesn’t know how she knows that it’s him; when she looks back on this day, she still can’t pinpoint it. Perhaps it’s the shape of him, something she’s studied for clues so many times. Maybe she catches a glimpse of gold around his neck. She can’t be sure.

He’s in combat with George and Bill. The Death Eaters are grossly outnumbered, and his stance is defensive. More than that, his actions are without vigor; he does not want to fight them.

He manages to disarm George and hold off Bill for a time, but she watches with slow-mounting horror as something sharp is driven into his side.

It takes all she has not cry out as he collapses onto the ground, clutching his side.

The brothers leave him shortly after he goes down, and Hermione wastes no time before casting a Protego about herself and sprinting into the fray.

She leaps over strewn bodies and avoids little bursts of fire as she flies across the cobblestone street, reaching him in seconds. She loops her hands under his armpits and drags him into an alleyway. She's out of breath, and her heart beats frantically in her chest, but she's singularly focused on the rise and fall of his. On the blood seeping through his robes.

She places a hand on his chest, and they both whisk away into apparition.

They land heavily in the kitchen of the cottage, and for a moment, Hermione fears she's made things worse.

She digs through the cabinets, pulling out the stores of dittany and blood replenishing potions she'd stashed there months ago.

She turns around and kneels beside him, slicing away at his robes with her wand. It takes a few tries, but she manages to vanish his mask, and his skin is paler than usual, his features contorted in pain.

"Malfoy," she calls as she continues to cut away at the fabric on his torso, revealing a swath of white, scarred, and bloody skin. Whatever Bill got him with must’ve been poisoned, because thick black spiderwebs cascade out from the wound, slowly creeping up towards his chest. Her heart drops into her stomach.

“Malfoy, can you hear me? I need you to stay awake." She begins casting a complicated set of enchantments, the black webs of poison slowly receding from his skin. He groans in pain, his eyes screwed shut and his teeth gnashing.

"Bloody Hell, Granger. I always knew you'd be the one to finally cut me down."

"It wasn't me that did this to you, you idiotic bastard. I'm trying to fix it!" She repeats the spell a second time, sweat forming on her brow as her magic strains. As the last of the curse slides out of his skin in thick, black globs, he lets out a yowl.

"It sure as hell doesn't feel like it—fuck," he pants.

"Just stay still, a few more seconds." She casts another healing spell, her hands shaking as the wound begins to stitch itself up. "You have to stay still, Malfoy."

"Fucking—“ His protests are cut off by another groan, and the wound shuts. It was shoddy work, and it will leave a scar, but he won't bleed out.

"Here," she says, handing him a blood replenishing potion and a bottle of water. He sits up on his elbows and downs both quickly, his breathing still heavy. He looks down at where her hands are still on his skin, rubbing healing salve into his newly-closed wound. Their eyes meet, and her ministrations slow.

"Are you still in pain?" She asks.

"Absolutely. Fuck," his shutter briefly before opening again.

"You should rest.”

He huffs, but doesn't fight her when she helps him up, or when they hobble to the bedroom.

When his head hits the pillow, his eyes almost immediately fall shut.

"Granger," he murmurs, his voice half-lost to sleep.

"Yes?"

“…Why?”

She pauses.

“It was the right thing to do.” She says eventually.

“Mmm. Granger?”

“Yes?”

"Will you...be here...when I wake up?" His voice is so quiet. His request is a murmur.

"Yes," she whispers. "I'll be here."

She doesn't think he hears her; he is already asleep.

She leaves him briefly to check in at the safehouse.

Almost everyone is accounted for, and the few still in Leeds remain only to secure the town and its citizens. The air is celebratory, and Hermione should be feeling the same. Instead, all she feels is unease.

She flies through the house, grabbing pain potions and other provisions as she goes. She’s almost at the apparition line when she hears someone call out to her. She turns around to find Ron standing at the threshold of the house.

“Where are you going?” He asks.

“I—It’s—“ she tries.

“For Kingsley?” He offers.

“Yes.”

He nods, though it doesn’t seem like he believes it.

“Don’t stay out too long, Mione. There’s still plenty more Death Eaters lurking about.”

She agrees, even as a pit forms in her stomach.

He’s still fast asleep when she returns.

She works on the arithmancy problem while she waits for him to wake up.

She wakes sometime in the middle of the night, her head jolting up from its resting place on the kitchen table.

She rouses herself and creaks the door open to the bedroom. She’s surprised to find him already awake.

He’s divested himself of his ruined shirt, and he sits up against the headboard. His fresh wound is visible, but so are a litany of other scars: multiple marks litter his shoulders and arms, and a pink streak from Harry’s sectumsempra curse reaches from his collarbone to his opposite hip. Her necklace hangs from his neck, resting against his broad chest. His left arm is folded in front of him, so she can only see the tip of the Dark Mark on his forearm. He’s reading some sort of correspondence when she enters, his brow furrowed, but he puts it aside when he realizes she’s there.

“You’re still here.” He says, clearly surprised.

“I left briefly. I brought you those,” she gestures to the pain potions she’d lined up on the nightstand earlier. “How…how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” He replies, though as soon as he shifts, she sees him wince. She moves towards the bed, sits on its edge, and grabs one of the bottles.

“Take this. Take another in four hours.” He does as she says, downing the potion with only a look of mild discomfort.

“May I look at it?” She asks, and he nods, adjusting his position. She watches the taut muscles of his torso stretch, and her face heats, but she quickly refocuses.

“It looks like it healed cleanly,” she comments, her fingers sliding along the ridge. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do a better job stitching it up. Removing the poison from it took more than I was expecting it to, so I was a little rattled.”

“It’s far better than anything I could’ve done.” He replies. “How did you know how to do that?”

“Well, despite how yesterday went, I usually prefer to be with the medics when there’s a battle.” She replies absently as she applies more salve to the spot.

“The medics? Why are you stuck being my handler then?”

She looks up at him, then returns to her work.

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Kingsley that.” She says, then screws the lid on the salve. “Maybe I’m the only one he thinks can handle you.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Better you than Weasley, I suppose.” He grumbles under his breath. His tone is casual; it’s a throwaway comment, but it catches her off guard.

“Is it better that it’s me?” She asks, looking up at his face. She’s searching for the answer to the question she really wants to ask: Do you still hold hatred in your heart?

From where he’s seated, he looks down at her, and the dim candlelight licks shadows across his cheekbones. She can practically feel it when his eyes travel from her face, down her frame, and back up. It’s slow and heavy, like a physical caress. When their gazes meet again, she feels naked, like he’s seen into her soul.

“Yes, Granger.” He answers, his voice an octave lower. “It’s better that it’s you.”

She feels hot all over, like he’s lit a match and she’s swallowed it whole.

She stands up; everything about him is overwhelming, and she needs space.

“I—you should rest more.” She stutters. “It’s still night, and your body needs time to recover.” She’s babbling now, and she’s sure she’s flushed, but she doesn’t care. He watches her, eyes narrowed slightly.

“I’ll just…leave you to it. Goodnight.” She flees the room, retreating to the living room.

“Goodnight, Granger.” He calls as she shuts the door.

She wakes up on the couch to an empty house.

A note rests on the table, among her now-organized arithmancy notes, in his neat scrawl:

Thank you.

She returns to the safehouse to find chaos.

Voldemort has been spotted off the coast of Ireland; Harry will lead a team to the Isle of Man to dismantle the prison on the island and free any of its inhabitants. He will then continue alone to track Voldemort down.

The safehouse closest to Hogwarts is currently under fire. A team is being dispatched to neutralize the threat.

There’s been a sighting of several snatchers nabbing Muggle-born children in Cumbria. A two-person duo is sent to fight, while another is sent to reunite family members.

The potions cabinet is low on skele-gro and burn paste. A few of the medics are on their way to the safehouse in Devon to procure more Chinese Chomping Cabbages from the greenhouse Neville has been maintaining there.

Hermione gets pulled into a strategy meeting almost as soon as she sets foot in the house, and she’s quickly submerged in the sea of maps, charts, and battle strategies.

At night, once she finally has a chance to breathe, she thinks that she should be more troubled by the pit of dread that had formed in her stomach when she saw him fall in battle.

She thinks she should be more troubled by the fire she felt when he looked at her.

She thinks she should be more troubled that she's starting to know him.

More weeks pass, and she does not hear from him.

She’s deployed to several skirmishes along the western coast, and her days blur into a mix of fighting, healing, writing correspondence to other branches of the Order, and working on the arithmancy proof. She falls into her bed each night, exhausted and sometimes covered in other people’s blood. She sleeps fitfully, curled on her side, with her wand tucked in the crook of her arm and her fingers clutching her necklace, and she longs for the day when she won’t have to fall asleep in fear. In her fear, she feels her loneliness acutely.

Harry has made it to Belfast, but so far Voldemort has evaded him. Hermione wished he’d let them support her; she and Ron would’ve gone with him in an instant, but he insisted this had to be done alone.

She worries about Harry daily.

It’s one of her sleepless nights that she sees Malfoy again.

It’s late; close to 3am, but she’s wide awake when her charm burns.

She apparates to the cottage almost immediately. When she arrives, he’s already there, his fingers still holding the necklace around his neck. He startles, his wand out and stance defensive, until he realizes it’s her.

“Granger,” He breathes, shoulders relaxing.

“Hi,” She says.

“Did I…wake you?” He asks, and when his gaze shifts down, she realizes she’s still in her pajama shorts, socks, and an old Gryffindor Quidditch jumper.

“Oh! Sorry, I suppose I should’ve changed. I was awake.”

“No, it’s—it’s alright.” His voice is a bit lower, his gaze a bit softer. She shivers.

“Were…why are you awake this late?” she asks.

“There was a…party,” he says with distaste, which piques her interest. “I finally was able to take my leave. I learned some information tonight, and it’s a fair bit, so I didn’t think leaving it in a note was best.” She notices then that his attire is different; in place of his usual shirt is a black military-style formal tunic. His tailored trousers are tucked into tall black dragonhide boots, and a midnight blue cape is clasped at his shoulders, a thick silver chain running across his chest. Her necklace resting at his throat looks out of place next to the finery—she doesn’t comment on it, because the result is rather dashing, and it stirs something in her chest.

“Alright,” she says. ”If you don’t mind, I’m going to make some tea, as it is rather late and I could certainly use it.”

He nods, and she turns and heads to the kitchen, hoping he doesn’t notice the flush that crept across her cheeks.

She makes tea, and they sit on the couch in the small living room. As they each prepare their cups, he begins to talk.

He explains that Bellatrix and Rabastan have implied that they know where the dark lord is heading, but Malfoy can’t be certain until they can decode some of the documents in Rabastan’s office. He tells her that some of the other members of Voldemort’s inner circle plan to start moving towards London in an effort to distract Order resources long enough for Voldemort to reach his destination and make another Horcrux. He would tell her that the Order should disregard this obvious trap, but he suspects the damage they will cause will be too big to ignore. This is another thing he might be able to get additional information on, if they can solve the arithmancy proof.

“So, it sounds like a lot of this is hinging on me solving this incredibly complicated maths problem.” She sighs into her cup.

“It would be helpful, yes. You should commit more time to it, if you can.”

“That’s rich! I don’t hear you offering to help me.”

“I am already quite busy leading a double life, as you know.” She rolls her eyes, and he continues.

He tells her they plan to kill or sell off all of the hostages in the dungeons at the Macnair Estate in two weeks’ time, because the Macnairs are tired of their moaning. He tells her Greyback is still trying to convince the Dark Lord to allow him to turn all of them instead. Yaxley is planning on killing Avery—this is more idle gossip, not requiring action from the Order, but Malfoy thought they might like to know, for their records—and is planning on making it look like an accident. No one has heard from Amycus Carrow in months; some think he defected, others know that someone likely got the best of him.

"They sound like they're getting desperate," She remarks.

"Oh, certainly. We can all feel him weakening, and they're getting worried."

"You can feel him?" She asks, and he looks away.

"Yes." He answers stiffly. "Through the Mark. We can feel his life force, and it's noticeably different from what it was even a few months ago. I think its weakness is…sowing unease." She’s vaguely disturbed by the knowledge of this connection, but she doesn’t comment on it.

“You said there was a party tonight—where do they think you’ve gone off to?”

“Home, I hope.”

“Won’t your mother notice if you haven’t returned?”

“Not likely. She’s probably gone to bed hours ago. I don’t think she likes to see me like this,” he gestures to his outfit, “fragile humours and all of that.”

“It bothers her? That you’re…” she trails off, suddenly uncertain.

“A ranked official in the army of a known terrorist? Yes. It bothers her immensely.”

“And…your father?” She asks tentatively. She’s surprised he’s sharing this much, and she doesn’t want to push it.

“My father…” he trails off, his eyes suddenly far away. “My father is at the Manor. Rather, he is always at the Manor." He pauses.

“It’s not...publicized, but he is no longer really a member of the Dark Lord's army. He can't be, really. He is…not well.”

He pauses again, and he looks so conflicted, so tormented by whatever he’s about to share, and her heart aches.

She isn’t thinking when she reaches out and places her hand on his knee; she doesn’t mean to be there for him, to tell him that she’s listening. She doesn’t mean to offer him comfort. She doesn’t mean to offer him the space between them—she just does it.

His thigh tenses, and he looks down at her hand. She wonders if she misstepped until his gloved palm covers her hand for the briefest moment before he pulls it away. He takes a deep breath.

“After his failure at the Ministry in fifth year, he was crucioed rather thoroughly, and punished in other, indirect ways.” She knows he is referring to himself; that he was Marked early, to punish Lucius. She shudders to think what other things may have also happened.

“He never fully recovered. After the battle at Hogwarts, he was punished again. The Dark Lord…went too far.” He sighs, and she waits, a pit forming in her stomach.

“He’s alive, but…not by much. He’s bedridden most of the time. I don’t see him often; he requires a level of care that I have neither the skill nor the time for. My mother sits with him, sometimes.”

Her heart breaks for him. She squeezes his knee, and his hand moves again, resting atop hers and staying there.

“Does you-know-who know of his condition?” She asks.

“Oh, yes. The first time he failed to respond to a summons, it was…not good.” He laughs mirthlessly. “I sometimes wonder if he might’ve been able to recover, if not for that. The Dark Lord wanted to kill him once he learned of his…fragility.”

“What stopped him?”

“I asked him not to. I suppose I begged, really. In hindsight, I don’t know why I did that. I suppose for my mother’s sake.” He says. “It is another thing the Dark Lord holds over me. If I misstep, he can threaten the lives of either of my parents, and I will fall back in line.”

They’re silent for a moment, gripping each other’s hands tightly. His face is impassive, but she can see the pain there.

She wants to tell him she’s sorry. She wants to tell him that his empathy means he’s still human.

She wants to give him more than she is; more than she can. She knows he’d likely want none of it.

She gives him the truth instead.

“I obliviated my parents.” She says. He turns to look at her, his brow furrowing. She continues.

“A couple of years ago. I erased myself from their minds completely.” Her breath shudders, but she stays strong. “They live in Australia now, with no knowledge of my existence.”

He remains silent, listening. His thumb traces small circles along the top of her hand.

“I share this to say—I know what it’s like—to lose a parent, without them being dead. I understand.”

She does not feel for Lucius Malfoy, but she does feel for his son.

“I…thank you, Granger.”

They sit silently for a while, each retreating to their own thoughts.

“Maybe we’re almost done.” She says after a few minutes. “Maybe it’s really almost over.”

“Bloody hell, I hope so.” He remarks, and she pauses.

“Malfoy…what will you do when this is all over?”

“Ah, let’s see…I’ll probably be dead, or in Azkaban, which would probably be worse than being dead.”

“What? Why would you think that?”

“Granger, I know we’ve been faffing about on the couch for the past couple of hours, but I shouldn’t have to remind you that I am a Death Eater. There’s no way in hell the Order will let me live, after all of this is over.”

“But you’re—you’re not!” She sputters, and he looks at her, a brow raised.

“Okay, perhaps you are a little. Or, you were.” She amends. “But you’ve been helping the Order for nearly a year now. I can’t imagine Kingsley would throw you in Azkaban after everything you’ve done to help us.”

“I don’t know how much of a choice he’ll have. I think the public will be hard-pressed to accept much else.” He replies.

“But that’s only because they don’t know what you’ve done—“

“—They know plenty of what I’ve done, Granger. I know you’ve read the papers—“

“—But that’s only part of the story!”

“That’s the story they’ve been reading for years. That’s always been the story of the Malfoy name. If I’m lucky, there will be some final battle, and I’ll turn coat, and I can die defending something good for once.”

She hates it. She hates the thought of it; she hates the idea that he’d dismiss himself so easily, that he sees so little value in all of his efforts.

“Draco, I—“ She starts, and his gaze snaps to her, his expression searing. “That can’t be how it ends. I have a difficult time believing that’s all there is for you.”

“Say that again,” he murmurs, his voice an octave lower. His face is closer now.

“What?” She whispers. The way he’s looking into her eyes heats her blood; her whole body feels electrified. She’s hyper-aware of where the outside of their thighs press together, of where his hand still holds hers. He glances at her mouth, then back up.

“My name. You said it,” he tells her. “Say it again.”

“Oh,” her heart is beating out of her chest.

“Draco.” She breathes, the syllables of his given name heavy against her tongue.

His other hand leaves its resting place at his side and reaches up to cup her cheek—to pull her face to his—to press his lips to hers.

It is like a lightning strike. It is an out-of-body experience, a completion, like discovering her magic for the first time. She melts into the kiss, her free hand curling around the collar of his tunic. She meets his enthusiasm, his fervor. His tongue presses her lips open, and she lets him. His hand slides up her face to cup the back of her head, his fingers through her hair, and she shivers. He swallows her sighs greedily, tilting her head slightly to thoroughly claim her mouth. A murmured, Draco, against his lips, and he’s groaning and pulling her into his lap, her thighs falling on either side of his hips. Their kiss never breaks as he pulls her chest to his.

They kiss languidly for some time, his hands roving the edges of her form while her fingers bury themselves in his hair. She’s never been kissed like this; so completely, so decadently, and fears she’ll never be satisfied with anything less.

After minutes, or hours, or days, he pulls back the barest bit, his forehead resting against hers. They’re both breathless, their lips only centimeters apart, the air they breathe shared.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. He presses another kiss to her lips, then another, then another. His tongue dips back into her mouth, and she sighs.

“Maybe I’m already dead? I can’t imagine this is possible in reality.” He adds, and she groans good-naturedly. His hands travel up and down her back, their touch tender and unhurried. He pulls back enough to look at her, and the attention makes her flush.

“It’s almost morning, I should probably go. You should get back to your friends before they notice you are gone.” His finger grazes her cheek, and she wants to lean into the touch.

“I—right.”

He stands up, adjusting his trousers and running a hand through his hair. He looks down at her, still on the couch, and she knows what he must see: her hair scattered about her neck and shoulders, her lips bee-stung, her cheeks warm.

“When will I see you again?” she blurts. She wonders this at the end of most of their meetings, but she hasn’t voiced it until now.

“I don’t know,” he says with a sigh. “I suppose ideally, things would end, and you won’t see me again. But, as it stands, I don’t know if we’re quite there yet.” He picks up his cape from where he’d discarded it and clasps the fabric around his shoulders.

“I don’t want that,” she says. “I don’t want to not see you at the end. You mentioned my friends, but are we not—in a way—friends too?“ she flushes, but continues speaking. “You deserve to be there, too.”

For a moment, he looks pained. His features school into something neutral, and she suspects he’s Occluded away whatever emotion passed through him.

He leans down, picking up her hand and pressing a kiss to the tops of her fingers.

“Until next time, Granger.”

He disapparates.

When she returns to the safehouse, she immediately seeks Kingsley out. He calls a meeting, and several of the Order’s leaders congregate in the small kitchen so Hermione can relay all of the information Draco gave her. As she talks, she fights to keep her expression neutral, to not think of him as anything other than an informant.

Several arguments break out as more information is revealed. Many of them didn’t know there was an informant — Do we know we can trust him? — How does this informant come by this information anyway? — What is the identity of the informant? — What if it’s ALL a trap?

Ron is shocked to learn that this is where she’s been disappearing to.

“I just thought you were off shagging someone, mate.” He tells her, and she turns before he can see her face heat.

Hermione spends some time assuaging worries, reassuring, and reminding them that the information from this source has saved them many times.

She reminds them of his warning about the Exmoor stadium, about all of the pureblood manor building plans he’d provided, of the many times he gave them notice to evacuate their safehouses. She reveals that he freed Ernie and Seamus, that he let her and Ginny escape in Cambridge, and killed Amycus Carrow to do it.

What does he want in return? They ask.

“Asylum,” she says. “For both him and his family.”

Kingsley turns to look at her, brow arching. She knows that’s not what he’d agreed to, but she hopes he won’t challenge her. She hopes everyone will accept it.

She tells them she’s close to cracking the arithmancy equation. That once she does, time will be of the essence. She tells them they have to break into the Macnair Estate, immediately, and that they need to prepare for a showdown in London.

Teams are deployed. Preparations are initiated. The air cracks with apparitions to various safehouses. Elves are summoned and sent to Hogwarts to alert McGonnagall. Letters are written to Harry. As her friends spring into action, a swirl of activity around her, she thinks of how he set this all in motion; how he may not get to see it.

After showering, changing, and drinking a pepper-up potion, she returns to the cottage.

She spends most of the next few days there; the Order has determined that the majority of her time should be spent on the arithmancy proof, so she rarely leaves. She begins cooking herself meals there and practicing her wandwork in the backyard. On late enough nights, she finds herself stumbling blearily into the bedroom and curling up on the side she knows he favors.

The Macnair Estate raid goes off without a hitch; there are only a few servants there, the majority of the Manor’s defenses reliant on cursed artifacts. She finds out later that the Macnairs are rallying supporters in Somerset and hadn’t thought to worry much about their prisoners.

It takes her only one more week before she cracks it. She feels a relief akin to euphoria, and her first thought is to press on the H of her necklace; to tell him. She sends out a few patronous messages, one to Kingsley and one to Harry. She takes a deep breath, but when she finally does activate the charm, she feels a pulse in response. He cannot come, she realizes, and her heart sinks.

It doesn’t matter, she tells herself as she writes a note to him.

Draco,

I’ve completed the proof—it required calculating his life path numbers concerning a split soul, rather than the whole of his life itself. Please let me know when it is ready to be used.

Please be safe,

Her charm doesn’t activate for three days, and the anticipation has nearly finished her off by the time it does.

She apparates to the cottage, but he’s already gone. A thick stack of papers sits on the table where her arithmancy notes used to be, a note attached to the top:

Brightest Witch,

These are copies of encoded correspondence between Bellatrix, Rabastan, and—I think—him. I have to get back, so I won’t have time to decode much of it. I leave that to you. I hope this is enough.

I’m not sure when I will be able to return to this place. Things are getting rather chaotic on this end, and any further absence on my part may be noticed.

There are many things that I would like to say to you, but I am out of time. Take care, Hermione.

Yours,

She allows herself one pitiful moment of devastation, one pathetic reread, one affected gasp at the use of her first name, before she gets to work.

He’s right, of course; the answers they sought are all there.

She writes a letter to Harry with the decoded coordinates of Voldemort’s destination and intent explicitly detailed, and a warning that he is likely not alone.

Once she sends that out, her days become a flurry of preparation for the inevitable clash in London.

The letters reveal their plans to lay siege to Muggle London. They will travel through the Ministry, into Diagon Alley, through the Leaky Cauldron, and into Muggle London. The Order will have to stop them before they get to that point.

There’s lists of curses, potions, other weapons. Lists of magical beings currently under command of Imperius Curse. Everything is all there.

All the Order can do is gather numbers and wait.

Hermione spends her days organizing resources, practicing spells, and brewing.

The brewing started at first to help the medics replenish their stores ahead of the upcoming battle, but it soon turned into something to keep her mind focused. To keep her daylight hours productive. To keep from spiraling with worry.

She brews blood replenishing potion, pepper-up potion, skele-gro, essence of dittany, wolfsbane potion, calming draught, and so on. She brews antidotes for specific dark curses. She brews a lot of dreamless sleep.

At the end of each night, she crawls into her bed and presses her fingertips against the now-worn edge of his last letter, where the Y in Yours loops elegantly across the page. She clutches her necklace, and her heart burns for him, and she wonders if he can feel it through his own charm.

After two weeks of preparation, she feels her charm burn, and she knows it’s time.

She runs through the safehouse, banging on doors, calling everyone to arms. They’ve been preparing; they’re ready.

She apparates to the safehouse in Devon and performs the same actions. Then to the safehouse in Wolverhampton, then to Surrey. She sends a patronous to McGonnagall, to Ron up in Nottingham, and to Ginny in Wiltshire.

After that, she apparates into a small alley in Muggle London, slips through the streets full of unsuspecting passersby, and into the Leaky.

When she steps out of the Leaky and onto Diagon Alley, it’s chaos; multiple buildings are on fire, there are bodies strewn across the cobblestones, dark wizards spiral above in whorls of black apparition, screams of terror can be heard from the buildings that are still standing, and there’s a weird lavender fog floating ominously above it all. A roar and a crash are heard from far down the street, and she sees an army of trolls headed directly for her. She turns, casts a modified bouncing charm on her shoes, and leaps into the air, her body flying skyward. She grabs onto the railing of a balcony and pulls herself onto it, meters above the reach of the trolls and their spiked clubs. She grabs the edge of the sagging roof above her and climbs, then begins to cast protective enchantments and survey the scene below her.

From her vantage point, she can see several skirmishes along the side streets of Diagon and Knockturn alleys. Things are constantly being blown up, and the smoke in the air makes everything into a hazy vignette. Several phantoms are cast, and a sea of shimmering red Death Eater apparitions runs through the streets, cursing any whose bodies they pass through. There’s blood everywhere, green sparks flying more than she’d like, and a small dragon with Charlie Weasley on its back soars low above the buildings. She’s about to call out to him when she hears an “Oi!” From somewhere below her, a bolt of green magic is fired, barely missing her.

Time to enter the fight, then.

It’s non-stop once her feet hit the ground. She tears through the streets, her magic sparkling in her veins, protection spells and disarming spells at her fingertips. She launches a fallen block of cement at a group of incoming Death Eaters and keeps moving forward. She heads past Seamus and Dean, who are currently in the process of filling a magical cannon with acromantula venom, and past George and Bill, who are tackling a Death Eater to the ground. She pauses to heal a few younger wizards who are catching their breath in an alleyway, handing out pepper-up potions, and pressing on. With each Death Eater she fells, she leaves them either tied up or throws a Portkey onto their chests, sending them off to the Order’s holding cells.

Eventually, she meets up with Ron, and they work together to dismantle whatever spell was cast that created the strange purple haze. She hadn’t realized it at first, but it was an atmosphere absorber, slowly draining the oxygen from the air.

They continue together for a while, slowly working through the havoc. A murder of crows is conjured and makes a beeline in their direction, so they tear into the nearest abandoned shop. They sprint past the dusty Quidditch kits and up the stairs as their attacker advances. Hermione grabs a broom as they run, sending it flying as soon as their attacker reaches the second-story landing. It hits Yaxley square in the chest, and he falls backwards down the stairs. She immobilizes him and places another Portkey on his chest, watching as he spirals out of the shop.

“Bloody brilliant, Mione.” Ron says through heaving breaths, and she smiles.

She looks out the window of the room on the second floor, and she double-takes.

There he is, on the corner of Knockturn and Diagon, duelling against two masked Death Eaters and winning.

She almost didn’t realize it was him—rather than his Death Eaters robes, he’s wearing an emerald green Muggle hoodie over a white button down and black trousers. His hood is pulled up over his head, but his face is visible, and a few locks of white-blonde hair stick to his forehead. She can see her locket swinging against his chest as he fights, and her heart surges. He’s moving quickly, dodging, parrying, and casting. Before she can blink, both Death Eaters are down, and he’s moving down the street and out of sight, engaging another few soldiers.

Defending something good, indeed, she thinks.

They’ve been clashing for hours; much of the area is destroyed, and there are loads of wizards either injured or dead on either side. The only sense of “victory” to be claimed is that the Death Eaters haven’t breached the barrier into the Muggle world. She’s spent the last 30 minutes casting and recasting a Protego strong enough to protect Gringotts, where the civilians that live near Diagon have been camped out for their safety. She hasn’t seen Draco since that brief moment when she glimpsed him from the shop window. She can only pray that he’s alright.

It’s just as the sun is setting that nearly every Death Eater falls at once.

She looks around her, shocked, as each of them collapses, gripping their left forearms and screaming in pain. She watches with horror as the ghost of Lord Voldemort slowly peels itself out of their skin, the inkiness of the Mark dulling as the magic settles. They’re gasping for air, some are removing their masks, and vomiting. The sudden discord makes one thing clear:

Harry has defeated Voldemort once and for all.

The blow to the Death Eaters is an advantage for the Order; not only is their leader gone, but they’re all incapacitated, at least temporarily. Dark wizards are rounded up in droves and sent to holding cells. Kingsley and a small team enter the Ministry and make quick work of the weakened wizards running their farce of a government. Hermione, Ginny, and Ron work into the night to try and repair as much of the infrastructure of Diagon Alley as they can. Much of it is unsalvageable, but the bones of a lot of buildings remain intact, and that’s a start. She looks for him as she goes.

They pull wizards out of the rubble and heal wounds. Hermione walks into Gringotts, where the medics have set up a temporary sick bay, and distributes skele-gro, pain potions, and dreamless sleep from her stash in her beaded bag. She drains poison from more people than she’d like to acknowledge. She looks for him among the injured.

She can’t stomach the awful, horrible work of rounding up the dead, but she looks for him briefly among the bodies.

She helps Remus and Tonks round up the remains of Greyback’s pack and administers wolfsbane to the newly turned wizards. She hopes he’s not there, but she looks for him among the wolves.

She goes to Grimmauld Place, where she knows the majority of the Order will be congregated, and she makes sure her friends are all accounted for. Harry has sent word; he is on his way home. He will be back by the end of next week, and there will be a substantial party prepared to welcome The Boy Who Lived home for good. She is happy, she is relieved, she is teary, but she is also looking for him among the crowd, even though she knows he is not there.

When the hour is thin, and she’s nearly depleted her magic, and she’s looked for him everywhere, she takes her locket into her hand and looks for him one more time.

Her apparition into the cottage is bumpy and disjointed. She lands on the floor of the kitchen with a thud, her body tired and her magical well practically empty.

As she stands, she hears footsteps, and then—

“Draco,” She breathes.

He’s standing in the doorway to the living room, exhausted and with a bit of dried blood on his person, but otherwise intact. His hair is wild, there’s a hole in the forearm of his hoodie, likely where the magic of his Mark burned through the fabric, but he’s alive. He’s alive, and he’s there.

He takes one step and pulls her into him, crushing her to his chest, and it feels like coming home. She wraps her arms around his torso, her head resting against him, his heartbeat fast beneath her ear.

“I couldn’t find you,” she whispers, a tear escaping her eye. Now that it’s all over, now that he’s alive and safe, all of her emotions are crashing down into her at once. “I couldn’t find you, and I—I thought—“ she stutters.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m right here.” He murmurs, tilting her chin up and wiping a tear from her cheek. He presses a gentle kiss to her lips, and she sighs, her breath uneven.

“We’re alright, Hermione. We’re safe. It’s over.” He says, and she nods, though the reality of it hasn’t set in yet.

“I was so worried.” She says. He pushes a lock of damp hair out of her face and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“You don’t have to worry anymore, love.”

He holds her silently, letting her cry into his chest until her tears become sniffles, then just breaths.

When she’s finally calmed down, she speaks.

“Is—is your arm alright? I saw everyone fall when it…happened.” She asks, looking down where his skin is exposed.

“Yes, it’s fine now. It hurt like hell earlier, but it’s not so bad anymore.” He says, holding his arm up. She realizes that this is the first time she’s actually looked at his Mark in full. She finds it doesn’t frighten her like it once did.

He seems to suddenly process what he’s doing, what he’s showing her, and he covers it with his hand.

“I’m sorry, Hermione.”

She looks up at him.

“For what?”

“For this. For…me. For not being stronger when it counted. For not knowing any better.”

“Draco, you’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

He sighs, his forehead pressing against hers.

“Are you hungry?” He asks. The subject is one they’ll have to return to at some point, but now that the adrenaline has worn off, she realizes there are other pressing matters.

“Yes, actually. Is there food?”

“Yeah. I had the elves bring some things from the Manor’s kitchens before you arrived. I hope that’s alright.”

“I actually think I am so famished, I can look over that slight for a few more minutes.”

He sets the table, while she uses the loo to wash her hands and wipe some of the day’s gore from her face. When she returns, she finds a steaming roast, vegetables, and a small pot of soup waiting for her.

They sit catty-corner at the table, and he tells her about the past few weeks: the internal collapse of Voldemort’s army, Bellatrix’s descent into madness with each day of the Dark Lord’s absence, and his desertion.

“The morning of the battle, when I didn’t show up to formation, my Mark burned. It usually burns when there’s a summons of any kind like that, but this was different. This was excruciating. Not as bad as taking the Mark, but close. I pushed through the pain, though. I stayed at the Manor, warded the whole property, and waited until it was time to go to Diagon.”

“You weren’t worried they’d retaliate?”

“By this point, Voldemort was too far off in Ireland to do too much. I figured I could take Bellatrix in a fight at that point, if it came down to it.”

“What about your mother?” She asked.

“She’s been in France the past few weeks, since we learned about the London battle. She has been staying with some distant relatives on my father’s side until further notice.”

“They didn’t notice she was leaving?”

“When I told you the Dark Lord’s army was in disarray, I mean it was in shambles. Without the Dark Lord present, Bellatrix was supposed to be in charge, and she’s been in a bad way these past few weeks. More tears than I’ve ever seen from her.”

“She’s…dead, right? I thought I heard she was, but…” She trails off, and he nods. Her whole body relaxes; she hadn’t realized how much tension she’d carried until she didn’t have to carry it anymore.

Hermione’s hand drifts to her forearm, and she sighs with relief. While the scar is still there, the woman responsible is not.

“Yes. I believe Molly Weasley can be awarded the honor of carrying out that deed.”

She nods absently, lost in her own thoughts.

They eat quietly for a few minutes before she speaks up.

“Why didn’t you go with her? With your mother, I mean.”

It’s a fair question; despite what she told the Order members, there’s never a perfect guarantee of a safe asylum for them. France would have been safer.

“I’m the lord of the Malfoy Manor, technically. I can’t exactly abandon a several trillion Galleon estate, and beyond that, it seemed cowardly to leave. I’ve been cowardly enough as it is.” He says. “There’s also my father. He’s rather hard to transport across country lines.” He adds. “Then, of course, there’s you.”

He says it so casually she almost doesn’t process it; when she does, her face heats.

“Me?”

“Yes. I wanted to see you.” He replies, his eyes cutting to hers. She’s silent for a moment, shocked, and his confidence falters slightly.

“I had to, I suppose, since apparently you’ve been parading around an asylum I hadn’t asked for.” Her jaw drops.

“How do you know about that!” She squeaks.

“You’re not the only one with spies, you know.”

“WHAT!?”

“I’m joking, Granger. Shacklebolt wrote to me.”

“He—he did?” She says. “And?”

“And, he said he will amend our terms, since you did not seem to give him much option. He says that though many of the members of the Order do not know who it is they’re willing to give asylum to, they all agree that I provided quite a bit of useful information. That he will be in touch.” He takes another bite of his roast.

“I—Draco, that’s excellent!”

“Surely you cannot be so surprised, witch. You’re the one who orchestrated this.”

“Well, yes, but I wasn’t absolutely certain it would work. I sort of went for it and hoped for the best.”

“Bloody Gryffindor,” he grumbles, but there’s no malice in it.

“Will your mother return, then?” She asks.

“I’m not sure. I’d wager she’s probably happier in France.”

“Won’t you miss her, though? So far away?”

“Perhaps. It’s lucky for me I’m well-acquainted with a witch who’s a dab-hand at creating portkeys, isn’t it?” He raises a brow at her.

“How did you know about that?” She knows he’s trying to rile her up. She knows.

“I’m a bloody spy, Granger, I know about nearly everything. Where did you send all of my recruits, anyway?”

“To—to holding cells! Where they belong!”

“Fair enough. ” He continues eating, a smirk on his lips, while her brain whirls through incredulity and excitement.

They sit for a few minutes in contemplative silence, consumption the only sound passed between them. After a while, she speaks, her voice soft.

“You’ll be free,” She says. He looks up at her and holds her gaze for a moment.

“Yes,” he replies after a moment. He pauses again, a debate occurring behind his eyes, then seems to come to a decision.

“And…Hermione…” he takes her hand in his. “I have never been free. Not truly. Before him, it was my father. It was Slytherin and pureblood culture bullshit. Now, there is…nothing.”

He clears his throat, and when his gaze returns to her, it’s raw, piercing, knife-edged; it could raze villages and burn countrysides to the ground. She feels the intensity of his stare down to her bones.

“Thank you. For giving me that.” In its honesty, his voice has dropped an octave, and her face heats. She can feel his nearness to her like a physical thing.

“You deserve to have a choice, Draco.” She says, her pulse in her throat. His thumb traces circles absently, just as it did last time he held her hand, but this time, it’s the delicate skin above her pulse that his finger brushes against. It sends a shiver down her spine.

“Do I?” He asks absently, not a real question.

“Of course you do.” She breathes.

“I have…one choice, I’d like to make.” His voice is a murmur, his gaze shifting between her eyes and her mouth.

She looks into his dark eyes and nods, so slowly, slightly, nearly imperceptibly. She sees the exact moment when it registers.

When he captures her lips, it’s like a relief. Like she’s been holding her breath, and now, she can finally exhale.

He pulls her chair against his, their meal forgotten, and kisses her within an inch of her life. His hands roam her figure, his body presses against hers.

She feels her side brush against the kitchen table, and he’s scooping her up onto it, her thighs wrapping around his hips. She feels his hardness against her center, and a spark ignites low in her belly. His lips leave hers to trail kisses along her jaw, by her ear, against her neck. He grips her ass through her pants, and she sighs, running her hands across his broad shoulders and the muscles flexing in his back. He’s everywhere, and it’s overwhelming, and she’s desperate for more.

He slides his tongue along the space behind her ear, and she gasps. His hands shift, one to the small of her back and the other moving up her torso. He returns his lips to hers right as his hand finds her breast, palming it through her shirt. His thumb finds her hardening nipple, and she whines into his mouth.

“Fuck— I want to hear that sound again.” He murmurs against her lips, his voice low. He rubs her through her shirt with both hands, and she’s panting, pulling his hair with her hands, pressing herself against him.

They stay like that for a bit longer before his hand moves again, and she can feel his fingers toying with the edge of her shirt, the faintest brush of his fingertips against the bare skin of her hip a thrill and a promise. He pulls back to look down at her, a question in his eyes.

“I—I’m, “ she tries, but his fingers are drawing small circles on her hips, the pads of his fingers rough, and it’s making her words feel heavy, solid. She takes a breath.

“What I mean to say is…I’m…I haven’t…before…” she trails off, her voice small. There’s been so little time to be embarrassed; not when there are so many other things going on, so many other ways to feel. Now, though…with his eyebrows rising, and his lips parting in surprise…

“I’m s-sorry,” She mumbles, but he’s already shaking his head.

“No, no, it’s okay.” He says, his voice soft. He redirects her face to his and presses a firm kiss to her lips.

“We can go slow, okay?” He touches her cheek tenderly, his eyes watching her face, and she could melt. She nods, the tension in her easing.

“Do you want to take this off?” He asks, looking down at where his fingers rest at the edge of her shirt, and she nods.

He pulls her top over her head, and her skin prickles.

“Gods,” He groans, his hands sliding up her ribcage to cup her chest. “You’re so beautiful, Hermione.”

She understands now why he reacted the way he did last time they were together. She understands now what it feels like to hear her given name pulled from his lips.

He kisses her with intention while his hands explore her chest, along her bare back, slipping beneath her bra to tease her nipples. She whimpers and sighs, and when he begins trailing kisses down her neck towards her breasts, she’s so keyed up she barely hears him speak.

“Alright, love?” He asks, his tongue dipping between her collarbones. Her Yes is barely past her lips when he’s leaning over, unclipping her bra, and latching his mouth on her tight nipple. She cries out in earnest now, his previous ministrations a mere gust of wind compared to this. She looks down, astonished to find him looking back up at her, his tongue flicking across one stiff peak while his hand pinches the other. She feels all of her sensations pinpointed to the move of his mouth, and her need grows.

“Draco,” she pants, “Draco, can we—“ she cuts herself off with another big breath. He pulls off of her, just barely, and looks up at her.

“Do you think we should…go to the bedroom?” She squeaks. He takes in her breathlessness, her flushed cheeks, and he smirks.

“Whatever you want, witch.” He says, then his arms are around her, scooping her off the table. The world spins as she’s thrown over her shoulder, his hand holding her onto him by her ass.

“DRACO!” she shrieks, her fist slamming against his back, which shakes with laughter. “Put me down!”

“In a second,” he replies, walking into the bedroom.

He deposits her onto the bed by the bedframe, and she watches with rapt attention as she pulls his hoodie over his head and unbuttons his shirt, his eyes never leaving her. She’d recognized how fit he was when he was shirtless here so long ago, but she hadn’t had the chance to examine the expanse of his muscles before. She catalogs all of the marks she’s seen before, and new ones she hadn’t noticed; there’s a burn mark by his hip, and what looks like another small, indistinguishable mark on his ribcage. She wants to know them all, trace them all with her fingertips.

He climbs on the bed with her, predatory, crawling up her body and resting a forearm on either side of her head. He kisses her again, and it’s slow, seeking, like he’s sharing a secret. He’s slotted between her legs, and she can feel his erection hard against her thigh. His chest moves, and the feeling of his bare skin against her nipples makes her shudder.

They kiss for a while, his nimble fingers tweaking her already oversensitive breasts and squeezing her bum. Eventually, his hand starts a slow path from her backside to her front, lingering on her hips to graze the skin there. With each squeeze and stroke, as he inches closer and closer to her core, she can feel her heart beating faster, her anticipation rising. He finally settles his hand atop her mound, his fingers dancing lightly along the zipper of her pants, and she’s breathing hard.

“Has anyone ever touched you here?” He asks, his lips against her neck. She shakes her head.

“No? Fuck,” he exhales, pressing another kiss to her skin. “Have you ever touched yourself here?”

“Y-yes,” She nearly whimpers. “Please, Draco…”

“Bloody hell.” His voice is stilted, and she feels him press his hips against her leg. He unzips her pants and sits up, sliding them down her legs. He rests on his knees, gazing down at her. She’d feel embarrassed, being ogled in only her knickers, if it weren’t for the blatant heat in his eyes. She can see the bulge in his pants clearly now, and the idea that he desires her so much makes her flush anew.

His hand slides up her calf, tracing the muscle of her thigh, until it rests delicately atop her knickers. She’s panting now, her body a live wire, a comet burning bright.

He leans back over her, kissing her again, and presses his finger down against her, rubbing her slit through the fabric. She gasps, and he grins.

“How did you know pink was my favorite color?” He teases as his finger shifts.

“S-stop being a prat, Malfoy.” She pants, and he laughs.

“Very well. Since you asked so nicely, I suppose I’ll stop being a prat, then.” He replies, then shifts her damp panties to the side. Suddenly, his finger is sliding across her folds, and she cries out.

“Gods, you’re already so wet.” He murmurs. His thumb finds her clit, and he rubs small circles on it, and her mouth drops open.

“Oh, fuck!” She moans, her hips bucking involuntarily.

“What lovely sounds you make. I wonder if you’ll make them again for me,” He comments as he swirls her nub again, and she shudders. He presses a finger against her entrance, and she squeaks.

“Have you ever had anything in here?” He asks.

“N-no, I usually—Oh Merlin—I usually just—fuck—“ she stutters, and he presses his finger inside of her.

“Bloody hell, you’re tight.” He says. The stretch of his finger alone feels incredible, but when his finger curls inside her, she nearly arches off the bed.

“Please do that again,” she whines, and he does. He presses into her again while he works her clit, and she can feel her orgasm building with rapid speed.

“Do you think you can take another finger, love?” He asks, and she nods enthusiastically. She feels him add a second finger, and the additional pressure on her walls is exquisite.

“Oh my god.” She cries. He pumps a few more times before a third finger enters her, and she’s spiraling up, up, up.

“Draco, if—I’m going to—soon—“ she pants, grinding her hips wantonly against his hand. She feels like she’s on fire, like all of the magic inside her is sitting just below the surface of her skin.

“Come for me, Hermione.”

She lets go, her release like a shout, like a burst, a flash of light: she feels more than sees her vision white out, her head swimming. Her body jerks, and she gasps his name, a reverent whisper, a prayer. Her completion is all-encompassing, an out-of-body experience. She’s never felt a high like this, even in her loneliest nights.

She returns to her body slowly; he’s kissing her, two fingers pressing into her once, twice, helping her ride out the after-shocks.

“You are so beautiful,” he says, and she pulls him to her, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing him into her chest. He holds her for as long as she needs, kissing her sweetly.

When she’s caught her breath, she kisses him hard, her hand reaching for his trousers, where she knows he still sports a strain against the fabric, and he sucks in a breath.

“Ah—not that—not quite yet.” He stutters, moving her hand but pressing himself against her again. “I won’t last very long at all if I let your hands anywhere near that. Later,”

He sits up, pressing against his groin with his palm.

“Can I see it, then?” She asks. “You’ve seen all of me, but I haven’t seen all of you.”

“Can you—yes, fuck, of course.” He says, quickly unzipping his trousers.

He pulls his underwear down, and his cock springs free, the tip flushed bright red against his pale skin. The shaft is veiny and thick, and she’s never seen another cock in real life, but it looks…substantial. He takes it in hand and strokes it once, twice, his eyes never leaving her.

“Draco, I…will you…?” She asks, eyeing his erection. He crawls back over her, pressing kisses to her cheeks, her lips.

“Gods, Hermione—are you sure?” He asks between presses of his lips to her skin. She can feel him throbbing against her leg, his hips thrusting slightly, but he still holds himself back.

“Yes, Draco, please.” She whispers. “I…I want it to be you.”

He sighs shakily into her neck.

“O-okay. Yeah, okay.” he shifts, and then she can feel his cock at her entrance. She looks down and watches as he rubs it along her seam, the head sliding through her wetness from his ministrations.

“It might hurt,” He says. “Actually, it probably will hurt for a little.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve…heard that.”

“Do you trust me?” He asks, and she nods.
“Of course I do.”

He moves again, positioning himself at her entrance. She sees him press forward, and then he’s notched inside of her, slowly cracking her open. She gasps as she feels herself stretch to accommodate him, as she feels the burn she’s heard so much about.

“Alright?” He grunts, tearing his eyes from where he’s currently entering her to look up at her face. She nods, and he presses further, and she wonders distantly how much more can there be?

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs. She looks down, and his hips are flush with hers, and she registers the novel feeling of fullness. It’s unbelievably erotic, even if it’s a little painful.

“You can…you can move,” she sighs, taking a few deep breaths.

He pulls out just as slowly as he went in, and she gasps. When he pushes again, the burn is still there, but it feels less noticeable. He leans down and presses a kiss to her lips.

“Fuck, you feel incredible. Like you were made for me.” He says reverently, picking up the pace.

He moves his hand under her knee and pulls her leg forward, towards her chest. The angle adjustment makes her gasp; he feels, impossibly, deeper, and Hermione starts to feel the beginnings of pleasure lick up her spine.

He looks so beautiful like this: the flush of his cheeks, the shifting of corded muscles under scarred skin, the look of his hand curled against her thigh, the lock of hair curling on his forehead—all of it, as if it were perfectly designed to please her.

If she could choose a moment from the evening and revisit it at will, this is the moment she would pick. If she could sink into the feeling of his heavy-lidded, lust-ridden gaze searing her skin, she would.

She can feel the moment’s importance; she knows no one else will ever look at her like this.

His cock slides against her walls again, and she cries out, the tip of him pressing against something incredible inside of her. He thrusts harder, deeper, longer, and she moans against his shoulder.

“I’m not going to last much longer,” he groans with another press against her. “Where can I…?”

“Oh,” she says breathily, dumbly. She hadn’t thought about that.

“I’m—“ she starts, sighing as he tweaks her nipple while he enters her. “—Oh fuck—I have a muggle contraceptive,” —a gasp, air escaping her lips— “so, if—“ his hand slides down her ribcage, sending shivers across her skin. “if you wanted to, you could — fuck, Draco — inside me —“ she sputters finally.

She watches his slate-grey eyes widen, his whole body shudder; it’s as if the mere suggestion has nearly brought him to completion.

“Fuck—really? Are you certain?” She nods, and he pushes into her with even more fervor, his brows furrowing, his words unraveling.

“You’re a dream—Gods, I’ve never—not inside—“ he’s sputtering, clearly near his limit. “—and with you—incredible—fuck, Hermione.”

His hips thrust once, twice, and he spills himself inside of her, a long moan escaping from his lips. His forearms cage her head, and he kisses her messily, his cock still pulsing against her walls.

They stay like that for a moment, their kiss softening into something sweeter, deeper. He’s still inside of her, his chest still heaving against hers, but she doesn’t care, because his lips are telling her more than any words.

After either seconds or hours or days, he pulls back and presses his forehead against hers.

“I’m going to pull out.” He says, and she nods. He removes himself from her, and the sensation is a bit jarring; she’s sore, and he’d been in there for a fair bit. She’d sort of enjoyed the feeling of him, even softening.

He swings his legs off the side of the bed and stands, and she takes the brief moment his back is turned to appreciate his backside. He turns to face her and holds out a hand.

“I’m going to wash up. Would you like to join me?” He asks, and stands too.

They step under the hot rush of water together, and he takes his time gently passing a bar of soap across her shoulders, down her arms, over her chest, between her thighs, and so on. He washes her hair, his fingers nimble and attentive, and she sighs.

“I opened the locket,” He says as his hands pull the last dregs of soap from her curls.

“You…did?” She responds, her thoughts sluggish, trying to catch up with his words.

“Yes.” he’s detangling her hair now, and she shivers. “These are your parents, I assume?”

“Yes,” she replies. Her brain brings images of her mother and father, lost to war and to memory, to the forefront of her mind. Her chest feels tight, but his hands along her shoulders loosen it slightly. He presses his thumbs into her shoulderblades, working a knot under her skin.

“When did you open it?” She asks.

“After Leeds.”

“Oh,” she says. That night had felt substantial for her, too. “Why?”

“I wanted to know what was important enough to you to keep it so close to your chest.”

His hands shift to massage her scalp, and she feels the tension from years of fighting, of running, of worrying, slowly start to release itself from her body. She relaxes into his touch, her back pressing against his chest. She feels nearly complete.

“Why did you wear it? You could have kept it in your pocket.” She asks eventually, holding her breath. He turns her, the shower spray blocked by his broad form.

“For the same reason you did.” He says, his fingers tracing her collarbone. They land on her copy of the necklace she’s had since she was eleven, sliding along the engraved H. He looks up from her skin, and his gaze is so sincere, so intentional, she feels rooted to the spot. When he speaks, it’s soft, and it frees the birds fluttering in her ribcage.

“I had something important enough to me to keep it close to my chest.”

As he presses kisses to her neck, her ear, her shoulder, and murmurs words of adoration against her skin, she realizes she has never felt so safe in her entire life.

He lowers onto his knees and presses her against the shower wall, ringing another orgasm from her with his lips and his teeth against her cunt. She watches him; his wet hair plastered to his forehead, eyes as dark as they were when he was inside of her, his cock back at full attention just from pleasuring her, and she moans his name as she comes.

He patiently shows her how he likes to be taken in her mouth, and they leave the shower so exhausted that they fall asleep moments after they collapse into the bed together.

She wakes to an arm curled around her side, a chest pressed against her back. It is the first time in nearly three years that she’s fully slept through the night.

When they’re fully dressed and have eaten breakfast (she will have to do something about the elf presence, but not right now), she takes his hand and looks up into his eyes.

“Are you ready?” She asks. He still looks apprehensive; when they talked that morning, he’d wanted to stay another day, to live in their bubble for a bit longer. He worries about how the others will react to him. To them, together.

But he trusts her. He’s always trusted her, he says.

He doesn’t look excited, but she is, so he nods.

“Of course, love.” He says. She smiles as she lifts her wand, preparing to apparate.

“Let’s go home, then.”

Notes:

Thank you for making it this far! I already miss this Hermione and Draco, so I hope you enjoyed them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

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The Locket

killaren

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