A Game of High Stakes

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/39620463.

Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandom:

Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Relationships:

Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Harry Potter, Unrevealed Pairing

Characters:

Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Theodore Nott, Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Cassius Warrington, Narcissa Black Malfoy, Marcus Flint, Corban Yaxley, Penelope Clearwater, Percy Weasley, Luna Lovegood, George Weasley, Lucius Malfoy, Adrian Pucey

Additional Tags:

Minor Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Violence, Blood and Injury, Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Murder, War, Weapons, Curses and spells, Battle, Hurt/Comfort, Assassination, Secret Background Pairing, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Consent, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Rough Kissing, Masturbation, Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Slow Burn, Glacial Burn, Enemies to Lovers, assassins to lovers, Dark Draco Malfoy, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Morally Ambiguous Character, Morally Grey Hermione Granger, Morally Grey Draco Malfoy, Ruthless Characters, Dark Magic, Dark Magic Rituals (Harry Potter), Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Corrupted Leadership, Marriage of Convenience, Magical Bonds, binding spells, Strategy & Tactics, Heavy Angst, Angst and Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Pining, Found Family

Language:

English

Collections:

I want to read this … but it’s a WIP, Dramioneotp, WIP Dramione Masterlist, WIPs I’m still reading, Dramione WIP, My (infinite) Dramione TBR, Reread these Promising Works when Complete 📖, WIPs, Cherry on Top, Abusing the 'Morally Grey Draco Malfoy' Tag 🤠, Elite Dramione

Stats:

Published: 2022-06-14 Completed: 2023-06-13 Words: 263,110 Chapters: 51/51

A Game of High Stakes

by In_Dreams

Summary

In theory, the task is simple: kill Draco Malfoy. In practice, putting a curse through the Dark Lord's favoured lieutenant will take everything Hermione has―especially since he's trying to kill her, too. Even more so when the lines between them start to blur. Sometimes, the only way out is through.

Notes

Hi everyone! Welcome to A Game of High Stakes - a war AU that begins roughly five years after a canon divergence at the Battle of Hogwarts. I've been working on this story for almost a year, and I'm so excited to begin sharing it. This story is going to be a long, wild ride, and I hope you enjoy it! A large portion of this fic is already written, so you can expect regular updates.

There isn't anything too graphic here, but please do mind the tags.

The amazing people who have helped prepare this fic are my lovely alpha, kyonomiko, and my wonderful beta, sweetestsorrows.

This incredible cover art was commissioned from the amazingly talented ectoheart. Please check out her content on instagram.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"You'll die before your knife reaches home." The hissed words caress her ear, cruel and teasing and without a hint of warmth.

Hermione's hand doesn't shake—it hasn't in years—even with his wand tip at her temple.

In a flicker of an instant, she weighs the odds.

The tip of her dagger is at his throat, a trickle of blood breaking from the puncture and sliding, insidious, down the alabaster column of his throat.

She knows he's right; if she kills him, he will take her out too. She could cut his throat and spill his blood in a swift movement, but the jolting tell of his magic will crash down upon her.

They're at an impasse, and it isn't the first time.

Hermione has long known Voldemort wants her dead. She's even known that it's him who's been tasked to take her out. It might be amusing if her death didn't currently hang on the tip of his wand, some sort of strange irony she might enjoy under other circumstances.

On the other hand, it's a little flattering.

Draco Malfoy, one of the highest ranked lieutenants in the Dark Lord's forces. A Death Eater of the inner circle. He's come a long way from the frightened sixteen-year-old she remembers from Hogwarts.

The petulant little boy he had been.

She can see the hardened weariness that she knows so well in his grey eyes through the silver and black mask. Can hear the anger, raw and unfettered, in his voice.

He hates her—wants her dead. Almost as much as she does him.

It might be a twisted game if not for the fact that any day could be her last.

She can see it in his eyes, now—the way he would kill her in an instant, without hesitation or remorse.

But he knows her, too. They've been at this for months now, tracking one another, threatening to end the other's existence.

And he knows she won't hesitate either.

She can see the same careful weighing of the situation, can feel the press of his wand tip to her brow.

He stands over her by nearly a foot, and his stature would be imposing if she weren't so well trained.

They come to the same conclusion at once. His grip falters—only for an instant—as she shifts her hold on the dagger.

Their eyes meet.

"Watch your back," she snaps, close enough to scent the peppermint on his breath.

A whiz of magic skims her robes as she Disapparates.

Back at the resistance safehouse where she currently lives, Hermione allows herself the deep breath she never could have taken in front of Malfoy.

Every day, her life is at risk.

Most of the time, she knows she can win.

She can cast better than most of the Death Eaters, outrun and outmanoeuvre. Hard lessons learned through the painful years since the Battle of Hogwarts went south.

They'd made it out but only just.

And every day she survives is another gift.

She knows better than to let her guard down—but somehow Malfoy continues to find her. It's only a matter of time before one of them catches the other unaware and ends the game at last.

Or so she's been telling herself for months.

If any of the Death Eaters are on her level, it's Malfoy. Unfortunately, since they've been after one another for so long they've learned the intricacies, the tells, the vulnerabilities that drive the other. The strengths.

To underestimate him will lead almost certainly to her own demise.

Remnants of the Order, a key component of the new resistance, are holed up in a small, rundown safehouse in a rural area beyond the outskirts of Bristol. Privacy has long been a thing of the past, but still, Hermione hates the stares as she stalks through the door, unsuccessful yet again.

Idly, she wonders when they'll tire of her attempts and remove her from the task.

She can feel Warrington's cold judgement as she walks past, rolling the day's strain from her shoulders. Tries and fails to miss Harry's disappointment.

Everything has felt especially dire in the last few months since a routine raid went horribly wrong, their already depleted numbers suffering a great loss. Since they'd lost many friends and allies.

Hermione strides past them all, seeking the small room she's lucky to call hers though it's little more than a closet with a cot and a small table for her few meagre possessions. She hangs her pack on a hook on the wall, pulling her hair from its tight bun and massaging the beginnings of a headache at her temples.

Harry walks in without so much as a knock but she's used to it. "Nothing?" he asks. "Did you find him?"

She wouldn't lie to him, even if she didn't know better. They haven't carried lies or misdirection against each other for years. Since they lost Ron, they're all the other has.

Allowing herself to be vulnerable with anyone else stings, a harsh burn in her chest that goes against every newly ingrained instinct.

"I found him," she allows at last, pulling her dirt and blood-soiled singlet over her head, though the sports bra beneath is little better. Stretches out her arms and shoulders before drawing her dagger from its holster and sinking cross-legged to her bed. For a second, she eyes the dried blood on its pointed tip. "But he found me first."

Harry curses under his breath, leaning back against the wall. "Did he harm you?"

"No." Not for any lack of trying on his part. She knows Malfoy's Crucio implicitly within every nerve, and it's a small blessing she wasn't subjected to it today. "But I didn't get anything from him." She releases a long, put-upon sigh. "You know if I don't catch him soon Cassius and Kingsley are going to decide my usefulness has run its course."

Once, Harry might have opposed the thought. But he remains silent, green eyes locked on the wall behind her bed.

Everyone's changed, and mostly for the worst.

"It just seems..." Harry trails off, squaring his jaw. "He's too well prepared. It's hard to believe you can't catch him off his guard."

"Malfoy only exists in one state: guarded."

They ponder the thought for a moment, and Hermione doesn't care for the shiver that races down her spine at the thought that he might be in possession of inside information. They would be foolish not to consider the idea, though. Blind optimism has cost them too much.

Hermione knows exactly what's on Harry's mind when he gives her a grim look. "Maybe you're right. And if he weren't so important, I'd think we should change tactics."

The unspoken conclusion weighs thick in the air between them. Malfoy knows too much, and he's one of the only Death Eater lieutenants who regularly leaves their headquarters without a squadron at his flank. To attack the rest would be akin to inviting slaughter on their own feeble forces.

He operates alone—like Hermione.

But to take him out would be a fierce blow to the opposition. No one knows exactly how, but Malfoy's become one of the only soldiers Voldemort trusts with his plans.

Hermione dreams of his blood blooming in a pool and seeping into the hard earth, his grey eyes open and dulled, wand rolling free of his lifeless fingertips.

And she knows his dreams are likely the same, after so long.

"You'll get him," Harry says at last, sinking into the end of the bed. Sweeps an aggravated hand through his hair. "I'm leading a raid into Bristol. Kings' orders."

Hermione schools her surprise by dipping a cloth into the tabletop basin and cleans the blood from her knife. "How many?"

"Four of us. That's all we can spare right now."

The number sounds inadequate to her ears, when the raid they'd lost numbered over a dozen. She hums in response. "When will you return?"

"Tomorrow." Harry shrugs, adjusts his glasses. He would hate to know he's so obvious, but she notes the slight tremble in his fingers at the nervous tic. "Provided everything goes to plan."

"I'll come," she offers. "If the pattern holds, I won't have another shot at Malfoy for at least another week."

"You don't know the pattern will hold."

She recognises the words as direct from Kingsley's mouth, but says nothing. She knows better than to argue, even if she hates how futile it makes her. Rummaging in her bag, Hermione draws a whetstone and begins to sharpen the blade for lack of anything else to do with her hands. The blade is still sharp enough to cut clean through flesh, but she never knows how to sit still anymore.

Hasn't for a long time.

"Let me know when you're back," is all she says.

"Right." Harry rises from the bed with a nod. When he squares his shoulders, he shifts from friend to soldier, much as she knows she must when she dons her gear. The time for carefree laughs and easy camaraderie is long past. "Watch yourself."

"And you," she returns quietly, after the door's closed behind him.

The leaves crunch beneath his boots, and the air carries an uneasy chill. Draco is frustrated but not surprised. He's already tensed for the punishment that is to come.

Another day—another failure.

He promised himself—and others—long ago that he would be the one to put down the brains of the resistance. Where the rest of them are brute and brawn, Granger remains the same brilliant mind she has always been, if not a hell of a lot more ruthless.

It will be his pleasure to put her out of her misery at last. The knives strapped to his thigh and hip would readily draw her blood, but there's always been a certain finesse behind magical means over Muggle.

A sneer curls his lips at the thought.

He slides through the wards of the manor, a shiver of magic darting down his spine. Some days he basks in it, the feel of the ancient wards welcoming him home. Other times it feels cold, insidious; he braces himself for what comes next.

He's proven his worth over the years, but his master has little tolerance for failure. He grinds his teeth, twirls his wand and holsters it, carefully schooling his expression.

How Granger remains a step ahead of him is a mystery—but one thing is for certain. He's been assigned to take her out, and he intends to fulfil that oath. The Mark on his forearm already burns, an intermittent but persistent sting; the Dark Lord is angry.

Draco's steps don't falter.

As one of the Dark Lord's highest ranking enforcers, he's doled out more than his share of punishments, and he knows it's always worse if the recipient fights.

By the time he arrives in the hall and approaches the dais upon which his master sits, he's passed several Death Eaters, most of whom are doing their best to avoid the room. He removes his hood and mask, and ducks his head in a bow.

When he looks up to meet his master's narrowed red gaze, he keeps his expression blank.

"Draco."

He remains silent.

"Tell me you have good news for us today."

A handful of Death Eaters are present, but the room is otherwise empty. Draco spies Yaxley watching and fights the urge to sneer. "I caught Granger, my lord—but she was prepared for me. If I had moved for her life she would have been in position to claim mine as well."

The Dark Lord's expression tightens, deeply displeased. He steeples his fingers. "I see." A tense silence characterises the room, but Draco knows better than to look away or fidget. "And did it occur to you, Draco, that Hermione Granger dead is of more value to me than you alive?"

He refrains from flinching.

Despite everything he's done—the despicable, unmentionable atrocities—on his lord's behalf, Draco suffers no delusions as to any perceived value he might offer.

"I apologise, My Lord," he merely says, ducking his chin again.

"If I didn't know better," the Dark Lord presses on, "I might suspect you've left her alive out of weakness or mercy."

The accusation stings. "I assure you, I am doing everything in my power to remove her from the equation."

"And yet, she continues to best you."

If she had truly bested him, even once, Draco wouldn't still be here. Again, he opts to let the remark slide. "I will get her, My Lord. It is only a matter of time. I've learned her methods and I know where to find her next."

He can sense the Dark Lord has already tired of the conversation, and Draco straightens his shoulders, steeling his resolve.

"You have two months." The cold words sink in, seeping through Draco's skin and into his bones. "And if you do not give me evidence as to Miss Granger's demise, it will be your death providing the entertainment instead."

Dread settles within him, courses through his veins like ice, and he nods. "Of course, My Lord." He ducks his chin, clasping his mask in unsteady hands.

Two months.

They've circled each other like lions on the prowl for longer.

Draco swallows, straightens his shoulders, and meets his master's deadened eyes. "You are far too generous."

He doesn't allow a sound when the first Crucio hits.

A strange tension carries Hermione through her days.

The raid into Bristol comes back late, and it's all too easy to slip into worst case scenarios these days as the resistance's ranks grow thinner. She doesn't know how to express herself most of the time anymore, but the relief was all-encompassing when she saw Harry's messy hair slip through the door.

She feels as though the war hangs on a knife's edge, each day shifting towards something she can't comprehend. Something that doesn't even make sense anymore.

They had been so sure of their path, early on. But as the weeks, months, years slip past, Hermione continues to lose sight of what matters most. As she watches friends and comrades fall; as the deadly spells slip from her wand with an ease and frequency that would have frightened her once.

The Order had no choice early on but to fight fire with fire—to become as ruthless as the competition. Even so, the ideals that once led them dissolved on the wind into the scraps that now comprise the resistance.

It's the reason her knife has seen so many shades of blood.

She slips from the cramped safehouse one morning before the sun crests the horizon, a satchel with provisions on her back, knives and wand at the ready. She's tired of failures and near misses, and she knows where to find her mark.

On the third Tuesday of every month, he meets in private with an informant—one of the roaming mercenaries who offer no loyalty to the Death Eaters or the resistance but to the power of the almighty Galleon.

Hermione's fingers tingle with the need for action, adrenaline nudging at her as it swells in her veins.

Imbued with as many concealing, disillusionment, and protective spells as she knows, Hermione watches the exchange from a nearby rooftop. She can't hear the conversation, but it's a small price to pay in exchange for a clear shot. She detects innumerable glamours obscuring the informant's features; a professional, then. It's unsurprising.

At last they break apart, and her gaze tracks Malfoy as he begins to walk away. She follows his smooth gait, observes the hint of pale blond hair peeking out from his hood. The intricate silver swirls on his mask.

Even if she didn't know his identity, she would recognise the way he carries himself. She's more familiar with the man than she cares for. Disgust curls her lip as she watches him begin down the road, a hint of swagger in his step.

As the strength of the resistance wanes, the Death Eaters grow increasingly emboldened. It doesn't surprise her to see him out in the open—or a modicum of it, at least. The rendezvous is on private land, but the wards aren't nearly comprehensive enough.

Clutching her wand in one hand and dagger in the other, Hermione debates her plan of attack. After she found herself at his wand point the week before, she isn't keen for another showdown.

She could simply hit him with a spell and be done with it. It almost seems an anticlimactic end to the long play in which they've been engaged.

Malfoy continues down the road, his gaze fixed in the opposite direction, and she's just decided his end can be mediocre and nondescript—like him. But in the split seconds wherein she considers her plan, she falters.

A bolt of green magic shoots past her.

She didn't even see him make a move for his wand.

Then he's staring in her direction, slipping his mask up to rest on the top of his head, as cavalier as she's ever seen him. She knows he can't see through her disillusionment, but it wouldn't be the first time he's detected her in hiding.

"Honestly, Granger," he drawls, twirling his wand. "You're losing your touch if you think I didn't know you were there all along. Luckily, I don't care what you heard because it's all irrelevant—" He pauses, whether in consideration or for effect, she doesn't know. "And you're not making it out of here anyway."

Another whiz of magic—red this time—skirts past her and clips the outside of her arm, singeing her sleeve and drawing a hiss from her teeth as it burns her flesh.

It's a disastrous, instinctive mistake, as he's drastically narrowed down her location. Cautiously, Hermione rounds to the opposite corner of the rooftop, ensuring her protective spells are in place.

Malfoy smiles, close-lipped, as if in mild enjoyment of her pain.

"Really," he carries on, oblivious to the one-sided nature of the conversation. "You've got me at a disadvantage, haven't you?"

His gleaming eyes bely the game.

Hermione fires a stunner; he throws up a shield just in time and her spell ricochets off the corner of the building, leaving a crumbled pile of stone in its wake. While Malfoy peers up at the rooftop, Hermione twists into a silent Apparition to the ground behind the building, observing him from around the corner.

He's kept the shielding spell erect, strong enough to deflect any spell she casts.

"If you think I don't know by now how you operate…" he muses, a hint of cruel humour curling his lips. "I must confess, Granger, I'm not in the mood today."

In a sudden, relentless sting, a barrage of spells flies from his wand, shooting straight towards her. Hermione manages to dodge the first two before she raises a shield of her own, and the rest glance harmlessly off.

The war has crept into this part of London, and the land is part of an old factory district that's been abandoned. Most of the buildings already show the ravages of war.

Sometimes she wonders what sort of magic conceals it all from Muggle eyes, but most of the time she has more pressing concerns.

Without waiting for him to make another move, Hermione leaps into action, firing a lethal string of her own spells—and while Malfoy deflects them one by one with startling accuracy, she takes aim and throws her blade.

It's sheer dumb luck she misses his heart with the slashing arc of his wand arm. Instead, the dagger embeds itself deep in his forearm, and he blinks in surprise before he draws it free.

Hermione holds a breath while he stares, only for a moment, at the glisten of his blood on the blade. He casts a spell she can't hear—some sort of healing spell—and releases a huff.

"Nice throw, Granger."

Then he Disapparates.

Before she has a chance to tense and track him, she feels the cool silver of her dagger against her throat and her concealing spells dissolve as though they were nothing. She feels the firm press of Malfoy at her back, the warmth of his breath on her jaw. His other arm locks firmly around her midsection, trapping her wand arm against her torso.

In a flash, her heart rate leaps, adrenaline pounding behind her ears.

"You know," Malfoy says, the words little more than a purr in her ear. He drags the tip of the dagger along her skin, still wet with his blood, but he doesn't break skin. "You've caused me an awful lot of trouble. Maybe I'll use this pretty blade to deliver your head on a pike."

Her stomach curdles with revulsion as she tries to jerk free. His arm only tightens.

Malfoy has always been tall—even at Hogwarts—but he's filled out more than she even realised, and his grip on her doesn't falter. She can feel the hard bulk of muscle against her back, and the proximity to her sworn nemesis makes her nauseous.

"But there's a part of me that really wants to make you suffer—for old time's sake."

He tilts the blade just so, the tip of it breaking her skin.

"Surprised you'd allow your blood to touch mine," she hisses, her fear and anger combining into white hot fury and threatening to break free. Raw power stirs in her fingertips, even as her wand lies useless against her stomach.

She can't see his face but she can imagine the smirk. He drags the tip of her blade just a little further, away from the rich veins in her throat that would have her bleeding out in moments, and down along the line of her collar. It doesn't surprise her that Malfoy likes to play with his food.

"I'll let you in on a secret, Granger," he says, his voice dropping low. "This isn't about your blood. It's more personal than that. I just despise you."

"It's mutual," she growls. A trickle of blood slides down her collarbone. The toe of Malfoy's boot nudges against her heel and she steadies her breathing, taking stock of the situation as she gathers a coil of raw magic within her. "Maybe the reason I've caused you so much trouble is because you don't actually want to kill me—otherwise you'd have done so already."

He drifts the knife towards her heart, pressing the tip gently into her skin. "Oh, I'm going to kill you—and I'm going to enjoy it."

She can't tell if he's bluffing, but she can't imagine a reason why he would lie. As much as he's been atop her list, she knows the inverse is also true. "Then do it," she murmurs, sliding her eyes shut. She flexes her empty palm, magic accumulating in her fingers, pulse raging within her.

In one swift move, Malfoy wrenches her wand free from where he's had it trapped and spins her, pressing her back to the wall. His grey eyes flash as he assesses her. He's got her blade trained on her and both wands; triumph dances in his face.

"I must admit, Granger, you've been a worthy adversary. Seems a shame to spill your blood in so pedestrian a manner." Keeping the blade against her chest, drawing her blood with a bite, he stows her wand into his holster—a trophy no doubt—and manoeuvres his own into a proper grip. He jams the tip up into the underside of her jaw, the amusement falling from his face. "Goodbye, Granger. Avada Ked—"

"A shame," she says, holding his stare when he falters. "I would have thought you'd at least try to torture me for information."

Malfoy smirks. "I don't need information from you. All I need is your death." He lowers his voice, the narrow wand tip harsh and uncomfortable against the tender skin. "Besides, I already know you won't succumb to torture—remember?"

She remembers. She manages to keep her face blank at the memory of his particular brand of searing hatred. Sometimes she still has nightmares about it.

"Like I said," she whispers, "a shame."

At that, his eyes narrow. She almost thinks his lips twitch with a hint of bemusement. He makes a show of checking his watch, as if he has someone else to track down and murder before sundown. "Fine. Why is it a shame?"

His wand hand never wavers; he's too good for that. Hermione knows if she makes a move for her wand, he'll forgo indulging her tactics entirely and put an end to this; she holds perfectly still, a trickle of her own blood sticky as it blooms into her shirt.

"Because," she whispers, searching the silver flecks in his grey eyes. "I thought you knew better than to underestimate me by now."

At once, she fires the bolt of raw magic into his dragonhide boot, searing through the leather, and, seizing his momentary distraction, twists her other wrist to summon her wand from where he's stowed it in his holster.

By the time her fingers curl around the wand, he's fired off no fewer than three spells, and Hermione ducks to the side, swinging one arm wildly to erect a feeble shield as she shoots a string of lethality back at him.

In a split second, they've gone from tentative peace to an all out duel. Hermione's adrenaline builds into laser focus, their magic flowing together in a dance with which she's familiar.

They've been here before—more times than she can count. She might almost consider him her best duelling partner if the situation weren't so convoluted.

She catches his side with a spell, the angry sizzle of burnt fabric and skin filling the air, but he doesn't flinch as he blocks her next hex with cruel efficiency and throws something in an ugly shade of purple back at her which she narrowly avoids.

Hermione knows she could Disapparate and they could have this fight again another day, in another place.

But she's tired.

They've been caught in this impasse for longer than she wants to consider, and cold fury coils within her with each spell, relentless and persistent, her magic a deadly, explosive force. Caught in a duel, everything becomes instinctive, her training brought to life with a living target before her.

Malfoy's gaze tightens with focus, his footwork sure and casting impeccable. She might almost admire him if he weren't trying to kill her.

If each spell that flew by or deflected on her shields wasn't designed to inflict exquisite torture and death.

The taunting on both sides is gone, replaced by this, the drive to survive, the desire to end. Hermione wants nothing more than Draco Malfoy, cold and unmoving on the ground before her.

Raw magic spirals within her and before she recognises the strength of it, she fires a devastating blow from her bare palm in tandem with the block from her wand.

Caught by surprise, Malfoy is blasted back, and she sees the momentary surprise in his face as he stumbles. It's enough to cost him.

Hermione darts forward, seizing the opportunity, a death curse already hanging on her lips. She jams her wand into his heart, heavy, seizing breaths falling from her lips. His chest heaves with the exertion, and she can read the question in his eyes, even as it mingles with resignation.

"You can't honestly tell me you like serving that sociopath," Hermione huffs, grappling for his wand. "You, born into privilege."

She isn't certain, but maybe if she tries to imagine she's doing him a favour, it'll be easier to put him down. As much as she hates him, they've been embroiled in this mess for so long that there's a sort of kinship in their hatred of each other.

For a flicker of an instant, something passes through his gaze that she's never seen before. A furrow knits the skin between his brow. She can't tell if his reaction is a response to her words or to the fact that she's bested him.

But he only shakes his head, tiny, infinitesimal. "You don't know a fucking thing."

As she opens her mouth, scrounging for courage, she suddenly freezes. Her chest is unbearably tight and she can't manage to draw breath. Her eyes flicker down and she sees his hand coiled into a fist, his grey eyes dull and deadened as he squeezes tighter.

What little oxygen remains in her lungs gutters. Her vision begins to swim as he holds his grip firm, as she suffocates on nothing.

True fear darts through her for the first time since the altercation began. The strength vanishes from her hand, and he easily reclaims his wand but leaves hers alone. Something like a flicker of resignation passes over his face.

As she feels herself begin to black out, her lungs desperate for breath, he finally releases. Hermione sucks in a great, heaving breath.

And they only stare at each other. Malfoy's hands hang loose at his sides, but his wand is still aimed vaguely towards her. He looks as though he might say something, but he secures his mask back in place on his face. With a step backwards, his gaze locks on her once more.

He snarls, "You fucking owe me, Granger." Then, before her confusion can fully register, she hears a soft, "Stupefy," and the world goes dark.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading! It's my birthday today, so I thought it would be fun to share the first chapter of this fic. I hope you liked it! xoxo

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Every so often, Draco tries to remember what his existence was like before his life was on the line every day. When things were simpler and he was allowed to indulge mindless worries about Quidditch, schoolwork, girls.

Sometimes he can't recall a day when he didn't face heavy spellfire, bound and determined to snuff the life force from him at last. Some days, Draco thinks it would just be simpler that way. He wonders whether he doesn't deserve it.

A barrage of magic shoots past, searing imprints of colour on the insides of his eyelids. Without looking back, he fires a lethal bolt over his shoulder. Feels the dull shudder pass through him when his spell claims its victim.

A flash of neon green chases by in retaliation.

Adrenaline has become his constant companion, and Draco scarcely sleeps anymore. He carries too heavy a load.

Draco longs for peace, some days, and yet he mongers war. When he wants to run, to leave it all behind, he doubles down instead.

Steals a life. Another. Watches the light leave yet another set of eyes, until the faces of those he's killed are a blur in the back of his mind, steady and unrelenting. They haunt his waking moments and encroach upon his dreams.

Ducking for cover, Draco takes stock of the situation. Despite the resistance's waning numbers, they've been bolder than ever, and there have been a handful of large ambushes like this one over the last fortnight. He wonders what's changed, even as he doesn't care.

His side has the upper hand—they usually do. But the remnants of what was once the Order of the Phoenix carry no such moral reservations as they once possessed.

He sees some of his own on the ground, masks askew and bodies motionless. The inner circle will be a disaster tonight—to say nothing of the Dark Lord's displeasure. Draco allows his gaze to flit from one to the next, taking stock of the fallen by the masks they wear.

Travers. McConnell. Goyle Senior.

It's cold and clinical, because he can't allow anything else.

From his stolen vantage point, Draco's almost entirely concealed, allowing him a chance to observe. Against his better judgement, he finds himself searching out a certain form, watching for the riot of messy curls.

He doesn't know why he let Granger live the week before. It was a mistake, he knew as much even as he left that day, her body small and motionless at his feet. For a moment, he'd almost been able to pretend she didn't want him dead—but it was the best shot he'd had in months and he'd blown it. Not only that, but he'd shown weakness—and he knows better than to think she won't take advantage of it.

The thought of having exposed any small measure of vulnerability leaves him feeling ill—and it wasn't small by any means.

If he can simply spot her today and remove the element of their private chase altogether, it will be preferable. A clean shot to still her heart and he can move on at last.

He thinks he spots her, deep within the resistance's ranks, though he'd be stupid to think it's because she isn't a strong duelist. If anything it's the opposite, and they're unwilling to lose her.

Blast it all—he doesn't care if he takes out half a dozen others with her. Draco contemplates what sort of spell he could cast to reach her and ensure he claims her life. After all this time, he would feel robbed if someone else were to take the kill from him.

Draco doesn't see Potter—never does.

No one's certain whether Potter's even still alive, because he's never sighted at the battles. Not that it matters anymore—whatever magic bound Potter to the Dark Lord was destroyed at the Battle of Hogwarts with the rest of his Horcruxes. Maybe it's why Granger is always alone.

Potter's relevance to the cause now is simply as another fighter, just like the whole miserable lot of them.

Shifting through the trees and keeping a careful eye on his mark, Draco selects a spell and prepares to cast.

But then he sees a flash of green in the sky—the Dark Mark. Feels the burn in his forearm and cusses under his breath. Around him Death Eaters Disapparate, and begrudgingly, Draco follows, another opportunity missed.

"So," Theo prompts, lounging on the chaise in Draco's sitting quarters. "Granger's still alive."

Releasing an even breath, Draco squares his jaw. "She is."

"Any particular reason why?"

It's a sore spot—increasingly so by the day—and Draco isn't keen to talk about it, even with Theo. He can't even count how many torture curses he's taken over the matter anymore. "She's good, Theo. It's just taking time."

"A long fucking time." Theo cocks a brow, looking at Draco in that peculiar way, as if attempting to read his mind. Draco ensures his Occlumency shields are intact out of instinct even though he never lets them down anymore. "She can't be that much better than you. It isn't a matter of killing her with honour, Draco. You're one of the highest ranked lieutenants for a reason—just shoot an Avada at her spine and be done with it."

The flippancy in Theo's words grinds, if for no reason other than that Draco's told himself the same thing so many times. "I will."

The serrated edge to his tone would be enough for anyone else to shut up—anyone but Theodore Nott.

"I mean, mate... if you've got some other motive for keeping her alive—"

"I don't," Draco snaps. A heavy silence hangs in the room and he regrets the sudden intensity behind the words. "She's going to die. I'm just having a little fun with her first."

"Fun, eh?" Theo smirks.

"Not like that."

The thought makes his stomach churn. No matter what else he's done as a Death Eater, that's a line he will never cross.

Draco doesn't care for the look on Theo's face: smug and a little too knowing, as if he thinks he can goad Draco into something.

"At any rate," he says at last, leaning back in his seat. "It'll happen soon and I'll finally be rid of her."

"Because if you don't," Theo taunts, grin widening, "you're going to be in deep shit. Don't tell me the rumours are true."

He says nothing. He doesn't want to admit that not only his position in the inner circle but his own life hangs in the balance. Theo isn't a member of the inner circle—he shouldn't know anything about it, and the very fact that it's a rumour stirs his blood with heat.

So Draco just shrugs. "I don't follow the rumours. We aren't at Hogwarts anymore."

"So you aren't under the wand on a countdown."

Merlin, Theo's his oldest friend, but some days Draco wants to break his jaw so he can't keep talking. He keeps his face stoic but for a flicker of one brow. "No idea what you're talking about. And if you want to stay alive, keep your fucking mouth shut."

At that, Theo pales.

Their camaraderie only stretches so far these days, and sometimes Draco needs to remind him they aren't friends like they were as boys, careless and irreverent.

"Right." Averting his gaze, Theo drags a hand through his hair. "Well, if there's anything I can do to help."

"There isn't." The words aren't cold, simply matter-of-fact. He's expended all of the energy he can spare, and sometimes Draco despises the way his father offered the manor as a headquarters to the Death Eaters. It was the only thing his father had to offer—it's uncharitable but not untrue.

Even now, Lucius is a ghost of the man who raised him.

Draco suspects the Dark Lord keeps him alive as a gesture of goodwill to Draco himself—and he knows if he fails in this task, his master won't have any reason to keep his father around.

Although they only arrived back from the fight an hour ago and Draco hasn't even washed the dirt and blood from his robes, he rises to his feet. Anxious energy courses through him and he can't sit still. "I've got work to do."

He leaves Theo alone in his quarters to finish a bottle of the cellar's finest whisky.

Hermione can't shake the unease in her spirit and she hates it.

In all the time she's tracked Malfoy—and he her—they've been ruthless and relentless. They've tortured each other, left each other bloody and bruised and in all manners of bodily harm.

And now... she has no idea what to make of the situation. There's no denying the fact—he spared her life.

She had felt his iron grip on her lungs, suffocating the breath from her. It's dark magic, but she doesn't know the spell. He had her—he'd come out on top in their feud at last.

And yet he'd stunned her and walked away.

Hours later, she came to, alone and with a darkening sky overhead.

She owes him a life debt. Her mind still reels at the thought, and she hasn't told anyone else about what transpired between them that day, not even Harry. She despises the thought of owing Malfoy anything, let alone something so significant.

It's a war—if he truly wants her dead, he had the opportunity. If she's honest, she would forgo the matter entirely if given the chance, especially with the way his recent actions have caused her to falter. And until a few days ago, she would have thought he would seize any opportunity to get the upper hand.

A part of her dreads their next altercation.

Another part looks forward to it because she knows she can't allow the situation to grow any muddier. She refrained from attacking him at a distance out of some sort of misdirected honour—honour that isn't allowed on a field of war.

Now, despite their last duel, she craves the rush of adrenaline in her blood that comes from spotting him. The delicate swirls on his mask, the lean, assured gait. Because she knows she has to resolve this confusion that plagues her.

She can deal with damaged honour if it means he's dead once and for all.

Next time, she won't hesitate.

The next time arrives sooner than expected. Two days after the last battle between the resistance and the Death Eaters, she feels his gaze on her. She's been hunting him, the nervous energy that drives her sometimes almost too painful to bear.

When the war went south at the Battle of Hogwarts and they were forced to flee for their lives, Hermione had been undisciplined, governed by her emotions. Now, having spent years in general and specialised training, she's developed control of her strength and her magic. She's learned the intricacies of a wand and a blade—knows the steady expulsion of blood from her knife, the glimmer of magic and life released into the ether.

Death has become an intimate acquaintance, both through the loss of too many friends and at her own hand.

She knows better than to allow something like this to affect her on such a complex level.

Malfoy isn't the first Death Eater she's hunted, and Merlin willing, he won't be the last. Unless he gets to her first.

She isn't going to allow that to happen without a fight.

Drawing her wand, Hermione steels herself and scans the area ahead of her for any sign of magic. If he's approached her, he already has the upper hand, and he's likely glamoured.

To her surprise, she spies him just inside the edge of the treeline nearby. He's forgone his Death Eater robes for once, dressed in a crisp button-down shirt and tie. It's enough to jar her entirely, when she hasn't seen him without the robes and mask in ages.

Maybe he's just grown bolder; maybe alarms should flare in her mind.

It's almost enough to take her back to Hogwarts. Except that he's filled out, the lines of his face sharp and stubbled, his grey eyes dead and void as they track her.

She knows some of the Death Eaters have roles in the Ministry, ever since it fell to the corruption years back. That they come and go as they please, with little regard for anyone who might stand to publicly oppose them.

No one with any sense seeks to do such a thing anymore.

The fact that he's simply watching her leaves her on edge, but she can see through his casual stance to the wand at his side. His grip is loose but steady. Prepared.

His expression is stoic, but she wonders whether their last altercation left him as rattled as it did her.

"Come to finish me off," she announces into the yawning void between them, longing simultaneously for an explanation and to spill his blood and be done with it. "I can only imagine your master wasn't pleased you didn't kill me last time." She infuses the word with as much taunting derision as she can manage. Although some of the resistance leaders have grown cruel in their own ways, she doesn't bow to anyone.

She isn't certain whether she imagines the flinch that crosses his face—but it's gone before she can make anything of it.

"As it turns out," he drawls, twirling his wand in one hand, "my master trusts me." His emphasis is a mockery of her own. "And he knows everything I do is for a reason."

The words are quiet but carry on a breeze to embed in her mind. She carefully catalogues them away with every other bit of information she's gathered from him, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

Hermione isn't certain whether she believes him, but it's the last thing she needs to concern herself with. "And yet," she muses, "here we are again. You still haven't killed me."

"Ah," Malfoy says, cold amusement lifting his mouth. "I'm not in a rush—I know you're not going to attack me."

"Aren't I?" She throws a spell at him—something flashy but harmless enough—and though he isn't even poised to defend, he easily deflects the spell.

His grey eyes flash as they lock on hers. She isn't used to this dynamic between them, and it occurs to her that's exactly why he's changed tactics. "You aren't going to really attack me—not after I spared your life."

She wishes she could deny him—wishes she had already forsaken that last bit of human decency that lies within her.

Hermione manages to keep her voice steady. "Then what do you want?"

"I've been thinking about what you said," he says, and leans a shoulder on the nearest tree, as though this were little more than a casual conversation between friends. He waves a flippant hand. "That I should torture you for information before I kill you."

She braces, hand tightening around her wand. They've both attacked and tortured each other in previous altercations in efforts at drawing out pain and information. After years of war, she still hates the Cruciatus the most.

"But as we know," he goes on, "you'd sooner die than reveal resistance secrets."

"Truest thing you've ever said," Hermione snaps in return. His manner has left every part of her on edge and she hates it—hates the way the game has shifted between them and that she's obliging it. Hates that she doesn't know how to walk away. "And no matter what happened the other day, I'm still not telling you anything. So if you're hoping for information, you can fuck off."

He snorts.

She doesn't know Malfoy to indulge amusement, and the sound of it throws her off. For so long, he's been nothing more or less than a soldier—a nemesis whose number she keeps close. But a glimmer lights his eyes—regardless that it's at her own expense—and without his Death Eater robes, he looks almost human. Clean cut and accommodating of societal standards. Like a banker, or a model, or—she quashes the thought without allowing it to take root.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Granger." At her obvious scepticism, he rolls disdainful eyes, as though he couldn't care less what she thinks. "You don't need to believe me if you don't want to. But it's likely nothing you don't already know—I've been assigned to kill you by any means necessary."

She blinks at him. Feels unease prickle along her skin. "Of course I know that."

"See?" he taunts. "It isn't so hard to believe I'm being honest." She doesn't dignify him with a response and he doesn't wait for one, either. "Obviously, you're to be my murderer as well. It's all a little messy, isn't it?" He twirls the wand again, and she wonders whether he isn't just going to fire a streak of green light into her chest while he has her unprepared.

Still, Hermione says nothing. Skirts her gaze along the perimeter for anything that jumps out at her. For all she knows, this could be a trap.

Maybe Malfoy's finally brought reinforcements.

It would break the mould of their typical, but it's war, and she knows all too well the value in catching an opponent off their guard.

Their proximity grinds at her nerves. A cruel smirk drags at the corners of his mouth, his deadened eyes fixed on her, and Hermione fights the shudder that threatens.

She allows her feet to drift, anxious energy bubbling within her and causing her focus to slip. She doesn't know what to make of any part of this.

Now would be the time to attack. To let free a vicious storm of spellfire, overwhelming and lethal, to aim for the heart and pray to whatever deity might exist that her mark is true.

But Hermione hasn't allowed herself such an indulgence in years.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" she asks, rising to his taunt at last.

If anything, the amusement drains from his face. "I thought we'd made that clear." He blinks. "Your head on a pike. However, if we're to be doing this thing where we're both still alive, I'm going to take what I can."

Before he even finishes speaking, the first spell flies. Braced for the attack, she deflects it easily, and recognises the bitter signature of the Cruciatus as it singes into the bark of the tree nearest her.

"There is no thing," she hisses through ground teeth, firing a curse of her own.

And it's this again. Where they duel as though they aren't already familiar with each other's every move—as if they aren't each other's best training partner.

Malfoy's face remains blank, his movements swift and meticulous. "Wait." The word is startling enough that she halts—only for a second—and his gaze lands on her. He says again, a quiet huff, "Wait."

The next spell hangs on her tongue, her lips parted to speak the next debilitating curse in her arsenal of ugly, wretched things.

Gaze locked on her, Malfoy stows his wand.

For once, almost unbelievably, she finds herself with power over him. He's unarmed.

His wandless casting is proficient enough to knock her to her knees, but not to kill her. If it was, she would be dead already. It's a gamble, when there are surely things she doesn't know—but she can't cast a wandless killing curse either.

"What do you want?" she asks again, unwilling to lower her own wand.

Then Malfoy's striding towards her, towering over her, the grey in his eyes catching on her own, and the shade reminds her of a storm cloud before it's about to rain. There's something oddly disarming—something beautiful—about his eyes.

"I told you," he says, and it's almost a purr. "I want information."

Hermione's assignment isn't to gather information. It's to put him below ground. Malfoy's life is worth more to the Dark Lord on a matter of principle than anything she might glean from him, and in doing so, put her own life at risk.

As far as she knows, his task is the same.

"What's changed?" she asks, though she knows he won't tell her.

Mirth dances in those grey eyes. "The resistance has a safehouse near Harlow. You're keeping half a dozen Death Eaters prisoner. Where is it?"

He has to have gone mad. It's the only explanation. Still, Hermione snorts. "Bold of you to assume I know anything about that."

"I know you do." His face remains hard as stone, chiselled jaw a tight line. His tongue smooths the line of his teeth, white and perfectly straight, and his voice lowers. "This is what I'm offering you, Granger."

"The offer might hold some small measure of value," she says, unwilling to show her discomfort with their proximity, "if you were actually offering me anything."

The briefest flicker of a smirk drifts across his face before it's gone again. "I'm offering you your life."

"You're going to stop hunting me?"

Malfoy blinks, his eyelids remaining shut for a millisecond too long, like a moment of contemplation he can scarcely allow himself. "On Wednesdays—the third week of odd months, and the second of even months, you scope out a loop. The Ministry, St Mungo's, Buckingham fucking Palace," he whispers, the words drifting across her skin like the caress of a lover. "Friday mornings at half five, you meet with an informant. Glamours himself with dark hair and a moustache, could stand to polish his shoes more thoroughly. Approximately once a fortnight, you join supply raids, but you use them as an excuse to gather Muggle periodicals."

As he speaks, Hermione's blood goes cold. Her knuckles clench around her wand.

These are things he shouldn't know.

They're the sorts of details she doesn't know about him. And she prides herself on being the best spy the resistance has to offer.

Moreover, these are chances Malfoy could have taken to shoot a killing curse into her back. He doesn't care about honour—she knows he doesn't. She's seen members of the resistance fall to his wand, his cruel, heartless eyes simply watching on.

He didn't become one of Voldemort's most trusted for nothing.

Hermione understands what he's saying. That for all she's tried to keep her movements private and stealthy, he knows them all anyway. He knows her schedules, her routines—and he probably knows her most arbitrary movements, too.

"If you know all of this," she muses with a strain of courage she doesn't feel. Not even close. "Why haven't you done me in just to be rid of the situation?"

"I told you," Malfoy drawls, and his eyes glint with a shimmer of brightness, of madness, that embeds cold and unrelenting dread in the pit of her stomach. "My master trusts my decisions. He thinks he wants you dead."

The words chill more than she would like.

"Suppose I were to give you information."

Instantly, she regrets saying anything. That smirk—embodied by the devil himself—spreads across his face again. His eyes tighten, lids low, as though she's said something he finds scintillating. Hermione wants to look away—tries to force herself to look away.

Merlin, even threatening her with torture and death, the man doesn't have a hair out of place.

"Well," he said, the word scarcely louder than an exhale, "it would, of course, depend on the nature and the value of the information. But I suppose..." He ducks in closer still, and his breath skates the curve of her ear. "Perhaps one turn merits another."

She holds stock still, unwilling to let the revelation register in her body language.

An exchange.

He wants to barter inside information.

The dread swirling within her freezes and burns at once, and he draws back far enough for their eyes to meet once more. She's confronted with the wretched truth of the matter.

It's blackmail. It's coercion.

It's information.

Obviously, Malfoy thinks he has the upper hand. The Death Eaters continue to strengthen while the resistance wanes, their remaining forces depleted to the point where they're nearly crippled.

And if Hermione were to tell him something—anything at all—she might as well sign every one of their death warrants.

In one swift movement, she brings her wand up. Jabs it into the underside of his jaw.

His lips only curve with another infuriating, unnerving smirk, as if he expected it. She hates him, but he's unstable, unhinged, flirting with outright insanity. She can see it in his eyes.

The unspoken close hangs between them. She swallows, lowering her wand. "I don't know of any safehouse near Harlow."

"I think you do."

"I don't know anything about half of the locations the resistance keeps. It's protocol—a failsafe."

The information doesn't benefit him at all. But for her to reveal the location of a safehouse would.

Malfoy folds his arms across his chest, his biceps straining just slightly in his collared shirt. It reminds Hermione that he's taller and stronger than her, and while she might be faster if it came down to it, he would out-muscle her in a physical altercation.

He's probably done it on purpose. A taunting reminder of that very fact.

She allows her gaze to skim the length of him. The nonchalance, the casual conceit. The lean, lithe muscles and smooth, easy gait. His grey eyes are lidded with amusement as a cold smirk tugs at his lips.

It's the stance of a man who knows his own lethality, wand in hand or otherwise.

He's a python, poised to spring.

And morally bankrupt as they come.

Hermione only tightens her hold on her wand. "Even if I knew anything, I wouldn't tell you."

He smiles and it's terrifying. "Granger," he drawls, stretching out the syllables as though he's greeting an old friend. "Maybe you don't quite realise the stakes here. You won't be able to keep tracking me if your brain no longer functions."

All at once, she's blinded with her hatred of the man before her. That he's taken to a cruel mockery of her—of the fact that she would be dead if not for the fact that he has a different plan—has evidently had a different plan for some unknown length of time. Fury burns within her, low and simmering.

"I think I'm asking nicely, all things considered," he presses on.

"Never," she says at last. "I refuse to tell you a fucking thing."

Maybe she's signing her own death warrant. Maybe those of her friends. But any exchange of information won't be even—not remotely.

It's a dangerous game, this between them, and she despises his new play. Hermione hates being blindsided.

He only blinks at her again. As if he can read her intentions—the sudden shift in her spinning mind towards flight rather than fight—as if he knows her so fucking well—he drawls, "Until next time, Granger."

So for good measure, she drives a spell into his jaw, one that he'll feel for hours. Enjoys the grimace, and the tightening of his eyes as the heat begins to spread outward from the point of infliction.

Then, unwilling to make any sense of the situation with him watching her with those eyes, she Disapparates.

Until next time.

Chapter End Notes

Hi everyone, thanks so much for the wonderful feedback on the first chapter (and all the lovely birthday wishes)! I hope you liked chapter two. A few people asked about the update schedule, and for now chapters will be posted weekly on Tuesdays. Once the story is fully drafted the posting frequency may increase if it works out.

Alpha love to Kyonomiko, and beta creds to sweetestsorrows <3

Thanks so much for reading! See you next time <3

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

She feels the slick, viscous fluid spill across her fingers, warm and abundant, as her blade slices clean through the man's throat before her.

Within moments, he stops fighting and his fingers go slack in their prying hold against her own. Hermione can't see his eyes with his back to her, but she knows what she would have seen through the holes in his mask.

Fear. Panic. The desperate reckoning of a man witnessing the final moments of his life.

She sometimes wonders if Death Eaters feel regret.

Wonders whether she'll regret the decisions, the choices she made, when her numbered days run out. She might find out sooner than later.

The man before her is the third today—perhaps a little indulgent when her wand does the trick just as well and without the mess. But Hermione's head has been a jumbled and discombobulated place ever since her last run-in with Draco Malfoy. There's a part of her that needs this—the death, and the simplicity of it.

He's evaded her for so long, challenged her, and now—the worst of all—offered her an alternative.

She needs to know she can still slit a man's throat without remorse when the situation demands it.

There's a part of her that almost feels remorse for the man slumped at her feet, his life already seeping into the hard ground beneath her boots. He's young, maybe not even quite her age, though it's always difficult to tell with the mask and robes. She might feel remorse for killing if it weren't war.

If it weren't her or him.

Because he would put her in the ground without a second thought, the Death Eater who might have been younger than her.

Maybe they'd even been at Hogwarts at the same time. He might have been one of the Slytherins shepherded from the Great Hall when things grew dire. It doesn't matter now.

So many things that used to matter aren't worth anything anymore.

For only a moment, Hermione allows herself to breathe, to Scourgify the blood from her knife, like a poor substitute at a cleanse of her own soul, splattered black with the sins of war.

It's another ambush, only this time they were the instigators. One of the resistance higher ups received a tip that they might catch an outpost of Death Eaters unaware, and it had panned out.

A small mercy, when things rarely go their way these days.

Already, she can see Death Eater reinforcements Apparating in, and Hermione knows better than to linger. Ducking behind a crumbling wall as a wave of spells fly past, she catches the eye of another resistance member. He's a new recruit and she can't remember his name, but he wears his terror visible on his face. He's green, then.

"Go," Hermione hisses across the small space between them, throwing a cautious glance through a hole in the wall. The Death Eaters have rapidly multiplied, and the buzz and crackle of spellfire sings through the air all around. "Get back to Headquarters—we're about to be overrun."

The young man nods, gulping, and before Hermione can be sure he's followed her directive, a spell just misses her face, blasting rubble and dust from the stone into her eyes. Cursing to herself, Hermione Disapparates.

Draco strides through the mess, taking stock of the damage.

Bodies litter the ground, both resistance and Death Eater, and he steps carefully over the prone forms. He spots a young Death Eater expired in a pool of his own blood, a clean gash across his throat, and a smirk curls Draco's lips. He recognises the handiwork, and he's almost disappointed he missed her. He's been itching for a good fight.

Merlin, but the woman is an asset. One of the few left in the resistance who still bothers to utilise logic, and lethal to boot.

He spots a young man, a resistance straggler, and Draco can see the fear in the man's eye in the fleeting instants before Draco's wand stills his heart. Idly, he rifles through the man's satchel, drawing out a golden coin that he might believe to be a galleon if not for the fact that he knows better.

A slow smile tugs at his lips.

He eyes the coin and barks to the nearest Death Eater, "You. Report this ambush in."

The man freezes mid-step, tension in his stance—only for a moment before he nods. "Yes, Lieutenant."

The Dark Lord won't be pleased by the loss of soldiers today, but this isn't Draco's fuck-up. He isn't going to put himself under the wand over someone else's mess if he can help it.

He smooths his thumb over the face of the coin, turning it over in his palm. The scent of blood niggles at his senses. Pocketing his treasure, Draco leaves the mess and the inevitable clean-up to someone else.

A hot shower is a rare prize living in a cramped safehouse, and Hermione snatches the opportunity for a few minutes and a proper clean without hesitation. Her body is filthy with blood, grime, and sweat, and blood has dried beneath her nails and between her fingers. She walks into the shower before she strips, allowing the hot water to cleanse her clothes as it cascades down her body.

She sweeps a hand through her hair, untangling the curls as best she can manage.

She can still remember her first kill, but not all the ones in between. There have been too many, the war too drawn out. Too many lives have been lost on both sides, but she learned long ago that the rules of engagement were simple.

Kill or be killed.

And she's long since forsaken the sensibilities that might have driven her to keep her hands clean.

Metaphorically and literally.

She scrubs at her trimmed nails, attempting to dislodge the blood of the Death Eaters whose lives ended at her hand today. Although Hermione can't catalogue their faces, clad in masks as they were, she won't forget the eyes. The fear, the defiance.

Briefly, she allows the thoughts to linger before she stows them away. She takes no pleasure in killing—never has—but it doesn't singe her spirit the way it used to. It doesn't ache in her soul like it once did, relentless guilt and pain and desolation all mixed into a sour cocktail that she could never quite swallow back. Those old emotions still lurk on the periphery, threatening her composure, but compartmentalisation has done her well in reducing the weight of it.

She's been trained too well, and it's simply one of her many roles within the resistance.

No one is unsullied anymore.

Still, in some small, idealistic part of her that's been mostly snuffed out—and she keeps the remnant tucked carefully away in a box within her mind—Hermione hopes for something else one day.

Just maybe, she hasn't completely ruined herself.

Then she feels her adversary's blood on her hands, feels the flicker of triumph within. She's ended another Death Eater, and as a result, potentially saved the life of someone from the resistance.

And she knows it's futile.

Even if the war ends before her number is up, it's too late for her. She's seen too much, done too much.

No amount of hot showers will ever truly clean the blood from her hands.

With that sobering thought, she scrubs at her hair, finishes up her shower, and exits the steaming chamber. She's used more than her allocated minutes but only a handful of people will challenge her on it, and if she moves quickly she'll be able to avoid them.

She slips back into her small room, dresses in clean clothes. Pretends the steaming water did anything for her.

The sun is still above the horizon, casting a golden glow on the world outside, but she's exhausted. A part of her wants to go to sleep early but she hasn't eaten, and her rations will go to someone else if she doesn't make an appearance. She needs her strength.

No matter how nauseated she might feel on any given day, Hermione learned early on to make sure she always eats her fill.

Before she leaves the room, she checks her communications coin, the act instinctive and habitual more than anything. She's already at headquarters, and if anyone needs her, they know where to find her.

But to her surprise, the face is warm.

She taps the mock galleon to reveal the message.

And her heart stops cold in her chest.

It'll be a perfect evening for a walk tomorrow. There's a beautiful park in North London.

Dress nice.

Hermione's head spins, vision blurring, her mind attempting to process the message.

As much as she wants to deny to herself who sent it, she knows.

Within the pit of her being, she knows.

She even knows the park to which the message refers.

No one in the resistance would send her a cryptic message like that, and furthermore, she senses it. Her instinct has saved her more than once, and she's grown to rely on it.

Folding her legs beneath herself on her cot, Hermione grasps the coin firmly in her palm. She taps it with her wand to send a message.

How did you get this coin?

She stares, waiting, scarcely breathing. Fights the urge to fidget as she sucks in a deep inhale and resets herself. She knows better than to let him get to her, and her hands are a little steadier by the time the next message comes through.

I don't think you want the answer to that.

It isn't surprising that Malfoy knows about the coins in the first place, given he seems to know everything about her, but none other than the resistance know how to activate its communicative properties. The galleons are a more advanced method from the prototype they'd used back in Hogwarts for Dumbledore's Army gatherings.

She grinds her jaw, unwilling to rise to his taunts, and sends a response.

As it turns out, I'm unable to meet tomorrow. You'll have to enjoy the sunset on your own.

The game isn't remotely fun, taunting a lieutenant of the Death Eaters. But he knows better than to toy with her, too. Hermione prickles with irritation at his presumption and familiarity. Instantly, she regrets even briefly indulging his offer the last time they spoke.

She stows her coin and ventures into the kitchen to collect a plate of dinner, and takes a seat beside Harry. He's only just returned from another raid and looks a little worse for the wear.

His arms and face are scraped up, a sign he hasn't been to visit the healers yet, and she can see the fatigue he wears plainly. But he's alive.

"Anything?" she asks as she tears into a dinner roll.

Harry grimaces and ducks in. "Nothing, technically. We spent a while scoping one of the newest Death Eater outposts, and nothing worth mentioning. But... I don't know, Hermione. I keep thinking that we're missing something. It feels like they're planning something. Some sort of big move."

Hermione frowns and glances around the room, but no one's paying them any mind. Some of the resistance leaders think Harry's lost his touch, that his sanity was fractured when he died and returned at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Others suspect he's still in possession of some unwitting connection to Voldemort, and they're hesitant to give him too many important tasks.

For his part, Hermione knows he's tired of it all. He never wanted the responsibility into which he was born, and he doesn't want it now. Even on the days when she wishes the resistance had maintained some of the Order's integrity, Hermione can't fault Harry for it.

At his suspicion, she can't help but think of Malfoy—of the way he tried to draw information from her.

She knows she would be crazy to consider.

There's no chance Malfoy would give her anything of any true value, and she'll have no way of knowing until after the exchange. But the fact that he has a way to reach her directly leaves her on edge. She ought to report it in hopes she can put the matter behind her.

She's been assigned to take Malfoy out of the equation—and that's a much preferable thought to the idea of admitting that she's having trouble with him.

"I don't doubt they are, honestly," she responds belatedly to Harry's questioning look. "We caught them off guard today, but when their reinforcements arrived... we're outnumbered, Harry, and growing more so by the day."

They share a grim look. Harry pushes his dinner around the plate and lowers his voice still further. "Most of the Death Eaters aren't even bothering to keep incognito anymore. They walk about the Ministry and Diagon Alley in their robes, terrorising the proprietors."

Hermione hates to admit it, but she's seen the same. What little existed of her appetite vanishes entirely, and she forces several bland forkfuls back.

"They don't have any cause to fear the resistance." The words taste bitter on her tongue. Again, she thinks of the bold, almost taunting quality to Malfoy's messages on her coin, but something holds her back from mentioning it.

If she can formulate a plot to take him out once and for all, she can potentially use the meeting to gain an advantage.

He'll be prepared for such a move, of course.

Harry's words linger in the back of her mind, blurring with her own concerns about Malfoy's intentions. She can't help but think it's all connected, but there isn't enough proof to suggest the Death Eaters are making a new move.

She washes down the last of her dinner with a glass of lukewarm water. "At any rate... we know the drill."

They lock eyes for a moment, and Hermione catches a glint of her friend that she hasn't seen in a long while as he snaps facetiously, "Constant vigilance."

Despite Moody's passing years earlier, the sentiment stuck around the Order and transitioned into the wider resistance forces. It's something of which Hermione constantly reminds herself. Throughout her training, both physical and magical, even on the days when she felt she had nothing more to give. When she struggles to grapple with the idea that so much of society supports—or cowers from—the Death Eaters.

The cause is never far from her mind.

"Right," she mutters at last, feeling the day's strain catch up with her. Scrubbing at her eyes, she returns her empty tray, and she and Harry separate for the night. Back in her room, trepidation blooming within her, Hermione checks her communications coin.

A short missive sits on the face of the coin.

It will be in your best interest to show up.

Nerves churn within her stomach—nerves she hasn't felt in years. Even facing imminent battle and a high likelihood of death, Hermione scarcely allows nerves into the equation. They only dull her instincts and cause her to hesitate.

And hesitation in battle is akin to death.

But the way the game has changed doesn't sit well, and she hates Malfoy more than ever for causing her to question her own motives.

The instincts upon which she's prided herself for years are torn. Meeting with Malfoy—willingly and without her assigned mission at the top of mind—feels like crossing a line, and she doesn't care for it. But if she can somehow turn the situation to her advantage, inside information about the Death Eaters could prove invaluable.

Hermione doesn't respond. Doesn't know how to, and doesn't know that she trusts herself anyway.

Stowing her coin into her satchel, she prepares for sleep and slips into bed. It's a problem to resolve tomorrow, and hopefully sleep will offer the clarity her addled mind presently lacks.

Still, despite her exhaustion, sleep is evasive, and when her dreams come, they're riddled with nightmares she hasn't had in years.

His Dark Mark spikes with such a searing heat that Draco flinches. A private summons.

Draco's lips curl into a frown as he checks the time. He fidgets with the coin he swiped in the ambush the day before, tucks it away in his study, and disillusions it. Whether or not Granger takes the bait, it's amusing to toy with her.

Furthermore, it's interesting to gauge her willingness—or lack thereof—to compromise on her morals. It's treason, what he's asking of her. Betrayal at the very least.

A smirk tugs for only an instant—before his Mark sears again. He can feel the Dark Lord's impatience. He squeezes his eyes shut before he tugs his mask firmly into place. "And what if I were in the middle of something," he murmurs to himself as he seals and wards the study door. It's the downside, he supposes, to Malfoy Manor acting as the Death Eater headquarters and Lord Voldemort's private residence.

But Lucius never had the bollocks to refuse, and Draco found his own benefits in the matter.

He strides towards the hall where the Dark Lord makes court, affixing a facade of stoicism. He arrives before his master, ducks his head into a bow, and drawls, "You called, My Lord?"

Already, Draco can sense the Dark's Lord's displeasure. His skin tingles with anticipatory awareness.

Without any preamble, Voldemort snaps, "What happened yesterday, Lieutenant? I lost eight soldiers in that ambush—who is to blame for this mess?"

Draco has a sudden clarity that it'll be him, regardless that he had nothing to do with it. "I haven't yet determined the leak, My Lord," he says all the same, placating as he can manage. Irritation threatens to boil up within him and he shoves it back. "Rest assured, I will find out who is responsible and they will be dealt with accordingly."

The Dark Lord's red eyes flash.

Planting his feet and squaring his shoulders, Draco carries on. While most would cower, he resists on principle. The Dark Lord keeps him in a place of honour because of his candour, not because of a willingness to ingratiate himself. "I was only informed of the situation after the initial strike had already occurred, and by the time I arrived most of the resistance fighters had already left."

It will likely be to his own detriment, but he isn't keen on taking the fall for someone else's mistake. Not today.

"Watch your tone, Draco," his master admonishes, a low, dangerous edge Draco recognises.

He squares his jaw but says nothing.

The tension in the room rises, and Draco senses the Dark Lord doesn't actually want an answer—doesn't really want Draco to find out what happened—he only wants to take out his anger on someone. And he wants an audience, or the room would be clear.

It wouldn't be the first time.

Once again, the unfortunate task of scapegoat appears to have fallen on him. A flash of anger spikes through him but he stands firm.

Voldemort speaks again, his anger emanating through the room. "You will find out who's responsible for this."

Draco ducks his head into another bow. "Of course, My Lord."

Most of the time, he doesn't care. He's willing to take the brunt of Voldemort's anger because he's used to it. It's the role he plays, and in return, he enjoys a measure of freedom none of the other Death Eaters enjoy.

Today, he grits his teeth. Forces himself to stay focused as the first curse rips through him, searing his muscles and threatening to cleave flesh from bone. Today, Draco plays his part because he knows better.

As the pain grows to be too much, as his teeth grind so hard he thinks they might shatter—as his entire body seizes up, he forces his mind elsewhere.

To a place where his role in this war is vastly different.

Hermione goes back and forth all day on the idea of meeting with Malfoy. He hasn't sent another message to her coin, but she can't shake the niggling sensation at the back of her mind.

He's up to something. And he wants something—needs something—from her. Maybe it explains why he left her alive and simply stunned.

Maybe it explains even more than that.

Her thoughts and ideas churn on an endless loop, playing over Harry's words from the night before. That a change rests on the breeze, the stagnant circumstances they've come to know poised in the early stages of a shift.

Before she can consciously acknowledge that she's made a decision, she's packing her satchel with necessary provisions, feeling a creeping of unease along her spine. At the least, she'll hear him out. She's been afforded blanket decision-making permissions regarding her assignment to exterminate Draco Malfoy from the face of the earth. Still, it's unorthodox, and she finds herself watching her back as she slips through the house.

It doesn't mean she'll accept what he has to say.

And if it turns into a fight, it'll be no different than the majority of their interactions.

Distracted by her thoughts, she almost doesn't notice as she collides with Cassius in the corridor. He folds his arms, staring at her for a moment. "Where are you going? The meeting is in the sitting room."

Hermione freezes mid-step, keeping her expression carefully blank. In the sudden and uprooting turmoil that has taken residence in her brain over Malfoy's message, she forgot about the evening's meeting. Warmth dusts her cheeks at her own negligence.

She doesn't forget important events.

Though if she's honest, they're often little more than an excuse for the leaders of the resistance—Kingsley included—to berate everyone else and shit on one another's attempts to pull ahead in the war. Very little good ever comes of the scheduled meetings.

For a moment, she debates whether she could come up with an appropriate excuse.

One that wouldn't out her plans for a covert meeting with the man she's meant to kill.

Cassius' stare remains on her, hard and unrelenting, and she deflates. She has no reason to skive a meeting that's been on the schedule for a week. And when she catches Harry's eye in the next room, reading the veiled tension in the set of his shoulders, she remembers.

They're due to receive news on a team that ventured out and went underground the month prior from one of the other resistance hubs.

A team led by Neville Longbottom.

"Right," she breezes at last, offering a thin smile that she doubts reaches her eye. "I was just getting a breath of air before the meeting."

Merlin knows, the meetings always devolve into a suffocating mess.

And they wonder why the resistance is falling.

Stowing her wand in its holster, Hermione slips past Cassius and into the next room where she slots into a seat beside Harry. She ducks in, lowering her voice.

"Have they heard anything?"

"Not that I'm aware of," he returns, matching her volume. "I overheard an argument between Kings and Arthur last night. No one's heard a damn thing, not even their liaison last week. For all we know, they're..." He trails off with a grimace.

Nausea and foreboding churn as one in her stomach, and for the first time since the previous evening she's able to put Malfoy's messages behind something else. She rarely sees Neville, ever since the safehouses were reallocated and she ended up here with Harry, but he's one of the last she still considers a friend. One of the last who makes her think of how things used to be.

When they still had hope. When they'd been off on a Horcrux hunt, blissfully unaware that it wouldn't be enough to finally vanquish Voldemort at last.

In hindsight, they should have seen it.

That he had built safeguard upon safeguard into his own protection. He had only used the Battle of Hogwarts to make himself and his forces stronger.

And now, sweet Neville who had always carried such a fondness for plants had become little more than a designated mercenary for the resistance. Willing to tackle the missions no one else wants to touch.

"Right," she murmurs at last, tucking closer into Harry's side as the room fills. Hermione feels her heart jolt at a flicker of claustrophobia, and she scolds herself for the internal weakness. Steels herself for news that likely won't be good—news hasn't been good in months.

At last, Kingsley steps up to the front of the room, observing the lot of them with a hard stare.

He isn't the man she remembers, either. Back when they'd been comrades in arms—when he had been an encouraging and supportive teammate. Now, he's driven by revenge and spurred by hatred for the other side.

Everyone's changed, she often reminds herself.

Sometimes, Hermione fears what she would see if she were to truly look in the mirror.

"As you all know," Kingsley begins without preamble, "Operative Team Delta went dark last month." He pauses for a grimace, gazing upon the group who holds a collective breath. "According to the Cambridge safehouse, they've missed their last two check-ins with the handler."

As the room breaks out into a buzz of discussion, Kingsley raises a hand. "It doesn't sound good, but Team Delta are authorised to perform and act at their own discretion. The failure to update doesn't mean something bad has happened."

It isn't information anyone present doesn't already know, but after the last big failed mission, the information hits close. Hermione catches Harry's eye as the pair of them listen on.

She can't stomach the idea that Neville has been killed on an important mission—along with another half a dozen of the resistance's best fighters—and she pushes the possibility into a metal box at the back of her mind.

It's war, and there's no room for false optimism, but she's spent years cultivating the shield that guards her heart.

If it's true, and the mission's failed, Hermione will mourn her friends and fellow soldiers later. When the lives of everyone else are no longer at risk.

She and Harry mourned Ron together in a small ceremony. Right around the time when Molly took Ginny and fled to the continent. They haven't heard from either of them since—for all Hermione knows, they didn't make it. And Harry never mentions it, either.

The meeting devolves, rife with typical accusations and arguments. It's a wonder anything is ever accomplished here at all, and not for the first time, Hermione wonders how everything went so wrong.

The Death Eaters, at the very least, have an organised mission and a commanding leader. With their sparse and widespread mess of leadership, the resistance is disorganised at best and a downright catastrophe on bad days.

In the early days of the resistance, Hermione tried to contribute more. To offer her opinions and make her voice heard.

Too often, her thoughts fell on deaf ears, and she learned to keep her mouth shut and do as she's told. It isn't easy, most days, when everything feels futile and increasingly hopeless. But she's long seen in Harry's eyes the same. She sinks deeper into her seat at his side, basking in the comfort of the only friend she feels she has left most days.

She's so tired by it all, and the sentiment hits her hard in the moment.

"Here we go again," Harry mutters under his breath.

"Honestly," Hermione whispers, very careful to ensure no one is near enough to hear her, "is it any wonder we're losing this bloody war?"

Harry gives her a look, half admonishment and half resignation. At last he folds his arms and grumbles, "Not even a little. Some days I just want to fucking take over."

It's dangerous territory to say these things at all, let alone in a room full of people, but no one's paying either of them any mind. She holds his gaze, purses her lips, and shrugs. "Things were better," she says at last, "when we had a purpose. Maybe you should."

Although he doesn't respond, she knows better than to think his mind isn't working below the surface. It always is, these days, even though he rarely voices his thoughts aloud.

His shoulder only brushes against hers, his listless gaze fixed resolutely on Kingsley. "All I know," he says at last, still keeping his voice scarcely above a whisper, "is something has to change or we're all going to end up dead."

The sentiment isn't untrue, but it still strikes Hermione in the core of her being. A shiver darts the length of her spine because she knows just how true it is.

The sun is nearly below the horizon through the window, and Hermione tries not to think about the way her decision was ultimately made for her. Her galleon warms in her pocket, only once, but she doesn't dare check the message until she's alone in her room at the end of the night.

She's thoroughly exhausted from the meeting-turned-debate, and as usual, nothing of consequence has been resolved.

Finally alone, she lifts the coin into her palm. Steels her jaw and squares her shoulders after the swirl of emotions that's chased through her all evening. Stows the weakness she feels threatening to take over.

There's no place for emotions and weakness. Not anymore.

She reads the message, and cold seeps into her veins at the single word written there.

Noted.

Just like that, she feels the door leading to potential information close. And something tells her everything's about to become a whole lot worse.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading, and for the kudos and lovely warm comments! I'm so pleased you're all enjoying the story so far.

Alpha and beta shouts to the amazing kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows, respectively!

Come hang on twitter for fic updates, snippets, and weird ass ramblings.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

She feels another's presence before she sees him, a dark, insidious stirring in the back of her mind.

By the time Hermione catches sight of the black-as-night robes and the gleaming silver mask, the first barrage of spells has already hit. Jumping into the defensive, she manages to dodge and block the first wave of spells.

But he's relentless, and he's caught her off her guard just enough that she can't quite gain any ground. It's all she can manage to deflect, and his spells sizzle and hiss as they strike the nearest building. Dust from the rubble clouds her vision.

Malfoy isn't playing games anymore, and she can feel it in each spell that flies her way.

It's more frightening than she expects.

She wonders whether he's upset she didn't show up to his proposed arrangement, but the idea in itself is absurd. He's been charged as her would-be assassin, the same as she is with him, and to imagine they could be anything else is folly. Somehow, he's managed to sow doubt in the back of her mind, and it's more disturbing than the fact that her death will follow if she misses blocking one of his attacks.

Hermione manages to find shelter just as a bolt of magic snakes past, skimming her arm and leaving the skin white-hot with a sharp lash of pain.

Cussing to herself, she takes stock of the situation. It's another abandoned road in the factory district, and her vantage between buildings provides a modicum more protection than being out in the open—but only just.

For his part, Malfoy appears not to care.

She remembers the last time they actually spoke, when he had been dressed in a tie and button-down and appearing borderline innocuous.

The Death Eater robes speak to an especially stark alternative.

Never mind the neon green flashes of light.

Finally in a position to fight back, Hermione channels the fury welling within her and aims. He's prepared for her and erects a shield charm, but she feels marginally less helpless now. He isn't holding back, and she shoots a tricky string of curses in retaliation, each more painful and convoluted than the last.

Hermione tries not to pay mind to the wound on her arm, but she can smell the singed skin and her stomach rolls. A distraction is not what she needs right now, and she scarcely blinks as she tracks Malfoy's movements.

Suddenly, he vanishes.

There's no crack of Apparition to accompany the movement, and she tenses with awareness as she scans the road ahead. Catching sight of him, Hermione releases a breath and shoots a curse.

The magic streaks towards him—and through where he stood moments before.

Eyes wide in surprise, she flinches as a non-verbal spell strikes her in the back. It's a simple Incarcerous but Hermione curses herself inwardly and viciously as her arms wind together behind her, held tight by invisible bonds.

She's powerless to stop him as she feels fingers pry her wand from her grasp, then Malfoy walks around to face her. His grey eyes are hard through the mask, and when he removes it to rest atop his pale hair, his expression is unamused.

Hermione fights the urge to spit in his face.

Stowing his own wand, he flexes hers between his fingers as though he might snap it in two. She fixes her face into stoicism, even as her heart races a rampant cadence in her chest. Something tells her Malfoy isn't going to simply stun and leave her this time.

"What do you want?" she grounds out through a clenched jaw. She channels everything within her to attempt a wandless counter-curse on the bonds but his spell holds firm. "If you were here to kill me, you had your chance—again."

Her pride smarts even as she speaks the words. Admitting she's been bested by Malfoy not once, but twice, stings every part of her.

"I'll kill you," he drawls, and his eyes flash, "after we're done."

Sneering at him, she growls, "I'm not telling you a damn thing."

Malfoy simply smirks, as though he finds infinite amusement in her resistance. "If you insist."

In the next moment, before she can even comprehend the motion, he wraps a rough hand around her elbow and the sudden nausea of Apparition swirls within her. All at once, everything goes dark.

She comes to with a raging headache, her mouth parched. Although she's indoors, the room is large and cavernous—like an old warehouse—and the lighting is so dim she blinks several times before anything comes into focus.

Her hands are still bound; Hermione can feel the wooden back of the chair she's seated on, but she can't force her fingers to move. Her feet are locked to the floor beneath her, and she can only direct small measures of movement with her head.

"Original," she speaks into the darkness, making her best effort at keeping her head straight. She scans the darkness for possible exits, but the walls stretch farther away than she can see. There's a table within reach, if she were able to move her hands.

Malfoy appears in her line of sight, his height more evident than ever as he stands over her. He's removed the mask entirely and unclasped his robes, revealing trousers and a collared shirt with the top few buttons loose.

He looks like he's on his way home from work, his blond hair loosely dishevelled.

Hermione sneers at him. "This is where you're going to torture me then?"

"That's up to you," Malfoy says, and drags another chair over. He sits down facing her, near enough that his feet just miss nudging hers. "I've already offered you an alternative."

He doesn't elaborate, but she can sense it. That he made the offer and she didn't accept. With a sardonic smile, she clips, "Unfortunately, I wasn't able to make it at the time you commanded."

He snaps his fingers, summoning a tall glass of water, and takes a sip. Hermione watches the movement, her mouth so dry she's sure he can see it in her face.

"I apologise," Malfoy drawls, sounding anything but sincere, "I should have provided several potential times to better suit your busy schedule."

"I don't know what you want from me," she grits out. "And if you're waiting on information, you'd best kill me and save us both the trouble because I'm not turning on my friends."

Malfoy lifts one slender brow. "Are they, though? Friends."

Hermione doesn't respond. She has no interest in trading words with a psychopath Death Eater.

"It's war, Granger. Surely you have some element of self-preservation wrapped up in all that bravado."

"Of course I do," she spits, narrowing her eyes. "I wouldn't still be alive if I hadn't."

"There you go." The words are patronising and grate against her in the worst way. "Perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement, then."

She wishes she could light him aflame with her eyes. "Why even bother with all this hassle? Your master wants me dead."

At that, a smile so malicious spreads across Malfoy's face that she regrets asking. But as long as he's talking, he isn't killing or torturing her. Yet.

"I'll let you in on a secret, Granger," Malfoy says, leaning his elbows on his legs as he lowers his voice. "My master can be… narrow-minded. Short-sighted. He thinks he wants you dead."

It sounds like treason.

She thinks he might lose his life if the wrong person heard those thoughts.

She wishes he would.

When Hermione remains silent, he takes another indulgent sip of water. Irreverence dances in his gaze as he sets the water down on the table. If her hands weren't bound she would steal it. Drink the water. Slash his throat with a shard of glass.

As if they're old friends, Malfoy carries on without regard. "Do you know what I think?"

"I'm sure you're about to tell me," she huffs.

Malfoy laughs. The sound is so jarring it catches her off guard.

He ducks in, a cruel smirk playing about his lips. "You're only a battle, Granger. This is about winning the war."

Against her volition, a shudder lances down her spine at the words. At the dark flash in his eye.

Not for the first time, she grows painfully aware that if she dies here, today, no one will likely ever find her. They won't even know where to look.

"If you think for one second I'm going to do anything to help you win this war," Hermione says quietly, locked on his eyes, "you're crazier than I always thought."

That smile lingers at the corner of his mouth, the cold, cruel amusement she hates more than his anger. Made all the worse by his dull, deadened eyes. The flash of madness.

Malfoy only drawls, "We'll see." Finishing the last of his water, he vanishes the empty glass, and Hermione scowls at him.

She tests the bonds at her wrists, the magic holding firm. As though her very presence amuses him, he eyes her a moment longer before rising from his seat. He towers over her, the skin around his eyes tightening with contemplation.

Conjuring a fresh glass of water, he sets it on the table beside her. It would be just at the edge of her reach—if not for the fact that she can't move her hands. Irritation prickles along the surface of her skin, cold fury building within her chest at his taunting games.

If he doesn't kill her, he's going to fervently regret it.

For too long, he's acted as though he's superior to her, and Hermione longs to see him put in his place. Even as children, he consistently underestimated her. She longs to watch the smugness vanish from his eyes as his life fades away.

She only offers a sickly false smile and, eyeing the glass of water, says, "How thoughtful of you."

Malfoy returns the gesture and sentiment, and checks to be sure the bonds holding her in her seat are secure. "As it turns out, I have some other things to deal with. Surely you'll be alright here on your own for… a while."

Maybe he'll simply never return. Let her slowly deplete her energy until dehydration takes her, the cruel irony of a glass of water just beyond her grasp driving her delirious mind into ruin. She wouldn't put it past him to draw it out.

"I'd rather be alone than hear your fucking voice any longer," she purrs in response.

He smirks, affixes his mask in place, and secures his robes, his long fingers deft and sure. "I'll be back eventually," he drawls. "I don't know when, though, so don't wait up."

Hermione allows her eyes to slide shut as he vanishes, steadying her racing heart with several long breaths. Within herself, she knows he would do it. The empty expanse of the abandoned warehouse haunts her, and she can feel the shuddering magic of his wards. Even if she tried to scream—tried to reach out—no one would ever find her.

She waits several minutes longer, just to ensure he isn't going to come back.

Then carefully, painstakingly, and with vengeance boiling in her blood, Hermione begins to spool a trickle of magic into her numb fingers. If he comes back while she's still alive, he'll regret it.

The downside of leading a large and insipid force of Death Eaters is that their delusions often surpass their ability. Most days, Draco's forced to deal with no small measure of absolute nonsense.

After fielding inane questions at the manor, to the point where he idly hits one of the offenders with a torture curse—causing a few others to back off—he retreats to his study.

Since obtaining the communications coin he swiped from a deceased resistance grunt, Draco's attempted to dismantle the magic with which it's imbued. It's a tricky bit of charms work that absolutely screams Granger, but with a little effort he'll figure it out.

Hell, he might even be able to tie into the network of coins and intercept messages.

It'll spell game over for the resistance. But it isn't the most important thing on his mind.

He keeps half an eye on the clock as he forces himself to complete some menial tasks. Despite Granger's ability, he has faith in not only the strength of his bonds but also the wards he's placed on the building. Even if she manages to free herself, she isn't going anywhere. Not until Draco decides so.

As the day trickles along towards the evening, he ventures out from the manor again. He left Granger in an abandoned building in an otherwise empty neighbourhood in Manchester, and now that his work is done, it's time to have a little fun.

When he arrives, having foregone the robes and mask, his wards are still intact. A quick scope of the premises ensures him she's still here.

Granger stares at him from exactly where he left her, searing anger dancing in her eyes.

He positively basks in her fury.

Perhaps he should get the jump on her more often.

"Oh, good," Draco says, peering at her untouched glass of water, "you're still here."

If looks could kill, he would be below ground. But she only clips, "I had nowhere else to be."

He can sense something else below her demeanour. Something cool and anticipatory. He pauses, skimming the length of her, and keeps his expression blank. Drawing her wand from where he stowed it earlier, he watches the flash in her eyes.

Then he lifts his own wand, taking a few steps closer. "You know what I want, Granger."

She snarls, "I don't know anything about the safehouse you want to find. What's so special about it anyway?"

"That," Draco says, "is none of your business." He stares down at her, jabbing his wand into the soft skin beneath her jaw. "You've had plenty of time to think through your options."

The only response she allows is the way her gaze follows the movement of her wand in his other hand.

At last she huffs, sinking back into her seat, and glares at him. "I'm not giving you anything."

"Shame," Draco murmurs. "I would have spared your life."

It happens all at once.

When Draco opens his mouth to utter the curse that will claim her life—a gamble he's certain will pay off—he feels her magic break out and swirl within the room, encompassing the dark, cavernous space.

The strength of her wandless power nudges against his very core, and in an instant, he crosses her wand with his own to deflect the sudden and violent outpouring.

Granger is on her feet, hands freed from their bonds, and her wand wrenches itself free from his grasp of its own accord to fly back into hers. Still, her magic hovers in the air, twisting into a vortex of raw power that fills him with delight and a frisson of fear all at once.

A slow smile curves Draco's lips.

It's fascinating how much raw, intrinsic magic she's gathered in the six hours he's allowed her to stew. Her magic buffets the space, blowing his hair back from his forehead, and when spells begin to fly from her wand, he's prepared.

Draco blocks a series of curses, erecting a substantial shielding charm as he stares at her, assessing each move. Considering the expulsion of magic he's just witnessed, she's barely out of breath, her movements as quick and efficient as ever.

As they duel, he manoeuvres her back towards the nearest wall, and before she can slip away, he brings the edge of a dagger to her throat. Granger freezes, her eyes widening only for a flickering instant before her face falls neutral once more. But it's enough for her to falter, and he pins her to the wall.

Intrigue builds within him as they stare each other down, until finally Draco says, "Very impressive."

She doesn't flinch. "This was your plan all along."

"Yes."

Her chocolate stare burns with rage, the line of her jaw tensing only slightly. He sees the realisation in her face. "You didn't bring me here to torture me for information."

"No." Draco allows a smirk to drag across his face. "It was only ever a test."

It's a rare moment that he's able to truly best Granger, when she sees through him so consistently. But before he can bask in it for more than a few seconds, she shifts a step forward, oblivious or uncaring to the way a trickle of blood breaks from his dagger at her throat. "Why?"

"Call it curiosity."

Because it is—and has been. Draco's seen glimpses of the depth of her wandless power before, but never the true extent of it. He needed to put her in a situation to act upon it, to reveal what she's capable of. And now… the exhilaration borne of discovering the truth courses through him like adrenaline.

Hatred burns within her irises like a cold flame that Draco indulges for a moment. He feels a shiver of anticipation dart up his spine.

And within her face, the hard stoicism, he sees something else. Doubt. Fear.

She never meant to reveal to him the deep well of power she keeps concealed, and Draco suspects she might have been able to snuff the life from him without her wand with a little more training. It's a rare witch or wizard with not only the power but the discipline to train their wandless magic to this extent.

He can't help it. Excitement roils within his veins.

Already, the many ways in which he can use this information swirl within his brain, orderly and composed, and Draco sifts through them as her gaze remains locked on his. He presses harder with the dagger while her stance screams mutiny, fully aware of the realisation he sees settling in her eyes.

That she has no choice now but to defeat him.

For a while, his own suspicions have stayed the murder that seeks to fall from his lips. He's taken countless torture spells over keeping her alive until he knew for sure.

And now… now he knows exactly how much of a waste it would be.

Maybe it still will. Despite her power and the ways he could utilise someone like her, she still fights for the other side. It's too dangerous to allow the resistance to keep her.

"You really are something else," he says, low and reverent, after the silence between them grows and extends into something convoluted. "And those idiots in the resistance don't even have a clue, do they?"

Her continued silence is answer enough.

Draco presses her hard into the wall with his arm, prying the wand from her grasp. To his surprise, she lets him. Maybe she still has enough wandless magic pent up that she doesn't even need it.

Or maybe she's stunned. Attempting to process the situation, to determine the best way out of it.

But now, Draco knows he can't kill her. Not until he comes up with a better plan.

At last, Granger whispers, "I'll die before I ever submit to you."

It's as though she can read his mind, but Draco's Occlumency shields are as firm as ever. He imagines his train of thought is simply too evident—or maybe it's the same conclusion she would reach herself, were the tables turned.

Of course, Draco has wandless magic of his own he's never allowed her to see.

But not like this.

He can still taste the tang of her power on the air, feel it nudge against his core magic. He's never seen it like this. For as long as the fight's raged between them, Draco's drifted between the idea of simply ending her life and being done with it, and seeing what other options he can find for her.

The Dark Lord didn't appoint his position for nothing. Draco knows the power he carries on his shoulders, but this… this would be something else entirely.

Her magic clings to him, beating with the voracious pulse of his heart. He knows better than to return her wand, but it's an impasse utterly unlike any they've faced. He wants to drive the knife through her throat, if only to ease the burden of this decision.

He could curse her, enchant her mind to obey, but it isn't powerful enough. Not nearly enough. And she's strong enough to break free eventually.

Keeping his dagger firmly against her throat, watching the shallow lift and fall of her chest as she draws quick breaths, Draco pries her other hand open. Her fingers are surprisingly soft against his, and he thrusts her wand back into her hand. Feels her fingers curl around the handle.

Then he locks on her gaze again, a hint of a smirk threatening at his lips. "I'll see you soon, I'm sure."

The haunted look in her eye lingers in the back of his mind as he Apparates away.

"I'm going to kill him," Hermione growls, throwing her bag down onto her bed as Harry follows her into the room.

He presses the door shut and cocks a sceptical brow. "Isn't that literally what you've been trying to do for months?"

For a moment, she only stares back, a tumultuous mass of emotions churning within her. She knows better than to let them reign on the surface, but every part of the day has left her rattled. "Yes," she mutters, "of course it is. I just..."

Mind blank, she trails off and stares at the bed.

"Hermione," Harry says, quiet and tentative, and she tenses at the tone. "Is something wrong? Are you having trouble with Malfoy?"

Instinctively, she opens her mouth to deny it. If it were anyone else she would slide through a smooth lie to explain why it's been so long and Draco Malfoy still walks the earth. But Harry's gaze lingers on her, and she can only see concern.

It's dangerous to indulge such emotions.

Concern could get them killed on a battlefield. But Hermione sinks into the bed, shoulders drooping, and she offers a feeble shrug. "I'm going to get it done. I swear it, Harry—I don't want Kingsley to—"

"Fuck Kingsley." The words are a quiet breath. "I care about you. Did Malfoy do something to you?"

She thinks of the day she's had, bound and locked in an abandoned warehouse, contemplating the impending nature of her own demise. Despite the fact that they've been caught in so many duels she can't keep track of them all, her life on the line every time, something about this felt different.

Knowing he might simply never return—that she might slowly waste away through dehydration, her body weakening as hunger engulfs her. Hermione knows she would prefer the sudden and gratifying ease of a curse to the heart.

Fear had swelled within her the likes of which she hasn't experienced in years.

Harry's gaze remains locked on her until Hermione clenches her jaw. "No. Of course not."

"You can talk to me, you know."

She wishes it were true. Some days she wishes there was no one left she truly cared about. It would make everything so much easier, even if the loneliness would threaten to encompass her like a void. She loves Harry, and a part of her has since they were children. But they aren't any longer, and she can't pour her heart out to him like she might have once done.

Hermione knows better.

It's the thought that spins, resounding, through every fibre of her being.

She knows better than to have let Malfoy live in past altercations.

At the heart of the matter, she fears what he might do now. She shouldn't have shown him the wandless magic she possesses—that she's spent years accumulating, cultivating like treasure deep within her.

The glint in his eye still haunts her memory. Knowing now it was a trap; whether or not she had any other option, she fell for it.

And now, the thought that Draco Malfoy might want to keep her alive is even more terrifying than the thought that he wants her dead. She fears capture worse than death—maybe that's why her hands still tremble even now that she's returned to the safehouse.

She fears he might have some other plan for her. That he might try to claim sovereignty over her mind and magic. She can fight off the Imperius; she's well trained in that. But there are other, darker curses he can utilise.

Out loud, she repeats the only option. "I'm going to kill him."

Harry's face remains blank, his gaze locked on her. Most of the time she can read him like a book, but today he's far away. "You don't sound as certain as I thought you might." He rises from his seat on the bed, clapping a hand to her shoulder. "If you want me to take over this mission, Hermione—"

"I don't." The words fall from her lips sharper, with greater intensity than she intended. It's a job. Nothing more, nothing less.

It isn't her first assignment like this.

She can't shake the way he's crawled under her skin, and she needs to end him before matters grow any worse.

Harry only shrugs. "Okay." He walks towards the door, but turns back. "You're better than him, Hermione. You're better than all of them. All of us, too."

She doubts it. Hermione's killed in cold blood just like anyone else. The Death Eaters may be miserable scum, but some of the resistance leaders aren't much better anymore. And she does as they ask without question, wielding her wand and knives at the bidding of madmen.

The coin in her pocket warms through the fabric of her trousers and she flinches.

She actually flinches.

Harry stares at her another moment longer, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face, before he settles on a frown. "Next time you see him," he says at last, "put a curse through his spine. Don't hesitate, Hermione, because you know he won't."

If only Harry knew.

"Yeah," she mutters, drawing her dagger from its sheath to busy her hands. "I will. Thanks, Harry."

She was wrong to have even considered indulging his offer for information, and now the thought of her own weakness causes her face to flush as shame swells within her.

Harry nods, swinging the door open, and hesitates on the threshold. "Good night, Hermione."

She smooths her whetstone along the sharp edge of her dagger. "Night."

And he slips from the room.

Hermione continues in her task though the blade is still sharp. It helps to smooth the ragged edges of her nerves as she desperately scours her mind for a new plan. For so long, her aim has been to kill Malfoy, and consistently, she comes up short. As the days pass, she only grows more frustrated.

She isn't used to failure.

Not in this. Not when it matters so much.

Drawing several steadying breaths, she folds her legs beneath herself and focuses on the task.

The day's trials only add a new dimension to the things that already keep her awake at night, and she doubts she'll find any rest.

At last, envisioning his heart beneath the point of her blade, she stows it back in the holster. She draws the warm coin from her pocket, instinctively knowing it's from him.

She grinds her jaw hard, activating the message, and stares at the face for minutes longer than she should.

Dread, thick and rancorous, settles within her, and her brain races with such convoluted haste she can hardly see straight.

Nice to run into you today. Our conversation gave me lots to think about. Until next time.

Barely restraining a desperate scream, she fires the coin against the wall.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for reading. I hope you're enjoying the story so far! I love to hear thoughts and theories if you have any <3

Alpha and beta hugs, respectively, to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows. Thanks friendos!

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

If she didn't know better, Hermione might think he'd vanished off the face of the earth.

But she does know better. She knows the fact that she hasn't seen Malfoy in weeks is carefully calculated, that he knows the best ways to affect her, to strike fear.

And she knows his sudden disappearance from the war front is designed around her. Whether he's actually developed a plan, or if this is a means to throw her off while he puts one into play, she doesn't know.

But dammit, if it's the latter, he's succeeding.

She can't kill the asshole if she can't find him.

Malfoy had been so smug, so cocky, when he kidnapped her—when he tricked her into revealing the depths of her power.

Cold fury roils in her veins day and night, her mind focused and fixated on one thing, on the only thing that makes any sense. She's tunnelled into that part of herself that's a dog with a bone, desperation leaking into her movements, haunting her sleep at night, and all she cares about anymore is tracking down the prick and killing him.

Even during the two larger engagements that have occurred between the Death Eaters and the resistance since that day, Hermione didn't catch sight of him. Although she meticulously roved the opposing forces—scouring for Malfoy's smooth gait even when she didn't see his mask—she didn't spot him.

It's like he's gone completely underground.

His usual schedules—appointments he hasn't missed in months—have shifted entirely.

It's unnerving more than the idea of him acting as her would-be assassin, because at least then the cards are laid bare. He knows where she stands, and she knows the inverse. Now... knowing he might have come up with a different idea, uncertainty swells within her each day, keeping her hackles raised and her mind perpetually on edge.

Even when she's at headquarters, she can't relax, because Malfoy knows more about her than she had ever realised before he admitted to it.

She despises him.

Even more, she hates that she can't help the morbid curiosity that mingles with the dread. She might cringe but look on, if he were someone else. If it weren't war, and her life didn't hang in the balance.

Not only her life, but the lives of her friends and comrades. Because if Malfoy has decided he no longer wants her dead, it doesn't bode well. The only thing she can imagine is that he seeks a way to use her for his own benefit.

Long ago, the resistance fashioned an out—a means for soldiers to put an end to any situation in which they might be captured. To prevent information from falling into the wrong hands. Immediate, painless. A quick trip into oblivion to protect everyone else.

Hermione keeps hers with her at all times.

Though the prospect is grim, she'd sooner be dead than allow Malfoy to use her against her friends, the meagre remnants of what had once been the bold idealism of the Order.

She doesn't fear death—hasn't since the war has raged on and on. But she fears capture and manipulation and a dark cage.

As the days pass and she still can't track him, she finds herself constantly on edge. She loses sleep, her mind skimming the possibilities at all hours; her already lean appetite depletes to the point where she feels weak, her sharp instincts dulled. And she can never quite force her mind to stop mulling over where all this could lead.

Instead of allowing herself to sink into her despair, she deliberates a few plans of her own.

Draco strides the corridor, dragonhide boots clicking on the marble floor and reverberating along the walls. Generations of portraits—close and distant ancestors—eye him in silence as he walks. He doesn't know what they think of him—most of the time he tells himself he doesn't care.

As if none of them did what it took to stay alive.

The cause, while a corrupted indoctrination of what it had once been, contains shreds of truth and validity still.

At the very least, Draco's soul has become so damaged that he no longer notices what is and isn't morally reprehensible. It's survival—it's been about survival since he was a teenager facing down an impossible task.

Every day since, it's been a matter of staying alive. Making it through one more day.

Putting an end to the war at long last. And if he ends up below ground at the end of it all, it'll be what it is. The world won't lament him no matter who emerges victorious, this much he knows. Not when he can't even count the lives he's taken anymore.

A stack of books sits upon his desk in the study when he slips through the door and restores the wards. Ancient tomes and grimoires the likes of which ought to have remained buried.

They'll serve his purposes for now—or so he hopes.

Trailing his fingertips along the one atop the stack, Draco peers at the foil title, worn with age and use. A smirk curls his lips as he settles into his seat and begins to read. It's very specific, the spell he seeks, and he doesn't know the parameters around which it exists.

Regardless, he's going to find it.

After a while he sets the tome aside, scrubbing at his eyes. He releases the protective spells on his desk, slides open the top drawer, draws free the coin he stole from the young resistance member.

The face of it is warm beneath his fingers—finally.

Smoothing his fingers across its surface, Draco reveals the message etched within. A slow, malicious smirk pulls at his lips as he reads the four words three times over before they vanish, the face smooth gold once more.

What do you want.

A loaded question with a million answers.

He draws his wand to respond.

She knows better. Knows better than to rise to his taunts, to allow him to get to her. She knows better than to let him live.

But after months spent at an impasse, and with the way the situation has shifted, Hermione can't come up with another alternative.

If she tells Kingsley or anyone else within the resistance that she's lost Malfoy's trail, she'll be ridiculed and removed from the task. Just the idea of admitting it stings some vestige of pride she'd long thought lost. And furthermore—there are ways to swing the changed dynamic to her advantage.

She knows there are.

For one, if Malfoy wants to use her, he won't kill her on the spot.

And though she knows she should put him down—put him out of his misery at long last—she's curious. He has information she needs, the whole resistance needs. The war hasn't gone their way in a long while, and she knows she can outsmart Draco Malfoy.

Despite the possible advantages, she feels a chill crawl along her spine when the air before her shimmers with magic. She slips through the invisible barrier, feeling the vague pressure of intense magical warding in her ears.

Malfoy waits for her, a smirk on his face and those cold grey eyes fixed on her. He's forgone the robes and mask again—whether in some ill-contrived attempt to lower her guard or for other reasons, she can't say.

His very presence makes her uneasy, after so many months—years, really—spent at odds. But he's actively attempted to still her heart for a handful of months now, and she has him. So to look him in the eye, wand holstered in a gesture of good faith she could never truly feel in a hundred years, prickles against every ingrained instinct she knows.

"Good of you to join me," Malfoy drawls, leaning back against a tree as he assesses his nails. "You're late, but I was half expecting you to back out altogether."

Hermione grinds her teeth, unwilling to indulge his games any more than necessary.

"You said you have information for me."

His pale eyes rove her, head to toe and back, lingering on her face. His expression is stoic, unreadable, and as far as she knows, he's unhinged enough that he could be thinking anything at all.

"I do." He pushes off from the tree with his shoulders, striding the few steps that lay between them, and stares down at her. His taller stature and lean muscle are imposing, despite her best efforts to ignore the way he could probably kill her with his bare hands. Her gaze flits to where his own wand is stowed, the handle visible above the holster. "But like I've told you before—it goes both ways."

Before she can say anything, she feels the sudden intrusion of his Legilimency, a smooth, seductive nudge against her Occlumency shields, and she doubles her own defences to keep him out.

Affronted at the obvious effort, she fires a sharp stab into his own shields, though she has little certainty she'll get through.

Her own efforts bounce off his impenetrable walls, harmless. But it's a reminder more than anything—that if he thinks he can slip into her mind that easily, he has underestimated her.

She knows he knows better, and it's simply another of his games.

"Very good," Malfoy murmurs, those unnerving grey eyes still locked on her. "You're formidable, Granger. I'll give you that."

Bristling at his tone, the patronising words, she scowls at him. "I don't need your confirmation."

But he only tuts his tongue. "You're supposed to return the compliment. That's how these things work. I can't kill you, you can't kill me—we can both admit to this, yes?"

"Fuck off, Malfoy."

Forget the arrangement; her hand twitches towards her wand.

And although she expects him to catch the movement, she doesn't expect the way his hand curls around her wrist—when he could easily deter her with wandless magic.

His sudden touch is such a surprise she freezes, allowing her wrist to linger within his hold for a moment. His hand is larger than her own, fingers long enough to wrap easily around her wrist, and more calloused than she would have anticipated from someone who's lived a life of luxury from the womb.

She wrenches her hand free.

He blinks at her, dropping his head into a tilt, and assesses her for long enough that she grows uncomfortable under his stare.

"Tell me something," she says, folding her arms as she shifts a step back. The way he intentionally stands over her is very carefully calculated to leave her on edge. "Why ask me for anything at all? It isn't any secret that the resistance is falling behind."

That cruel, taunting smirk tugs at his lips. "Are they, though?"

Hermione seals her mouth shut.

"Maybe," he murmurs, gaze drifting sidelong, deeper into the forest that he designated as their meeting spot. "The resistance simply wants us to think that. Of course, I wouldn't expect you to reveal such a thing."

"You only expect me to betray my side in other ways, instead."

"It's not an expectation. It's an offer."

"An offer to betray my side," she scoffs, fixing him with a look of disgust.

Malfoy rolls his eyes and turns back to face her, the droll irreverence evaporating from his countenance. "You seem to be ignoring the fact that it would be mutual."

"I don't understand what you stand to gain." She tracks every movement, every shift, the ways his tone hardens as he speaks. "I can't imagine the Dark Lord will take kindly to your betrayal."

Desperately, she longs for something. Anything. For him to reveal some glimmer of motive that she can use to, at the very least, rationalise why he wants to do this.

Because from where she's standing, it makes no sense.

She has more to gain—provided his information is legitimate. Which she doesn't trust. Not for a moment.

At last he smirks again, but some of the humour from before is gone. "Why don't you leave my motives to me, and I won't question yours. It's not as if we're on the same side. Just think of it as… a mutually beneficial arrangement wherein we both get what we want in exchange for something hardly even relevant."

If she didn't already doubt him, the words do nothing to help.

Hermione folds her arms, desperately wishing she could turn the tables on him—but she can't help but feel as though she's at his mercy. She hates it. Hates the shiver that traverses her spine at the thought. "You want to know about a safehouse."

"Changed my mind," Malfoy quips. "I want to know something different."

"I make no promises." The words are bitter cold and fuelled by as much disdain as she can dredge. After all, the last parcel of information he wanted from her, she wasn't even able to provide. "The resistance is large and widespread. I don't know everything that's happening everywhere."

"Of course you don't."

Despite that he's only mirroring the sentiment she suggested, his flippancy in the matter rankles. Her upper lip curls as she growls, "What, then?"

"Operation Foray. What is it?"

She fixes her face into a stoic mask, unwilling to allow him anything while she processes the request. More than anything, she knows he won't admit to why he wants the information, or where he even got the name in the first place.

"If I tell you." She squares her chin, locking on his gaze. "What do I get in return?"

Malfoy's grey eyes flash in a way that makes her anxious. Despite the relative warmth of the day, a cold chill crawls through her and settles deep within.

"If you tell me what it is—truly what it is—I'll inform you of an impending ambush in advance."

She can't help it. She sucks in a breath.

More and more frequently, the Death Eaters tend to catch them off guard, to the devastating detriment of the resistance. By knowing of such a thing, they could not only get away in time, but also turn the situation to their advantage.

"And how can I trust you?"

"You can't." He purses his lips, squares his jaw tight; if she didn't know better, she might think he looks offended. "Aside from my word."

She scoffs. "You're a Death Eater. Your word means nothing."

"Mutual on this side, isn't it? If I'm going to tell you anything at all, and if you're going to tell me about Operation Foray, we're going to have to trust that the other isn't lying. Otherwise we're going to wind up right back where we were, with our wands at each other's throat."

At this point, it's more appealing than not.

But what he's offering…

The line is dangerous. She knows this; can feel the heat of the flames on the other side, tickling her feet as she peers over. But the chance to prevent an ambush…

"Why? I see no reason why you would willingly endanger your people."

"Like I said." His face shifts again, irreverent once more. "My motives. You need to learn to look at the bigger picture, Granger."

She can read through the lines well enough for that. That he doesn't care if some Death Eaters wind up killed so long as he gets the information he needs. Again, she wonders what's so important for him to learn about Operation Foray if he's willing to give up the lives of Death Eaters for it.

Folding her arms, Hermione steps close and stares him down. Some part of her is desperate to put him on uneven footing, much like she feels. But Malfoy is so stoic, so unflinchingly solid.

"At any rate," she goes on, softly. "Like I said, the resistance is large. I don't know everything that goes on—if Operation Foray exists, I don't know about it."

It isn't egregious to admit, when different sects of the resistance operate in isolation from the rest. An effort to avoid information being leaked. A swell of guilt rises within her at the thought.

"I suggest you find out," Malfoy drawls, eyes flashing. "Because it will be worth your while."

"And if I don't?"

He shrugs, as though the whole conversation is irrelevant at its heart. "If you don't then nothing, I suppose. Neither of us will have any information, and we'll go back to hunting each other like animals."

A shiver races down her spine unbidden. But still, she narrows her eyes. "You only decided you didn't want to kill me after you realised the extent of my wandless magic."

It isn't really a question, but she can see in the tension that creeps into his stance that he follows. "You aren't wrong," he clips, "and it will be a shame, but if you aren't willing to follow through, then it's all the more reason for me to remove you from the equation, isn't it?"

Clinical. Cold. As though discussing her murder as a logistical matter is casual conversation to him.

Of course it is—he's a Death Eater. Hermione doesn't even want to imagine how many of her comrades have taken their final breaths at the tip of his wand.

"Fine." She purses her lips, dragging her gaze the full, intimidating height of him. "I don't know, but I can try to find out. I'll be in touch."

Before she can walk away, Malfoy tuts his tongue, blinking his eyes briefly shut as he draws his wand. He fixes her with another hard stare. "I'm going to need certain… assurances. That you aren't lying."

She's already tired of his games, but she shouldn't expect any less. "What sort of assurances?"

His eyes lock on hers, and instantly, she feels the lash of his Legilimency nudging at her mind. Releasing a heavy breath through her nose, Hermione stiffens. Her instinct is to push him out, entirely and viciously, but when his intrusion softens, a cool caress against her Occlumency walls, she allows him the brief indulgence.

Carefully parsing through the moments wherein he first mentioned Operation Foray, she collects the memories. Separates and segregates them into a small antechamber within her mind. Then reinforces the rest of her walls to keep him from getting past.

A demonstration—and a gesture of good faith—that she doesn't know what it is.

Pressing back against his trailing search of her mind—a languorous scouring for entrance—on principle, she allows him in.

Malfoy in her mind isn't how she anticipated. He slips in, the feel of his Legilimency dark and cool—sensuous and seductive. Hermione can feel his mind brush against her own, teasing each memory she's curated for his perusal, and all the while his face remains blank.

But inside her head, she hates the awareness of him. Hates the way he slides and glides through her thoughts as if he has any right to be there.

Then he nudges against the interior wall of the chamber, seeking a way into the rest of her mind. She scowls, snapping down an additional layer of protection in his way. A boundary—and a threat.

At last, his lips quirk with a hint of humour. But still, he roves the antechamber she fashioned for him, sweeping the walls as if she's keeping something else hidden. As if he's in no hurry to withdraw from her mind.

She seals the outer wall, through with his taunts, and his eyes tighten ever so slightly. She's effectively blocked his exit, and she can feel his persistent nudges from within.

"Something the matter?" she asks, infusing her voice with false saccharine. "I thought everyone knew not to linger in another person's mind unnecessarily."

Although he simply cocks a brow, she can feel his mounting frustration where the signature of his mind slithers against her own.

He ducks in, so close she can feel his breath caressing the shell of her ear, and before she can jerk back, he breathes, "If you want me inside of you, Granger, you only have to ask."

The wave of disgust that courses through her is enough for her to pull away, opening the walls of the antechamber and expelling him out.

"Pig," she huffs, allowing her disdain visible on her face. "I don't. And you've got what you wanted."

"No harm in a little exploration," he muses, as though he hasn't just propositioned her. "Your mind is a fascinating place. I only wanted to look around a little."

Hermione has no doubt his idea of looking around means ravaging her mind for everything it's worth. Breaking in and breaking her and forcing her to bend to his will.

"It isn't open to the public," she snarls, skin crawling with heat.

She hates it.

Hates the glimmer in his eye. She rose to his bait and they both know it.

"Like you said," he drawls at last, "I got what I wanted—for now. You'd best find out about Operation Foray, Granger, because the clock is ticking. I'll forewarn you of one attack, after you deliver."

"No." Hermione narrows her eyes at him. "I offered you a show of faith. You get to act first. I'll find out what it is, and I'll even tell you, but I'm not going to be the only one living up to my end of this bargain. You are going to provide the warning you've promised, and only if it's worthwhile will I tell you what I learn."

"No deal."

"Then no information."

As they glare at each other, eyes locked, she can taste the raw loathing simmering in the air. Another impasse—only this time, the weapons aren't magical or Muggle.

They're infinitely more dangerous.

At last, Hermione breaks the silence, growling, "I need time."

The silence drags on, well past discomfort, and for a flickering moment, she thinks he might back out. Change his mind entirely, and refuse the deal.

It won't be the end of the world, but the chance to catch a contingent of Death Eaters off their guard sounds more enticing than she willingly cares to admit. Still, alarm bells ring in the back of her mind.

She doesn't even know what Operation Foray is. For all she knows, it's information for those among the resistance who possess the highest levels of clearance. It could be the resistance's shot at victory.

There's a chance she might not be able to find out after all.

But all she promised was to tell him what it is. Already, she can come up with several ways to prevent him from using it to gain an advantage.

"Fine," Malfoy says. The silence has hung between them for so long that the sound of his voice nearly makes her flinch. "I will fulfill my end of the bargain first—but I promise you, Granger, if you fail to follow through on yours, your entire resistance will regret it. And that includes anything you do to try and trick me."

Her stomach twists, like a hand pulled into a fist, but she keeps her face blank. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"And obviously..." His grey stare lingers on her, cold and haunted. "I don't imagine I need to say how imperative it is that we keep this little arrangement between us."

Hermione almost rolls her eyes, but manages to withhold the urge. "You do not."

Sharing information with a Death Eater, no matter the content or what she might possibly receive in exchange, would strike as betrayal. She knows she would certainly see it as such were it anyone else. The very thought makes her nauseous, and a mental image of Harry's face flits through her mind, confused and disappointed.

Never mind that the Death Eater in question is the one she's in no uncertain terms meant to put in the ground.

As though through with their conversation, Malfoy rolls out his neck and takes a step back from his intrusion of her space. "I'll be in touch."

Before she can say another word, he Disapparates, leaving the air around her cold.

Draco stands before the Dark Lord, shoulders back and a slight incline to his chin. The situation is beginning to feel more common than he cares for.

Maybe it's the fact that the Dark Lord never leaves the manor anymore. Never ventures out to fight in the war he's created.

"You called?" Draco asks, lifting a brow.

Voldemort assesses him, fingers steepled in thought. "It has come to my attention that Hermione Granger is still alive. Are you so incompetent that you cannot finish off one stubborn witch? Do I need to assign someone else the task? Because I can assure you plenty of my soldiers would enjoy the opportunity."

Draco refrains the urge to sneer, when he knows exactly how much most of the Death Eaters would enjoy Granger's pain.

He's seen her blood and her tears, but none of it was a source of enjoyment.

Instead he ducks his chin, and says briskly, "She's still alive because I have a reason for it. Once her purpose is through, that will be the end of the matter."

As though simply humouring him, Voldemort says, "And what is this purpose?"

"Once the time is upon us," Draco drawls, "you'll know. Rest assured, Granger is positioned exactly where I want her. Presently, she's of much more value to me alive than dead."

He doesn't want to share his hand; can't share his hand.

Not yet.

But Voldemort simply waves a flippant hand. "You expect me to simply go along with this, allow you to gallivant about however you wish, even though it's in violation of a direct order. You have already taken far longer with her than you originally promised."

If Draco were anyone but one of the Dark Lord's highest ranked, he knows he would never get away with it. He would have seen half a dozen Crucios by this point in the conversation, if he were lucky enough to still be alive.

But he knows his master's mind.

Knows how he ticks.

And Draco knows the Dark Lord can't resist the spark of curiosity. Despite that his brain has long rotted of dark magic gone corrupt, he was once brilliant, charismatic, ambitious.

Every so often, Draco suspects they might have gotten on, had circumstance and timing been different.

"I am asking, My Lord," he purrs, a cruel smirk dragging at one corner of his mouth, "for your faith in me. Only for a while longer. I promise more will come of it than you can even imagine."

He spies the glint—the greed that has driven the Dark Lord to this point—and Draco knows he's won.

For now.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you're continuing to enjoy the story! Take care, everyone.

And as always, thanks to my alpha, Kyonomiko and beta, sweetestsorrows for helping me make this story what it is. <3

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Change of plans.

The coin warms in her palm as she stares at it, jolting with surprise. Only a few days have passed since her objectively ill-conceived accord with Draco Malfoy, and already Hermione has come to regret it.

The information he can provide could prove invaluable—but she doesn't care for the cost.

She hasn't had a chance to look deeper into the matter of Foray, and she has nothing to offer him as of yet.

And she doesn't have anything to say to the prick.

But she feels the heat of the coin again, moments later, and casts a surreptitious glance down.

Meet me. NOW.

Hermione contains the urge to scoff and stows the coin back away. She's in the middle of a meeting—one she can't very well abandon partway.

Silently, Harry cocks a brow at her side, and she offers a brisk shake of the head. Nothing. Merlin, she wishes it were nothing. She turns her attention back to the speaker—a resistance member from one of the southern safehouses apprising them of a recent development. Nothing that affects them.

Nerves niggle at her as the meeting draws on, and when she feels the coin warm once more, she can't keep her focus.

Carefully, she slips it into her hand and skims the message.

What part of 'now' don't you fucking understand?

Irritation prickles along her skin and she jams it back into her pocket, determined to ignore any further petulance from him through the remainder of the meeting. She isn't a house elf to be summoned to his needs. It'll do him well to realise such.

When the meeting wraps up twenty minutes later and the crowd disperses, Harry says, "What was that all about?"

"Nothing," she returns, offering an easy smile. "I have another meeting this afternoon. The time's changed."

Harry knows better than to ask her for specifics, for which she's grateful. They both have things they don't share with each other—and Hermione knows he is responsible for plenty of things he doesn't like to discuss.

He simply nods and slides his hands into his pockets. "Make sure you're back in time for the raid. We're going to need everyone we can get."

"Right." Glancing down at her watch, Hermione nods. The raid in question has been in the works for weeks now. The target is a scarcely utilised Death Eater bastion that they've learned will be receiving a shipment of vital supplies. If the resistance can get to it in time, it will strike a good blow to the other side's logistics and morale—and a few dead Death Eaters never hurts. "I'll be back well in advance."

She slips onto the grounds, ensures no one has eyes on her, and Disapparates.

Draco paces the darkened corner in the rundown park where he met with Granger several days prior. He's five minutes from calling off the entire deal and just reverting to the original plan to sate his growing irritation with the witch.

A snarl nearly rips from his throat when he finally hears the pop of Apparition.

"You really need a lesson on punctuality, don't you?" he drawls, anger playing at the edges of his nerves. "Now means now; it doesn't mean half an hour from now."

He casts a surreptitious glance around with a few hidden revealing charms. It appears she hasn't brought backup—it makes the whole situation more palatable.

"You," she huffs, jabbing a finger in his direction, "need a lesson in bloody manners!" Her eyes flash with heat. "I was in the middle of something I couldn't walk away from."

"Let me guess," he says, fixing her with a cold stare. "Raid planning?"

"No," she hisses; moments later, the words sink in and her eyes widen ever so slightly. "What?"

He presses his own briefly shut, shaking his head. "I told you—change of fucking plans. The raid the resistance is planning has been compromised. You'll be walking into a massacre."

When she only stares at him for so long the air between them grows thick with tension, Draco rolls his eyes. Recites the time and location arranged. Watches the blood drain from her face entirely.

"Why?" she demands. "Why tell me this?"

Draco eyes his fingernails, unwilling to tell her too much. To witness the poorly concealed dread on her face. "Because," he says at last. "It seems to me this is more valuable to you than to warn you of an incoming ambush at some point in the future. I don't know where, but there's a good chance you've got a leak. Someone let slip the details of the raid into Death Eater hands. I don't know anything more than that because I wasn't involved in any of it. But I promise you, you'll be met with more force than you're anticipating."

Eyeing him warily, as if she still doesn't quite believe him, Granger tugs at a loose curl. "How am I supposed to explain where I heard this?"

"Your problem," Draco says with a shrug. "This is the show of faith you wanted from me. What you do with it is up to you."

Even though the resistance will benefit from the matter, now she has no way of reneging on their deal without inviting his wrath. If she still harboured any lingering doubts, she has no choice any longer.

She'll be throwing away an opportunity if she doesn't listen. Not to mention the lives of many of her comrades.

At last, as though working through the details he's fed her, she nods. "I don't have your information yet."

"I know."

"But I will."

He smirks. "I know."

Still looking uncertain, like his easy offer of salvation has thrown her off, she nods again. "Right," she says, "thanks, Malfoy."

"Don't thank me," he clips. "You're in this, too."

She grimaces. He knows he doesn't need to remind her of the gravity of the matter. They both know the way he'll go after her if she fails to live up to her end of the bargain. After a stilted, prolonged moment, she shrugs all the same. "Still."

Granger's gratefulness leaves Draco uneasy, on the wrong side of a bargain that's meant to go in his favour.

But it will. In time, it will.

He offers a nod, stiffening his shoulders, and steps farther away from her. "The sooner you get me that information, the better."

She fixes him with a hard, unimpressed look. "You'll get it when you get it."

Draco bristles but keeps his mouth shut. This will all play out as it's meant to; despite the variables that seek to get in the way, he knows this. So he offers his most insincere, saccharine smile, and drawls, "Of course I will."

Scowling at him, Granger curls her lip. "Merlin, you're insufferable."

"It goes both ways. Believe me."

It's almost enjoyable. Almost enough for Draco to forget the dark haze of war that lingers over everything he does. The flash of annoyance in her eyes that he remembers so well from their time at Hogwarts together.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

The thought is as wearying as it is jarring.

And suddenly, just like that, he doesn't want to talk to her anymore. The banter feels as though it belongs to a different life, a different time. Maybe in a world where he wasn't meant to kill her, he might even allow himself to enjoy it.

Now, it only makes him uncomfortable. It's dangerous to act as if their circumstances are anything other than they are. His stomach curdles at the thought.

His eyes linger on her for a moment longer, watching as the hint of humour vanishes from her face. Like she's come to the same realisation.

Draco almost can't take it. He scuffs a boot in the dirt, in the crumbling remains of his life. He wants to say something, to ease the tension, to reignite the hatred in her eyes. He doesn't know. The thought of killing her grows more complicated every day.

Lowering his voice, he drawls, "Goodbye, Granger." He forces himself into Apparition.

Eyes linger on her as Hermione makes a brisk path from the edge of the Apparition wards into the safehouse, and strides towards Kingsley.

"You need to call off today's raid."

Surprise quickly gives way to scepticism as Kingsley cocks a brow. "And why would we do that? This is the best opportunity we've had in weeks. Everything's already prepared."

Hermione squares her shoulders. She hasn't had a chance to come up with a proper story, but there isn't time. Not given how close they are, how complex the plan is. "I have reason to believe our secrecy has been compromised. That the Death Eaters know we're coming."

Cassius walks over, folding his arms, and fixes her with a hard look. "That is highly unlikely. Where did you find this so-called information?"

Nerves prickle along the surface of her skin. "I have a source—anonymous. I can't reveal their identity." Both men scowl at her, and she can see their disbelief blatant on their faces. Still, Malfoy's dire warning rings in the back of her mind.

She has no reason to trust him—aside from an arbitrary and unorthodox deal made behind the curtains.

But… she can't help but rely on her instincts. And every part of her screams that he wasn't lying. If Malfoy wants information from her—and she knows he does—would he risk feeding her misleading information in return?

It wouldn't make any sense, and he would have nothing to gain.

If he had tried to manipulate her into something, rather than out of it, she might feel more consternation.

"How credible is this anonymous source?" Cassius asks, and Hermione can taste the disdain. She doesn't blame him—they've all been burnt too many times. Hermione knows as well as anyone how important it is to keep her guard up. But still, his dismissive derision stings—as though he has no trust for her.

She squares her shoulders, straightens her back, and looks him dead in the eye. "I can't reveal their identity, but the source is someone with a channel of information from the Dark Lord's inner circle."

Kingsley remains unconvinced. "Source or not—we've been careful with every aspect of this plan. We need to move today, or we won't—"

"Not careful enough, apparently!" The words fall from her words with a staccato shade of desperation.

The two men blink at her, their faces stern, and Hermione feels attention slide towards them from all corners of the room. She draws in a deep breath and clarifies. "Obviously, something has leaked. Whether malicious or innocuous, the Death Eaters know of our plans."

She needs to get through to them. Needs to at least plant a seed of doubt.

Harry sidles up alongside her, hands jammed in his pockets. He cocks a brow. "Everything alright here?"

"No," she grinds out. "I have an authority from an inside source that our raid today has been leaked."

"A source," Cassius clips, "that you refuse to reveal. How are we to take this tip at face value? Only the highest ranking members of the resistance know the full details for the plan today."

Glancing towards her, his face carefully stoic, Harry asks, "Do I know about this source?"

Hermione stiffens. "You do not."

She can't tell them who it is. And by all accounts and the extensive functional rules of the resistance, she doesn't need to. Informants are never required to be revealed, especially if the life or safety of the informant will be at risk. Even so, their scepticism remains evident. If she's honest, this is probably Malfoy's fault, too. Maybe what little faith she might have garnered has been forfeited by the fact that she hasn't yet taken him out of the picture, though she's been assigned to put a curse through his heart for months now.

Despite everything, Hermione can't help the way their distrust stings.

If Malfoy's information proves valuable, she can turn the situation back in her favour. Maybe Malfoy might prove to be worth more alive after all.

Of course, if she were to reveal the bargain they'd made, she could be expelled from the resistance on grounds of treason. Or killed. Bile churns in her stomach, building at the back of her throat, at the thought.

Cassius scowls without bothering to conceal his distaste. "Is your source a Death Eater?"

The rest of the small group stills.

Hermione opts not to answer; let them take it as they will. She isn't naming anyone no matter how hard they pry.

At last, Harry shrugs. "We have to take all information into consideration. Especially since the raid today has so much hanging on it. And so many people involved."

But Cassius hisses, "Exactly. This is our chance to make a big play."

"It won't be a big play if the Death Eaters know about it," Hermione insists, her voice rising, but she can't help it. The very fact alone that they're questioning her information has sown a seed of ire within her. Frustration builds in her chest like a flame. "If we go ahead with the raid today, we'll be handing them victory on a platter, just like the last time—"

"Enough," Kingsley huffs. He raises a hand, and his brow furrows with consideration. "We'll discuss this matter. Thanks, Operative Granger."

Recognising the dismissal, she stiffens, grinding her jaw. "There's nothing to discuss! If we have a leak—"

"We'll discuss it," Kingsley says again, exchanging a glance with Cassius.

To her relief, Harry frowns at Kingsley. "Surely, you aren't actually proceeding with the plan as it is. No matter who Hermione's source is, if there's so much as a whisper that the Death Eaters know about it, that should be enough to put it on pause. We've all seen how quickly they can turn our own missions against us."

Cassius folds his arms and growls, "We aren't discussing this here."

The disagreement has drawn the attention of various others in the safehouse, and despite that she knows how valuable the information is—and how much it could potentially cost Malfoy to have given it to her—she feels a blush creep into her cheeks at the chastisement.

But as Cassius and Kingsley exchange another look, she realises they aren't going to speak on the matter any further beyond the privacy of their war office—to which she doesn't have access.

"Fine," she grinds out. "But know that I'm not making this up, and it'll be to the detriment of everyone here if we proceed."

She storms away from the small group, brushing past a pair of operatives visiting from another safehouse, and locks herself up in her small room. Frustration prickles along the surface of her skin, and she balls her hands into tight fists.

She can hardly believe they weren't even willing to hear her out.

If not for the deal in which she's presently engaged with Malfoy, she would search out the release in her typical outlet—hunting Malfoy. Following and tracking and investigating and learning everything she could so she can find him, fire spell after spell, feel the adrenaline that comes from his sharp spellwork thrown at her in return—

Blowing out a heavy breath, she sinks back onto her small cot.

If it weren't for the way curiosity still lingers within her, she might simply leave the house. She's desperate for fresh air, for a step back, for a break from the nonsense and the bureaucracy and the bloody fucking war.

Instead she paws at her eyes, refusing to allow tears. She can't claim she isn't in the wrong—she knows the consequences that would fall should anyone learn about the deal she's made with Malfoy. Already, she regrets it more than she can put into words.

Especially if the information he's offered her isn't even taken into account. If they go ahead with the raid and precious resistance lives are lost—she'll never let it go. Never hear the end of it.

The criticism will fall on her—she knows this. Even though she told them what might happen.

She hates it all, so much, every day. She wishes the war had ended years ago, and that they might have had a chance to experience a proper youth without the dark cloud of it all hounding them for years on end. Hermione doesn't even remember how it felt to simply exist without all of this in the way. Her teenage years—and now the years of her young adulthood—have been embroiled in a battle that should not even exist.

Most of the time, she's able to push the injustice of it to the back of her mind. To remind herself that this is what she fights for.

The deal with Malfoy has stirred too much to the surface, like sediment at the bottom of a pool, and now her motivations feel murky and clouded by the mingling of discouragement and a flicker of hope that's been long buried.

She wants out.

But war is all she knows anymore.

Some time later, a quiet tap comes at the door, and before she can respond, Harry lets himself in and drops down onto the bed beside her with a sigh. For a long moment, neither of them speaks. Hermione wonders if he can see the redness in her eyes.

"I ripped into Kings'," Harry says, reaching for her hand. "He used to be so… I don't know, Hermione. Didn't he care more about all this? About doing the right thing?" He rubs a hand down his face, and Hermione can see his exhaustion. "I can't even remember anymore."

"He did," Hermione returns quietly. "But a lot of things used to be different. The Order used to stand for something—to have morals. Maybe that's why it fell apart."

An incredulous huff of laughter falls from Harry's lips. "Imagine. Now it's all just a matter of who can survive from one week to the next—who can sling the dirtiest curses and take the most lives."

The assessment is so bleak, Hermione fights a fresh wave of exhaustion sting at her eyes. Bitterly, she says, "War."

Harry remains silent, staring hard at the floor. Finally, he echoes, "War." Despite his stoicism, she can feel the tension roiling from her oldest friend. "I fucking hate it."

"Me too."

"They fucking used to—they used to want what was best for people."

Hermione releases a sigh. "I suppose this means they aren't calling off the raid?"

"They're reassessing." The word sounds facetious, dripping with sarcasm. "If there's any chance at all the Death Eaters have been tipped off, we shouldn't go ahead with it. Everyone knows this. Cassius is so bloody blinded by his own ambition he doesn't even care who winds up collateral damage."

"Of course we shouldn't," she huffs. "People are going to die, Harry."

His eyes slide to hers, and he releases her hand, leaning back against the wall adjacent to the bed. "How certain are you of the source?"

It's a roundabout way of asking for information, but even with her oldest friend, Hermione doesn't want to reveal the truth. Harry knows as well as anyone the rules around the resistance, and Hermione's been an operative long enough she ought to have earned more trust than this.

"Certain," she allows. "They know the inner workings of the Death Eaters."

Harry faces her and asks baldly, "Is your source a Death Eater?"

She doesn't know how to respond. Anything she says will give up more than she cares to, and she doesn't know whether Harry will keep it a secret if she tells him the truth. Doesn't even know if he can keep it secret.

Again, she regrets her impulsivity. Her shortsightedness.

So she defaults to an easy answer, unable to meet his eyes. "I can't reveal anything."

It could mean a variety of things, but she hopes he takes it to mean her informant's life could be at risk if they were to be found out. Despite Malfoy's high ranks in the Death Eaters, she doesn't doubt it to be true. Treason is treason, whether it's within the resistance or the Death Eaters.

If anything, his life could be more at risk for giving out this information than hers. But if the resistance refuses to accept the information she's provided, it'll all be for naught.

Harry nods, and she can't tell whether he's disappointed.

Hermione only says, "They can't go ahead with this. It'll be a bloodbath."

"I know." He sighs again, rising to his feet, and walks towards the door. "I believe you. But nobody gives a shit about what you and I think anymore." He leans against the inside of the door frame, eyeing her with a look on his face that makes her uneasy. "You know we should have just run off. Shit, everything felt impossible even when we were on the run. Before we lost Ron, before… everything. We should have just left. We were fucking teenagers."

"Yeah." She nods, releasing the word like a breath, and feels her chest tighten. "It was too much. It's still too much."

Harry rakes a hand through his hair. "It's always been too much. Only back then, we still had hope."

He slips from the room, closing the door behind him without another word, and Hermione's heart sinks.

The raid proceeds with some modifications. The time has been altered and the central target switched with a different known Death Eater outpost. As if that's enough to make a difference. If the Death Eaters know they're coming, it won't matter.

Hermione's dread has turned to ice in her veins, and following several additional failed arguments, she finds herself in position, eyes startled wide with fear.

At best, they've allowed themselves more time. And at worst…

Her heart hammers in her chest.

The first wave of resistance fighters begins to advance, taking out several of the skeleton crew of Death Eaters who patrol the perimeter. Hermione watches from a distance, awaiting the signal.

She can't help the way she doubts it will come. In the distance, coloured spellfire flashes, illuminating the darkening sky.

Anger stirs within her, sending chills darting along her spine, and her wand hand trembles in a way it hasn't in years. It feels as though they've marched into an impending death sentence, and she's forced to watch and wait.

Because she knows. The reassessment, the modifications—none of it's enough. Not when the Death Eaters are already amassed and prepared for a fight. For all she knows, the only reason they haven't already Apparated in en masse is to allow the resistance a brief yet false sense of security.

In the distance, the signal alights in the sky, and Hermione steels herself for a fight.

Across the wooded perimeter, she catches sight of Harry. He offers a grimace before beginning to advance. Nausea churns in her stomach; although she knows him to be careful—and he knows what they could be up against—there's little to be done if they wind up outnumbered.

Lifting her wand, she takes a step towards the outpost.

She halts, a slight quake in her hand, and enough hesitation swirling in her mind that it takes a moment to force her feet to move.

In an instant, a hand claps over her mouth from behind to muffle her surprise, and she feels a wand jammed none too gently into her neck just below the underside of her jaw.

Swivelling her wand, she tenses, ready and willing to engage her assailant.

"Don't," a voice breathes in her ear, "even think about it."

Hermione hisses into his palm, and she hates the way some part of her relaxes in the knowledge that Malfoy isn't going to kill her on the spot. "Let go of me."

"If you go in there, you'll die."

At odds with the words, he withdraws his hand from her mouth but keeps his wand tip against her throat. Hermione shoulders his arm, knocking his wand away, and scowls when she wheels to face him. To her surprise, fury flashes in his grey eyes, the only part of his face visible through the ornate mask he wears. The hood of his robes falls so far over his face she can't see his hair, and if she didn't recognise the voice and mask, she wouldn't be able to tell him from any other Death Eater.

"What the fuck, Granger?" he hisses, eyes darting towards the outpost ahead. "What part of my tip was unclear?"

"I argued with them all day," she growls in return, bristling with a combination of defensiveness and shame. Deep-abiding shame.

But she sees the flash in Malfoy's eyes, and regrets even saying so. The last thing she needs to do is to unwittingly feed him any more information about the resistance than what she's already promised.

"Fascinating," he drawls. "And here was me thinking you actually had a little pull."

Her face burns hot. "Fuck off, Malfoy. I have to fight."

"You will die." He clips the words, each one staccato and unforgiving.

"And?" She stumbles a step back, turning her wand on him. "Isn't that what you've wanted all along? Won't it just make your job easier?"

To her surprise, Malfoy lifts the mask to rest atop his head; she can see his smirk in the deep shadows. "My job is to kill you myself. So if you're going to go full Gryffindor on me and run into that outpost to your death, at least let me be the one to bury the Avada. Because Merlin fucking knows you owe me as much for the tip today—even if you did shit all with it."

She hates him. The anger burns within her, stronger than ever, and so much of it now revolves around the fact that she owes him anything at all. That her first instinct isn't to attack him. That there's something else beyond the mutual desire to torture and kill each other.

Because she can't deny the truth. He tipped her off about the fact that the Death Eaters knew about their raid.

Distantly, she can hear the whiz of spellfire, the shouts of battle breaking out. Flashes of light chase in every direction. Desperation swells within her, but she can't even imagine the numbers. She knows he's right—if she runs into the fray unprepared, she'll be of no help to anyone.

"Get out of here, Granger," Malfoy drawls. "I'm not going to give you another warning. If you want to survive today, leave now."

"I can't just—" Her stare darts towards where she last saw Harry, but he's gone. Anguish claws at her chest with an unbearable tightness.

Malfoy follows her stare, amusement tilting his lips again, as though this is all little more than a game. "Who? Who is it that you're willing to risk your life to fight for? Surely not the arseholes who refused to listen to you."

She clamps her jaw shut hard with a click. Most of the Death Eaters don't even know Harry is still alive, and they've worked hard to keep it that way. Between glamours and disguises, they're careful to keep him concealed. Because even while the resistance doesn't afford him anything anymore, he remains a symbol.

To so many, even as their numbers dwindle, as the battles grow dire and the resistance sees discouragement after devastating loss, Harry reminds them of the hope they once felt.

It's something Hermione will always fight for.

"Loyalty," she growls, "is obviously not something you understand. But I fight for what I believe in."

Amusement dances in Malfoy's eyes, in a way that always makes her feel as though he's laughing at her because he knows something she doesn't.

"Loyalty," he echoes, sampling the word, then clicks his tongue. "Right. Because it was loyalty that drove you to make a deal with me in the first place." He snickers, rolling his eyes. "And for the record, if you were to descend from your high fucking horse, you might realise that loyalty exists on both sides, whether you care to acknowledge it or not."

She shifts, glaring, unflinchingly, back.

Malfoy lives for this. He lives for the fight and the violence. She's seen it—the ease with which deadly curses fall from his lips, like he gets off on it.

Hermione suspects not a loyal bone exists in his body.

"Lie to yourself all you like," she murmurs, edging a step away from him and towards the fray. "But I'll never expect you to understand."

The irreverence in his eyes falters, only for a moment, and his smirk drops off. "I'm not going to stop you if you insist on being an idiot. But need I remind you that you still owe me fulfillment of your side of this bargain, and if you get yourself killed before I get my information I will bring you back only to murder you again myself."

"The threats grow old, Malfoy." She catches the way his grip tightens on his wand. "You keep promising to kill me, eventually I'm going to stop believing you."

She doesn't care for the flash in his eye.

But before he can give voice to the fire in his stare, she presses on. "I told you I'd fulfil my end and I will."

"Good," he purrs. "Because I don't make promises I don't intend to keep, Granger. Maybe you're still alive because I have reasons for keeping you that way."

A shudder crawls unbidden down her spine, despite her efforts to block his words out. She doesn't doubt he means it.

As her gaze slides back towards the fray, her mind searches frantically for a way to slip away. Malfoy seems content enough in keeping her distracted, and it's preventing her from helping with the fight. In the distance, the sounds of battle grow louder.

A scream rends the air.

Just as she's about to run, Malfoy be damned, the charmed galleon in her pocket heats up.

He simply watches her, twirling his wand skilfully through his fingers. Keeping one eye fixed on her adversary, Hermione peers at the coin; he already knows well enough how they work. The simple message shoots a jolt through her.

Compromised and overrun. RETREAT.

Jamming the coin back into her pocket, Hermione scans the woods, searching for any sign of Harry. Pops of Disapparition sound all around her, and some feeble, cowardly part of her doesn't want to witness the carnage that might be left behind.

A slow, cruel smirk drags across Malfoy's face, as if he's pieced it together. As if he knew all along exactly how it would all go down.

Which, of course, he did.

Facetious and sardonic, he drawls, "Let me guess—your little raid was shut down exactly as I told you it would be."

Fury lances through her, white hot, and Hermione storms closer, locking onto his stare. She hisses, "You'll get your information, but I swear to Merlin, Malfoy—"

"Maybe they ought to have listened to you."

Her tirade stops short, disbelief mingling with surprise as his amusement vanishes, replaced by something almost human. Heavy breaths fall from her lungs as adrenaline mounts and seeps free. This battle may be over, but hers with Malfoy rages on.

"I imagine you're pleased," she snaps, as scathing as she can manage. "Your side wins another day."

His lips twitch as he gazes at her through heavily lidded eyes. Then a grin stretches across his face and he slips his tongue between his molars. "Indeed," he murmurs at last, but doesn't look away. "I suppose I am."

Hermione sneers in distaste at his flippancy, shaking his head. "I despise you."

"It's mutual, love," he drawls, stowing his wand at last. Her skin crawls even as her heart stutters at the unexpected nickname.

His stare hangs on her for only a moment longer before he scans the forest around them. The distant sounds of battle have dropped off almost entirely.

As if his fun has come to a close, his face falls stoic and he slips his mask back into place. Low and cold, he drawls, "I'll await your message. But I'm not a patient man, Granger—I'm not going to wait long."

Without dignifying him with a response, Hermione Disapparates.

The storm clouds in his stare haunt her as she lands back at the safehouse, bracing herself for the chaos to come.

It's only then that she realises Malfoy distracted her thoroughly enough that she didn't fire off a single spell.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks so much for reading, friends. I really hope you're enjoying the story. This fic has been a pretty big step away from what I typically write and I've been so nervous about sharing it, so it means a lot that you're here on this journey with me.

A million hugs to my alpha, kyonomiko, and beta, sweetestsorrows.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Nausea swirls within her, straining her physical and mental limits.

Even now, days later, all she can see in the back of her mind is the carnage. The immobile forms strewn in a line at the safehouse—the fighters they'd lost. And still more they'd been unable to recover.

Hermione has no appetite to speak of; her sleep is haunted by nightmares the likes of which she hasn't experienced in years. She's been embroiled in war for so long that a part of her had become jaded to the frequency and the voracity of battle, of loss, of death.

But now…

Knowing this was avoidable makes it all come rushing back.

She had given them the information they needed to call off the raid, and still they'd made only minor alterations to the plan and gone ahead with it.

Harry's livid. He's spent the duration of the last several days—aside from the initial panicked relief when they met back up at the safehouse—entangled in arguments with Kingsley and Cassius. For her part, Hermione has tried to dredge up anything more she can say on the matter.

After the chaos of the failed mission settled, she sat through an hour of questioning regarding her source.

But as far as she's concerned, there is no source.

It was a mistake to promise Malfoy anything. She knew then, and she feels it in the core of her being now. The worst part is that she still owes him her end of the bargain. Ice seeps through her veins, lethargic and poisonous, and all she wants to do is sleep.

She wants to run, more than ever. To flee, while they still have a chance. But she knows even that is a pipe dream; they're too far in now. It'll be victory or death that awaits her.

With Kingsley and Cassius simultaneously suspicious and invigorated by the prospect of revenge, Hermione's kept a low profile. While no one was watching, she snuck out of the safehouse, bitter magic tingling at her fingertips, and released a barrage of wandless magic where no one could find her.

It was either that or track down Malfoy for a fight—but her heart still felt a little raw for that, and she didn't want to face him without her focus at its best. And it feels strange to attack him when he did warn her the raid would go south—regardless that it didn't pan out. She can't help but blame herself for the last.

She slips back into the house, spent of the magic welled up within her, and halts on the threshold of the sitting room when she hears hushed voices.

It's too quiet for her to follow the conversation, but one word jumps out.

Foray.

Hermione freezes in place, eyes roving the corridor ahead of her in case anyone's spotted her listening in. She can tell by their voices that this isn't knowledge readily available to just anyone.

Inwardly cursing herself, she casts a series of disillusionment and concealment charms and rummages in her bag for an Extendable Ear. As always, a pang darts through her when she thinks of Fred.

She unravels the cord quickly, slipping one end of it beneath the doorjamb before she ducks out of the way into the next room in case anyone walks past.

She hears Kingsley's voice clearly now.

"... Will be checking in within the next twenty-four hours."

"And what do we expect to learn?" A woman's voice Hermione doesn't immediately recognise.

Then a low, humourless chuckle from Kingsley. "Whatever it is, let's hope it's good."

Percy speaks next, and a shiver darts the length of her spine. He doesn't live at their safehouse, but visits periodically. He's scarcely recognisable as the ornery youth he had been. "Damn well better be. We need good news after that botched raid attempt."

"That raid was—" Cassius begins.

But whatever the raid was, Hermione doesn't have a chance to find out. A sound the next hallway over startles her and she tenses. She can't risk being found out eavesdropping.

A breath snags in her throat as she withdraws the extendable ear and ties it into a tight coil, before slipping back to her own room.

As casually as she can manage, Hermione drops onto Harry's small cot. His room is the mirror to her own, but he keeps only a few personal items out. She leans back against the headboard, peering at a stain on the ceiling.

"I overheard something," she begins, watching Harry's face for a reaction. "Between Kingsley and Cassius and Percy. Something called Foray. Do you know anything about that?"

Harry's startled gaze darts briefly to her before he draws his wand and wards the room.

Instantly, her heart leaps.

"I don't know much," Harry said, lowering his voice all the same. "They've kept it very close within their circle—but Kingsley let something slip once in front of me. I know he regretted it, and when I asked for information, he fumbled through a dismissal of it. Whatever it is, it's important—important enough to change the tides of this war."

Hermione doesn't care for the insinuation, when she's promised to tell Malfoy what Foray is. The thought is unsettling enough that her stomach twists into a knot. "But you don't know what it is?"

"I think…" Harry drops off, meeting her eye. "I think it's an infiltration. I think they've got someone in the Death Eaters."

"What?" she snaps, leaning in closer. "They've been trying to get someone inside—for years, they've said…" She trails off as her own words ring through her head and frowns. "Of course they haven't told us."

"I don't know for sure." Harry lifts placating hands, as though he can see the wheels turning in her head.

But Hermione gives him a hard stare, desperation nudging her to change the subject. "Doesn't it bother you the way they treat us? Like we're children who don't deserve the whole story?" She releases a heavy breath, feeling irritation prickle along her skin. "Like they've absolutely disregarded everything we've done in the war effort. Especially you."

For a long moment, Harry doesn't respond. Then he gives a half-hearted shrug. "I don't know. I guess it does. At first, it was nice that I didn't have to be the person in charge of things. Nice that I didn't have to worry, didn't have to carry everything. At the Battle of Hogwarts, when I… when I died and it broke the hold of the prophecy between him and me… it was all just such a relief."

Discomfort clenches her chest tight at the look on his face. As though he has anything to be ashamed of. But he goes on before she can summon the heart to respond.

"But I guess, now, the way they keep information from us and this weird fucking hierarchy… I don't know. It doesn't make any sense anymore." He shrugs away, glancing out the window. "And I wonder why Cassius and Kingsley are so hellbent on keeping me invisible to the Death Eaters. If I'm no more valuable than any other member of the resistance, it shouldn't matter."

At that, Hermione cocks a brow. "You are more valuable, and even if they don't address it, we all know it. Even if it isn't you who has to kill him, you're more important than all the rest of them combined."

Harry gives her a soft smile, grasps her hand in a gentle squeeze. "I think you're pretty damn important, too. Cassius was an idiot not to take your tip seriously—and look where it's got us."

At the reminder, Hermione frowns. The same pervasive guilt that's followed her since the raid flares again below the surface, rancorous and insistent. She doesn't want to think about the lives lost. The thought gnaws at her—that if she had revealed her source, they might have been more willing to believe her.

Not that anyone would have believed that Draco Malfoy would willingly provide her with valuable information. It might as well be Voldemort himself.

She can feel Harry's stare on her, and warmth heats her cheeks. "I can't tell you, you know. Who it was."

"I know." Harry's green eyes settle on hers, as though he can see through her. As though he can read the guilt on her face. "We all have sources we can't reveal, and Cassius knows that. He's just a prick on a power trip." When he hesitates, Hermione can sense that he isn't done speaking, and she shifts on the spot. "I just… please be careful, Hermione. I don't know the details, and I don't need to—but whatever's been going on lately… you've been off."

Hermione feels the words like a slap in the face, and she just barely refrains from flinching. "What do you mean?"

His expression is apologetic. "I mean you've been anxious, you're second guessing things you usually do without hesitation, and… I don't know, I guess I'm just worried about you. I worry about all of us and the toll this is all taking. I hate how everything has been so dragged out for so long, and it feels like nothing has changed."

She's felt it—felt her own hesitations, and knows most of it correlates directly back to Malfoy. Until a few weeks ago, she had been perfectly content with hunting him down and cutting his throat. Now, her fear and uncertainty are a constant presence.

But still, the fact that Harry's noticed spurs a deep, taunting shame. Releasing a breath, she muses, "I suppose this is all just wearing me thin. We've been fighting this battle for years."

"Yeah." Harry stretches his legs out before him, interlacing his fingers behind his head. "What if we just fuck off and go somewhere else? Somewhere far away—live as Muggles or something. You and I could do it. I think about it sometimes."

The words tear at some raw corner of her heart that's yet to harden in war's cruel grasp. Emotion swirls within her, drawing moisture to the corners of her eyes. "We could," she whispers. "We definitely could."

"But we won't." He offers an apologetic grimace. "Or we would have already. I just think of when Molly took Ginny and they left… even then, I couldn't imagine just walking away from all of this. Call it some sort of misdirected obligation, but I have to see this through."

"Yeah. Same." Hermione swipes at a tear threatening to break free. She thinks of the deal she's made with Malfoy and wonders whether she's already forsaken the best of her loyalty. For a tip that wasn't taken seriously.

She thinks of Foray.

If it's really the resistance's best, hidden weapon, she can't tell Malfoy. If it's an infiltration scheme, or something powerful enough to turn the tides of this war.

By handing over such vital intel, she would be condemning everyone to death.

"Promise me you'll be careful." All traces of wistfulness have vanished from Harry's face, and he draws his pack into his lap to rummage through his supplies. "With whatever it is you're into. I know you can handle yourself, but—sometimes I have to remind myself of that."

"I will," she replies. She thinks again of how derailed the situation has become. The way Malfoy tricked her into revealing the depth of her wandless magic—how he manipulated her into an exchange of information. She knows she will need to outwit him in order to keep what she's learned of Foray private. "And for the record, I appreciate it. Sometimes it's all too easy to forget that it's okay to care about each other."

He heaves a great sigh, setting his pack aside. "If we could, I would, you know. Run off."

"I know." He doesn't need to verbalise again why it can't happen, because she feels the exact same. They've been friends long enough that they've fallen into sync on so many things.

They drop into silence, and without another word, Hermione retreats to her own room. Her head spins with what she's learned, and what to do about it.

She doubts sleep will come easily, but that's nothing new.

Spirits are high in the manor, and Draco's ready to curse the next person who crosses his path. Not for the first time, he wants to rage at his father for allowing so many Death Eaters to take up residence in their ancestral home. They skitter about through the corridors, noisy and uncouth, and Draco can't recall the last time he properly had time to himself at home. But he hasn't even seen his father in a week.

Lucius is rarely around the manor anymore, and Narcissa spends the vast majority of her time in the Malfoy vacation holdings.

If Draco's honest, he prefers it that way.

He can see the mistrust and the disappointment in his mother's eyes. As much as he doesn't care for it, he knows there's nothing to be done. He's down this path for a reason, and if his father hadn't been so insistent upon it in his formative years, the situation might be different.

As it is, Draco lives a life of his own making. His decisions keep him in a place of respect in the eyes of the Dark Lord and his followers, and his actions keep him alive.

The rest is details. For now.

He tries not to think about it too hard—to wonder where a different path might have led. Mostly because he suspects this was always it for him. In any world where the war still rages on, prolonged and convoluted, this is Draco's place.

It doesn't mean he has to allow respect for his fellow Death Eaters.

For as much as the Dark Lord likes to threaten and intimidate, Draco has something most of them don't. Trust. It's been hard fought and won over the years, and he's blocked out the memories from a time when self-assurance had been a ghost beyond his grasp.

And if Draco stopped to think about it, he suspects he might hate himself after all.

Giving Granger information regarding the raid hadn't been anything off his back—especially when he's going to get something far more valuable in turn. Endearing her to the arrangement doesn't hurt any, either. What Draco didn't expect was for the higher ups in the resistance to ignore her warning.

Maybe she doesn't carry as much weight as he thought. The juxtaposition intrigues him, to learn that Granger no longer calls the shots.

Draco's yet to decide whether he prefers matters this way.

All he knows is that the Dark Lord's limited good will only stretches so far, even for him, and if he doesn't see returns on the arrangement he will have to revert to the original plan. Although having seen her command over wandless magic, it would be a waste to spill her blood without seeking to gain advantage first.

"Draco."

He jolts from his thoughts as he rounds the corner towards his study, and a sneer forms, unbidden but instinctive, when he observes his father. Squaring his jaw, Draco refrains from rolling his eyes.

"Father. I wasn't expecting you back in the manor."

Lucius is a shade of the man he once was, a pallid sheen to his skin and hair lacklustre. He lifts his chin, as though mounting an offensive. "I am still the head of this household, as you know."

The timing on the matter is running thin, when Draco's already taken the first steps to install himself as the Malfoy patriarch instead. Lucius' power has grown so minimal that the Ministry will likely grant the change.

Draco thins his lips to withhold a scathing response. Finally, he ducks his chin in a facetious nod. "Of course. And how is Mother doing?"

Straightening his tie, Lucius nods in return. "Your mother is well. She's decided to visit Spain."

"Good."

The air hangs silent between them. Curiosity niggles at the back of his mind—his father has taken to avoiding the manor in recent months outside of mass summons—but a more dominant part of Draco doesn't care what has brought Lucius back. As far as he's concerned, he's the one in charge of the manor now.

Before he can brush past and barricade himself in the study, however, Lucius speaks again.

"I'm here for a reason."

Draco scowls, draws a breath for patience, and drawls, "And what is that?"

Lucius shifts on the spot, discomfort flickering across his face. "Perhaps we should move into the—"

"I'm busy. What is it?" He's in no mood to deal with his father's antics, and the beginnings of a pressure headache nudge at his temples.

Coldness overtakes his father's face, but Draco's unconcerned. Lucius has long since relinquished any respect Draco might have once held for the man—and it only worsens the longer his father shrinks away from his duties. He might still hold the house seat for now, but it's in title only.

Without another word, Lucius pushes into the study, and Draco grinds his teeth as he follows, watching with a single arched brow as his father wards the space. Lucius leans on his cane, as if it serves an actual purpose now beyond the aesthetic.

He turns to face Draco once he's done, and says, "Your mother is worried about you."

"Worried," Draco drawls, irritation prickling along his skin. "Pray tell, why is she worried?"

Some of Lucius' calculated demeanour drops away, and he shakes his head. "Look at you. You've become so encompassed in your role—Lieutenant." The word doesn't hold the same reverence Draco receives from the rest of the Death Eaters—in fact, it's derogatory.

"I'd be cautious, if I were you," Draco says, scarcely a breath. "And I would consider your next words very carefully."

The blood drains from his father's face.

Lucius knows better than to speak with that tone, even to his own son. Because as it stands, Draco holds the higher rank, and it's all that matters. He ducks his head in contrition and murmurs, "Of course."

"Need I remind you," Draco says in a low voice, "I am here because of you."

Despite the precarious waters, Lucius bristles. "If you were to simply take a few days off, visit your mother—"

"You and I both know I cannot do that."

He's tired of the inane conversation already. Draco can almost understand his mother's concerns if he tries, but his parents both know the situation—and it rankles that they allow themselves to believe otherwise. Especially when Draco's been fighting for every thing he's earned for years.

He can't simply walk away.

The coin in his pocket that he's taken to carrying everywhere warms slightly, and through his surprise, he keeps his expression blank.

"Pass my regards to Mother," Draco clips, allowing his father to brook no argument. "I have business to attend to." He reaches for the handle of the study door, giving Lucius a pointed look.

And for all his arguments that he still holds the patriarchal seat, Draco knows they're both aware of who actually brokers power in Malfoy Manor.

Lucius eyes him for a moment longer before vanishing down the corridor, again leaning a little heavier on his cane than Draco remembers. When he allows the thought due consideration, Draco isn't surprised his father no longer wants to participate in the war. It's miserable business, and has been for as long as he can remember.

But a Dark Mark isn't temporary, and it isn't for display purposes only.

In that vein of thought, his upper lip curls with distaste as he settles into his seat at the desk, casting a rapid flurry of wards on the room. He draws the stolen coin from his pocket, a smirk already tugging at his lips. There's only one person who it could be—and only one reason why she might reach out.

He smooths the pad of his thumb along the glossy surface, watching as the message materialises.

Information regarding your request. Meet in half an hour.

It's too easy. The message vanishes, leaving a blank face in its wake, and Draco mulls over the possibilities for a moment. Then he taps a message in return.

See you soon.

Granger looks as tense as he's ever seen her.

He didn't bother to wear his robes and mask, as the space where they've taken to meeting is isolated enough. Draco cares more about the fact of someone seeing him with Granger than seeing him without his mask. The Death Eaters hold enough power in England that very few still dare to openly oppose them on the streets.

And those who do tend to regret it sooner than later.

Even so, her shrewd gaze skirts the length of him from head to toe, as though his casual appearance unnerves her. Draco tucks the information away.

"What do you have for me?" he drawls after an extended silence fills the space. "You've certainly taken your time."

Granger scowls. "I told you I would need some time to figure it out. If you want this to remain private, I can't very well draw excessive attention to the matter."

Although she has a point, Draco doesn't care to indulge her. "So what is Foray?"

She lifts her chin, casting a surreptitious glance around as if she fears she's been followed. Then she takes a step closer towards him, lowers her voice and says, "It's a mission. An assault."

Draco lifts a brow. "Fascinating. What sort of assault?"

"All-encompassing. On numerous known Death Eater strongholds simultaneously." The words are drawn from her like poison, her face tight and mournful like she despises herself for saying anything. "I don't know all the details, obviously, or an exact date, but it sounds like they're gearing up for something big."

"Are they now."

She nods. "Yeah."

For a long moment, the space between them hangs heavy with a tense silence. Draco allows it to drag on, uncomfortably so, until she gives an almost imperceptible flinch.

Then he glances away. "Interesting. Sounds like valuable intel."

"It is." Her eyes narrow, like she can't make sense of him. "It's what you asked for—so we're square."

"Are we?"

"Yes." Granger grinds her jaw, scowling at him, then folds her arms. "That was the deal. Information for information. Our bargain is through."

An indulgent smile tugs at his lips. She really is tenacious, and he might even dare call her an asset. "Our bargain would be through—were you not lying through your teeth."

"I'm not lying—"

"Yes, you are."

Granger simply squares her shoulders, confident enough in her Occlumency skills that she doesn't waver for a moment in the thought that he might have broken through. He almost admires her for it.

"Why do you think I'm lying?"

"I don't think you're lying; I know you are." He snickers, shaking his head. "Honestly, Granger, do you take me for a moron?"

At that, some of the confidence falters. Her eyes dart to his wand, which remains holstered.

"I know you're lying," Draco presses on, "because I would lie, if the tables were turned. Obviously, the truth about Foray is significant enough that you aren't willing to give it over without a fight. And I can't blame you. Everything I've heard about it is that it could change the course of this war. I'd be surprised if you willingly gave that up to me—and honestly, I would have been disappointed in you."

At that, surprise and defeat mingle in her expression. "Then what? This was a test?"

"Not a test. I do require the information about Foray. But I was also curious as to how you would deal with the truth."

He can read Granger's uncertainty as it floods her body.

As she reaches for her wand, Draco drawls, "Nothing personal," and attacks with a mental spear to her mind.

Despite that Granger is a strong Occlumens, and she's obviously well-trained, there are ways to overpower it.

Draco presses, relentless, jabbing at her mind from different angles as he pries and prods. The sudden assault catches her off guard—and it's almost enough.

Her eyes narrow with concentration, and she fortifies her waning defences.

A smirk curls Draco's lips. He never expected her to let him in without a fight.

For a long moment, they're locked in a mental deathgrip, Granger employing every tactic she knows to fight him off—as if her life depends on it.

And it probably does.

But Draco won't let up—he can't—and he feels a prickle of strain begin just beneath his temple.

Her vehemence in keeping him out only proves her story to be false.

Maintaining his pressure on the edges of her mind, Draco digs deep within himself. Coils a new, stronger weapon; a three-pronged trident, weaving and strengthening, and draws it back, ready to spring.

A sheen of perspiration forms on Granger's temple, her jaw ground so tight she could break her teeth.

Her wand hangs limp in her grasp, useless in such a fight. Because she knows as well as he does, if one of them is distracted for only a second, it'll be enough to give the other an edge.

Merlin, Draco knows senior Death Eaters who would have crumbled under his searing penetration two times over by now.

Still, Granger holds him off.

All traces of amusement bleed from Draco, leaving him with nothing but focused mental concentration.

He reaches for the trident—and releases.

A cry breaks from Granger instantaneously when his attack splits into three.

It's enough for her mental walls, at last, to falter.

A foothold—Draco utilises brute force to shove the rest of the way through into an antechamber of her brain.

It's easy now.

She's already been thinking the truth about Foray—in her efforts to protect it, she's drawn it to the surface—and Draco carefully dodges around everything else that swirls through her brain.

He isn't there for anything else.

Some part of him hates the idea of breaking into her head—she's been a worthy adversary, and he's actually found a shred of camaraderie within her recently.

He doesn't regret the deal they made, and knows this means she'll never trust to offer him anything again.

So he has to make it good.

Sifting through and scooping up every detail that drifts through her brain regarding Foray, Draco slips back out before she can regain the focus to trap him in. He sucks in a sharp breath, and they stare at each other for a long moment.

Granger's pale, her eyes dull with the effort and the defeat.

"Don't worry," Draco clips, a sneer dragging across his face. "I didn't prod around at anything else. Only took what I was owed."

Raw fury mixes with the anguish on her face, and with a snarl, she grapples for her wand.

But Draco holds up a hand, mentally sorting through what he's taken. "This is fascinating," he drawls, unable to resist holding it against her. He'd suspected—and heard—Foray was important to the resistance, but he hadn't even guessed at the depth of it. That the resistance has infiltrated the Death Eaters—it's a massive undertaking and a desperate commitment. Still, as he views her thoughts, he can feel her uncertainty. He cocks a brow. "Is this true?"

Granger's cheeks turn pink, to his wonderment, and she gives a bit of a nonchalant shrug. "It might be."

"Is it true," he seethes. "I'm not interested in your games, Granger. I gave you the information I promised; it's your turn."

"As far as I know, alright?" She folds her arms, and the action causes her to shrink in on herself. It makes her look smaller somehow, less dangerous. Less volatile. Pain darts through her eyes, and he mulls over what this has cost her. "I don't know all the details of it, but you know what I know."

He peers at her a moment longer, narrowing his eyes in concentration. "Who?"

"I don't know."

"Who, Granger. Who is it that the resistance has inside?"

When she drops her arms, she unfurls again, imposing despite her smaller stature. Her eyes sparkle with rage. "I don't fucking know, Malfoy."

Her Occlumency walls are solid again when he shoots a spike of intent, and he doesn't pry this time. He's fatigued enough from the last invasion of her mind, and he only lingered for a moment. She consistently surprises him with her mental fortitude. But as it is, he believes her.

And despite it all, he marvels at the thought that the resistance doesn't have more faith in her. Surely, she must be one of the greatest minds they have at their disposal, and they've got her in the dark, fighting and killing like any other grunt.

It's their loss—but he'll never admit as much to her.

Of course, the irony lies in the fact that if she did know more, she would have given him more.

"Fine," he drawls. Already, his mind spins with the information, and he mentally catalogues anyone who could be the infiltrator. Anyone new to the ranks of their side—anyone he doesn't know and trust. It's going to change the way he interacts with all of them. The thought of a traitor within their midst makes his skin crawl.

"You got what you wanted," she snaps, and were he a lesser man, he might simply dissolve into a wisp of smoke at the unadulterated hatred on her face. "And now you're going to leave me alone."

He can't resist a smirk. "But this arrangement has been so beneficial."

"For you," she snarls.

Draco holds up his hands. "Not my fault no one around there trusts you enough."

More likely they're intimidated by her—but it's another thing he doesn't intend to say out loud.

"You," she snarls, upper lip curling with revulsion, "are the literal scum of the earth. Death would be a mercy you don't deserve."

"You flatter me, Granger," Draco drawls, unblinking, staring her down. "But before you get too high on that blasted horse of yours, might I recall you have committed your fair share of atrocities."

She can't even deny it—he's seen her cut down too many of his brethren. Been on the wrong end of her wand one too many times.

Idly, he wonders whether she still believes her side to be the morally superior of the two. Draco doesn't think even she is capable of such delusions. The resistance sacrificed their morals long ago—it's probably the only reason they're still around to fight.

She only says again, "We're done here."

He believes her. And even though she was personally burnt by his information, it was legitimate. Some part of him isn't ready to give up the fact that she can provide him with inside information about the resistance—he doesn't want to let her walk away. He fingers the gold communication coin in his pocket and draws it out.

"I'd think this through if I were you," he muses, staring at the blank face of it. "I still have information you need."

"I don't care," she hisses. "I'm not giving you anything more—and you're honestly an awful bloody Death Eater if you're willing to give up your own side."

"Like I told you, Granger. Sometimes it's worth it."

She wants to be disgusted by him—he can see it. But a part of her understands. She's been embroiled in this war as long as he has, and they've all had to make sacrifices.

But he knows better than to think she'll agree with him.

It's the principle of it all, and he understands that a little too well.

He doesn't react when she Disapparates without a word.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so, so much for reading, and for all your kind feedback on this fic so far! Life and work have been crazy, so I apologise that I haven't had time to respond individually to comments this week. Just know you all put the biggest smile on my face.

Credit as always to my alpha kyonomiko and beta sweetestsorrows.

PS I'll have a few new things going live in the next week or so, including a smangsty seven-chapter minific <3

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

A cold chill follows her from the ill-fated meeting with Malfoy, and dread has settled in by the time Hermione takes stock of her surroundings.

Muffled shouts come from behind the closed meeting room door, breaking through the silencing charms. Whatever happened now isn't good news.

"What's going on?" Hermione asks Harry where he leans against the wall outside, hands in his pockets, casually eavesdropping.

His face is grim. "Neville. His crew has missed the last four check-ins now. One or two could be circumstantial…"

"But all four." They share a hard look, and Hermione's cold sense of foreboding worsens. "This isn't good."

"So far as I can tell"—Harry nods towards the closed door—"they've been officially declared missing in action."

Hermione's heart sinks. She's been so caught up in the mess she's created with Malfoy that it's been easy to forget her friend is in danger, along with half a dozen others.

The mission is based out of another of the resistance safehouses dotted across England. But Hermione knows Kingsley and Cassius have had a hand in orchestrating it. She can only surmise leaders from the other houses are here as well.

It always makes her anxious when too many of them are together at once.

She allows scarcely more than a whisper. "Do you think they've been captured?"

"If they were, they aren't coming back."

Hermione can hear the resignation in Harry's voice, see the tight line of his jaw.

Too many lives—too many friends—have already been lost. But Neville's been their friend since they were eleven, and it feels like a brick to the chest. A flickering recollection dances through the back of her mind—a young, clumsy boy scouring the train for his lost toad.

And now… the competent young man he's become. Even after everything they've seen and done, he has the best heart out of anyone she knows. If any of them doesn't deserve to be caught up in a war, it's Neville.

"Yeah," she says at last, unease churning in the pit of her stomach.

Some part of her snaps; the pain, the injustice of it all.

She isn't willing to give him up so easily. The entire team assigned to the mission was highly trained—some of their finest—and she won't believe they all went down.

Maybe she just refuses the idea because the loss of another friend is more painful than she can comprehend.

Moisture stings at her eyes, and before she can blink it back, Harry claps a hand to her shoulder.

Neither of them have anything more to say. It's become too commonplace, too frequent.

Before the tears can break in earnest, she slips away to her room.

The situation haunts her for days.

After the leads of the other safehouses dispersed, Kingsley announced the determination to the rest of them. And while the majority of the resistance were upset for a variety of reasons—namely the fact of another failed mission and the loss of skilled fighters—Hermione felt as though some part of her cracked, her emotions and fears flooding through the gaps and threatening to drown her.

Vengeance burns within her now when she thinks of it—of the thought of one of her oldest friends, lost and alone and captured.

She doesn't want to believe he's dead, but she can scarcely refute the chance of it. She can see the melancholy that follows Harry around as well, and it confirms what she doesn't want to let into her heart.

For his part, Harry has taken to spending much of his time out of the safehouse, and she has seen him only infrequently in the last handful of days.

Her coin hasn't warmed.

And while she wishes Draco Malfoy were no longer a concern in her life, she can't help but feel like it isn't over.

And even worse…

A niggling sensation has crept into the back of her mind. A need to know the truth, for sure; if something has happened to Neville and the rest of the mission, Malfoy will know.

She draws the coin from her pocket, fingers the surface. Curses herself all the while. Because she ought to simply believe what they've told her, that the mission went wrong and the team was captured. There's no sense in clinging to a tattered shred of hope—she knows this all too well from experience.

But still, she can't force herself to let it go.

Pushing her pride away, she sends a message into the coin.

I have to talk to you.

She stows the coin away, bile churning in her stomach and bitter on her tongue. After their last meeting—when he forcefully broke into her mind and seized the information he was after about Foray—she had no intentions of reaching out to him again or obliging his efforts at the same.

An hour passes while she attempts to distract herself. The last thing she ever intends to do is to rely on Malfoy for information, but a part of her longs for a response. If for no reason other than to find some closure on the matter.

It's close to three hours before his response comes through. It's as brusque and unsatisfying as she can imagine.

Can't. Busy.

She scowls at the coin, clenching it tight into a fest, and sends a message back. It's important.

Don't care.

The message is so frustrating, she can almost hear his dulcet drawl in her head. It reminds her of a school-aged Malfoy, spoiled and petulant. But her patience is already exhausted, and his flippancy makes her want to throw the coin across the room. The next time he needs something from her, she resolves, she won't respond.

But her curiosity eats at her.

"Damn him," Hermione mutters to herself, fuming at the coin as she lays it on the bed before her. Even in this, she can't allow him to win. Grinding her jaw, she muses over what she could possibly say to convince him to hear her out, when another message finally appears.

I seem to recall you quite forcefully saying we were done.

The wording is almost enough to throw her off, if her rage with him wasn't so complete. Done implies that there was anything in the first place, aside from a few ill-advised meetings.

She thinks again of Neville, forces a recollection of him as a boy, and swallows enough of her pride to respond. If she knows Malfoy even a little, she suspects straightforward is the best way.

I need something from you.

When the message vanishes, she can picture the smirk of irreverent satisfaction that will likely drag across his face. He basks in anything that places him in a position of power over her—she's seen it time and again.

And she can see it in his next message.

Fascinating. And what do I get in return?

Hermione composes a message in her head—droll and scathing and rife with vulgarity—but instead she purses her lips and responds civilly.

If you recall my first message, I requested we meet to discuss the matter.

When the back and forth drops off again, Hermione hopes she's convinced him. And while a part of her wants to sneer at the way he's so predictable, even in the midst of war, another part of her is terrified as to what he might want in exchange for information about Neville. She's already given up more than she cares for regarding Foray.

That thought stays her intent. If the mission went south and the team were captured—if Neville really is gone—there isn't any sense to any of this. And providing Malfoy with information that will give him yet another advantage won't do her any good.

Surely, she can at least learn whether Neville's alive without promising Malfoy anything. She hopes.

When she thinks about it, Hermione hasn't plotted his imminent death in all too long. Maybe if the plan goes south, it'll be time to rectify that. While his guard is down.

A shiver passes the length of her spine, and she grimaces.

At last, a message returns, thin cursive engraved on the coin's face before it vanishes again.

Half an hour.

Draco paces the space where they've taken to meeting, the exterior courtyard of an abandoned building in an old district which borders an overgrown park that must have once been well kept. Yet another of the ubiquitous corners of magical London that have been laid to waste through the course of the war.

Now, the space is both obscured and unkempt enough that no one bothers.

Never mind the way that Draco's imbued it with every protective and concealment spell he knows to keep their private business private—and he can feel Granger's wards shimmer in the air as well. Her magic is foreign and unfriendly against his skin.

At last, she Apparates into the space, and Draco casts a glance towards his watch. "Considering how obnoxious you were about this meeting, you're late."

"Must you?" she says with a scowl, folding her arms as she paces closer. As always, she's armed to the teeth with Muggle knives. "For once in your life, you could attempt to be civil."

Draco cocks a brow. "And why would I want to be civil with you?"

Granger rolls her eyes and unfolds her arms. "Maybe because you forcefully broke into my mind the last time we saw each other."

"You lied to me," he tosses back. "And you owed me that information."

As though brushing him off, she rolls her shoulders and peers around the space. He tries to remind himself that she gave up quite a lot when she revealed the truth about Foray—whether willingly or not. He can't imagine the mental gymnastics her conscience has put her through over the matter.

"At any rate." Draco slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He isn't going anywhere after their meeting, and Granger always radiates tension when he wears his mask and robes. She's more agreeable when she isn't baring her teeth at him. "What's so urgent that you drew me away from my plans for the day?"

He can see the hesitation in her stance, mostly concealed in her face but for the feathering of her jaw. "I need to know what you know about something—about someone."

The vagueness of the comment catches his attention, and Draco smirks. "And who might be the someone?"

Granger's vulnerability crackles in the air and it feels delicious. She glances away and says, "A friend of mine. His team has gone missing in action. All I need…" She draws a deep breath, and he can't help but wonder how much it's cost her to reach out to him about this. "All I need is for you to tell me if he's dead or alive."

Drawing his wand, Draco twirls it in his fingers. "How should I know?"

"Because you're a Death Eater," she scoffs as though it were self-evident. "And a powerful one at that. Or are you telling me you don't know everything that goes on over there?"

He can sense the mocking in her tone and doesn't care for it. "I know anything of any importance."

"Then you'll know."

Agreeing to meet with her was a bad idea—he already knew as much when she messaged him earlier—but Draco doesn't care to reveal anything more than necessary. Their last arrangement worked out in his favour, however, so he drawls, "I might know—I'm more likely to know if there's something in exchange. So I'll ask again—what's in it for me?"

Granger straightens her shoulders, locking on his gaze. "I only need to know if he's dead."

Despite himself, despite the way that she's his sworn enemy, he knows the feeling all too well. He lost enough people—back before his life became encompassed with dealings of a different sort—to long for the concrete knowledge of whether someone still breathes.

Closure is a valuable thing in an existence fraught with the strains of life and death.

Still, he lifts a single brow. "And I need something in exchange."

"You're an arse," Granger huffs, eyeing his drawn wand. She reaches for her own. "Forget it, then. I'm not giving you anything more."

"Dramatic."

For a long moment, they only glare at each other, wands poised to duel. It's instinctive, after everything they've put each other through.

"How about this," Draco says at last. "I could stand to burn some energy. If you can best me in a duel, I'll tell you what I know. But you have to tell me who it is first."

He can see a myriad of retorts flicker across her face, but eventually she simply rolls her eyes. "Beat you in a duel and you'll tell me?"

"That's right."

Waving her wand once, she growls, "I'll tell you once I've won."

The first spell flies from her wand before he's entirely ready for it, half expecting her to carry on with the negotiation, but he's still able to get a shield in place just in time. Draco retains his defensive, watching her movements until she falters—and then he strikes.

The first attack almost lands, and Granger hisses through her teeth at the near miss. Before she can recover, Draco releases a barrage of magic, brightly coloured bolts streaking through the space between them. Draco steps back, falling into an appropriate duelling stance, and his eyes narrow in concentration.

It's been longer than he even realises since they've traded attacks, so caught up in trading information instead. He's missed the adrenaline, the fizz of magic in his veins and brushing his skin as he scarcely manages to deflect spell after spell.

The thought is disturbing. Almost enough to distract.

As he mentally scans his catalogue of usual spells, releasing shot after shot, Draco grinds his jaw. He's already come to terms with the fact that Granger is presently more useful to him alive than dead—and he skips anything too deadly or damaging.

If she wants information from him about her friend, she likely realises the same.

For a flicker of an instant, their eyes catch. Draco's grip on his wand shifts, something staying his next assault.

But the next flourish of her wand flies with a flash of crimson light, and at once, searing pain shoots through him. Draco grinds his jaw, pure torment heating his veins as every nerve flares with the torture curse. He would recognise the Cruciatus anywhere, even with non-verbal casting.

Granger's curse doesn't carry the intensity of his master's—and if he isn't mistaken, it's less painful than usual—but his hand seizes up around his wand, his breaths coming heavy as his knees threaten to buckle. Against his volition, his hand drops, a tremble taking over so strongly that he can hardly hold onto his wand.

A flutter of hesitation has cost him the duel—and if Granger had been out to kill him, he would be dead. He'll deal with the possible ramifications of such a thing later. His utter and shameful lack of focus.

Panting heavily, he sinks against the nearest tree when she relents and lifts the spell, and he swipes at a trickle of perspiration on his brow. "Fine," he drawls after he catches his breath from the sudden onslaught, his throat hoarse. He massages a tense muscle in his neck, unwilling to look her in the eye after the embarrassing defeat. "What do you want to know?"

Granger stows her wand, steps close, and fixes him with a hard look. "Neville Longbottom. What do you know about the mission?"

Despite himself, Draco snickers. "Longbottom?"

"You said you would tell me if I beat you."

"I know I did," he says, "I'm just surprised." A memory flickers through the back of his mind. Dark hair caked with dried blood, face a mass of bruises and cuts, one eye swollen shut. He flashes Granger a smirk. "Why Longbottom? You fucking him or something?"

Granger blinks at him several times, as though disarmed by the question. But then she scoffs, disgust curling her upper lip. "He's a friend. And even if I were, it's not your business."

Shrugging, he lifts a brow. "I don't know anything about any mission. But you're more than welcome to tell me the details."

"Malfoy."

"Fine." He lifts placating hands. "I don't know the details of their mission—but they were captured." The colour drains from Granger's cheeks in an instant, and for some reason, Draco chooses his next words carefully. "Some of them didn't make it; Longbottom's alive, though."

He can see the relief flit briefly across her face, as though she doesn't care to conceal it from him, before she carefully schools her expression. "He's alive," she echoes with a nod. "Where is he?"

"Obviously, I'm not telling you that," Draco returns. "And I wouldn't get too excited—he's not exactly been for a picnic."

Her complexion pales at the insinuation beneath his words. "What have you done to him?"

Draco shrugs, folding his arms as he shifts so his back is against the wall. "I'm sure you can imagine well enough. Your side isn't exactly accommodating towards captured Death Eaters, as far as I'm aware." When she only swallows thickly, he adds, "Longbottom's tough—and bloody loyal. But he'll break. They all break eventually."

Granger looks as though she might be sick, and he wonders at the intensity of her response. She's done worse to Death Eaters—hell, she's done worse to him. Torture is a part of it all, these days. She knows what's coming when Longbottom finally does talk—when he outlives his usefulness.

"Get him out."

The straight-forwardness of the request—a demand, really—surprises him. Draco blinks at her, certain he's heard wrong.

But she only levels him with another hard look. "You need to get him out."

At that, he snickers. "And why the fuck would I do that? He's my prisoner."

She grinds her jaw, her eyes fluttering briefly shut, and whispers, "Because I'll tell you more. Whatever you want in exchange—within reason. Just… let Neville free."

"Fuck," he huffs under his breath with a bit of a laugh. "You do have it bad."

"He's my friend," she growls. "Though I suppose you wouldn't know anything about that."

Draco dismisses the slight. "Ignoring the fact that I have absolutely no reason to do as you say, it wouldn't matter what I ask for or what you tell me, because I'll be dead. If I release a high-ranked resistance prisoner, I might as well perform the spell on myself. It would be an easier way to go."

She juts out her jaw, and he marvels at the fact that she's genuinely serious—that she's willing to bargain with him for the release of her friend—paramour—whatever he is. Draco doesn't understand that level of loyalty to another human being in such a war torn world, and he can't wrap his head around what she's offering.

"Then don't let anyone know it was you," she says, voice dangerously low. "You can slip him a note from me—simply forget to leave the wards up. Pin it on someone else—I don't care what you do as long as you make it happen."

"Merlin." Draco clicks his tongue in reproach. "You don't care what happens to the rest, do you?"

She only stares at him.

Draco searches her gaze, prods briefly at her mental walls but finds nothing. "I'm not doing it, Granger," he drawls. "Not a fucking chance. I'd sooner kill him."

"You already said he's going to die."

"When he breaks," Draco concedes, "yes, he'll die."

"So fake it."

His head spins with the implications, the possibilities. Even if he wanted to do it, he has no way to pull it off. Choosing his words carefully, he says, "It might not be me who breaks him, Granger."

He decides better against implying how hard they've pushed—how frequently Longbottom's cell receives visitors. Even as he mentally debates what he could get from her for this. Longbottom means nothing to him—but he obviously means something to the resistance. The thought in itself is enticing.

The thought of even indulging this—of considering the offer—prickles along his skin. It's more than he can handle. More than he's willing to take on, to do for her.

"What," she murmurs, "do you want?"

And maybe Granger's lost her mind. Maybe they both have.

He knows exactly what would happen should the Dark Lord learn of this. Of the fact that he clued Granger into the fact that their raid the other day had been compromised. To this point, he's been lucky they didn't make the most of the tip, because it meant he didn't have to answer to anything.

But this… releasing a prisoner. It would mean his life in no uncertain terms.

If he's even going to consider it, he needs at least as much as he's giving. Draco doesn't put his life on the line for just anyone—and certainly not Hermione Granger.

As he stares at her, carefully sorting through the options and the alternatives, a thought flickers through the back of his mind.

Despite his best efforts, he hasn't been able to turn up a possible resistance infiltrator. He scoured the minds of every Death Eater under his command and came up short. Either the operatives of Foray have yet to be initiated or they're hiding in plain sight, and too well.

The thought makes fury burn below his skin.

No one makes him a fool—and he'll kill the son of a bitch himself as soon as he figures out who it is.

"I want a name," he says at last, infusing cold steel into the words. He has no patience for her games any longer. "Or names. Who is running Foray? Who does the resistance have inside?"

Almost infinitesimally, Granger's lips twitch. Belatedly, Draco realises he's given up the fact that he can't figure it out. But surely it isn't a secret—if he knew who had infiltrated, they would be dead already. And the resistance would know about that.

He can see the wheels spinning behind Granger's stare, the flicker of triumph. But it's rapidly replaced with stoicism once more. "I don't know who."

"You're going to figure it out." Draco ducks his chin. "And if I were you, I'd figure it out fast. Longbottom's days are numbered."

"You're an arse," she snaps, raw and visceral anger buried in the words. "You expect me to believe you? That you'll let Neville go if I tell you who's involved in Foray?"

Despite himself, he laughs. "I don't give a shit about whether Longbottom lives or dies. I care about catching the scum who thought they could get away with this." He doesn't care what she thinks about it, either. The entirety of Foray reeks of hubris. "The real question here is whether you have the nerve to follow through."

She doesn't respond, merely stares him down. "Okay," she says at last, the word little more than an exhale.

He doesn't know if he believes her—even after everything, she still clings to the trampled shreds of her honour. Integrity doesn't mean anything in this world any longer, but if anyone still possesses any, it's the woman before him.

"Okay," he echoes, ghostly soft.

If she tells him, she's more of an idiot than he ever thought. Unless Longbottom is some sort of hidden resistance weapon, Draco stands to gain everything in this deal. One life can never outweigh the cause as a whole.

Their business complete for the time being, Draco backs away a step, casting a glance around to be sure they aren't being watched. He prepares to Apparate out when he casts her a final look.

She hesitates a moment longer, eyeing him while she wrings her hands. "Why did you let me win? The duel."

"I didn't." He scoffs at the thought, unease prickling along his spine. "You got the upper hand. Don't get used to it."

By the way she looks at him, Draco nearly flinches and checks to be sure his Occlumency shields are firmly in place. His hand twitches towards his holstered wand on instinct. Granger remains as guarded as ever but doesn't move. "You hesitated," she says at last.

He rolls his eyes, belaying an irreverence he doesn't feel. "If I hesitated, it was only because I stopped myself from casting something lethal. I need you alive for this. Maybe I lost focus for a moment."

"You never lose focus."

She's right, he doesn't; not when the price is his life.

The duel flutters through the back of his mind, and his veins turn cold. Had it been one of their duels in the past—when they'd simply been out to kill each other and nothing more, he would have presented her a golden opportunity. With a skilled opponent—and she certainly is—all it takes is one second.

She could have killed him.

He pushes the chilling thought away and sneers. "Forget it, Granger. You're alive, I'm alive. You know what's on the table. You give me the names—I'll follow through on my end. The question is whether you can condemn someone to death and sacrifice the merit of the mission to save your friend."

The version of Granger he remembers from Hogwarts was too idealistic, too honour-driven, to consider such a thing. This version—he isn't sure.

This version of the woman before him isn't anything like he remembers from school. But he supposes they're all dead now. And if they aren't dead, they'd never survive this brave new world.

She merely inclines her head and sniffs. "I'll let you know."

As she Disapparates from the clearing, Draco realises he has no idea what she's going to do.

Uncertainty settles within him as he returns to the Manor, fully aware of the narrow and condemned path he walks, too.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading, and for all the wonderful feedback on this story. I'm so happy to have you all along for the ride <3

I'm going away from friday-tuesday and so next week's chapter may be a day late (depending on if I get my shit together before I go). So just a heads up on that.

Alpha and beta love to Kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows, respectively.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

He paces the otherwise empty corridor, mind heavy with the weight of too many decisions. Draco straightens his shoulders, clears his mind, and rounds the corner—and nearly collides with Theo Nott.

Theo flinches back with alarm, eyes shooting wide.

Clearing his throat, Draco sidesteps him. "Theo."

"Lieutenant." At the formality in Theo's voice, Draco frowns but nods. "I hope you're well."

Weeks have passed since Draco's been able to visit with his oldest friend—though most of the time he wonders whether Theo still considers him as such. The side of him that used to enjoy their carefree time together as boys has been locked away for years.

"Do we have any news?" Draco gestures towards the staircase leading down. The direction he'd been heading.

The screams coming from the level beneath his feet are muted by an array of silencing spells.

"Nothing new." Theo jams his hands in his pockets and shifts on the spot. "Pucey's reprieved my duty."

They take shifts guarding the prisoners of the highest risk and importance—the ones who haven't yet given in.

Despite his flippancy, Draco knows how much Theo hates it.

Draco nods again. "Any day now."

"This latest batch." Releasing a low whistle, Theo drifts his gaze back towards the door into the dungeons. "Bloody tough."

For a fleeting moment, Draco thinks of Granger. Of the sort of almost deal they'd made. He only repeats, "Any day now. No one can resist forever."

It's true that even the most loyal, the toughest, the most mentally resilient eventually give. If not to the demands of questioning, then to the fragility of human flesh.

The ones who refuse to talk eventually waste away.

"Right," Theo drawls, offering a halfhearted smirk which Draco sees through instantly. "Well, enjoy your afternoon, Lieutenant."

Ducking his chin in a bow, Theo makes to walk away. Draco remains frozen, staring hard in the opposite direction.

"Theo," he bites out. The retreating footsteps halt, and Draco wheels on the spot. He hesitates, clenching his jaw. "I know things haven't been good."

It's an understatement and they both know it. But Theo doesn't speak.

Draco releases a sigh. "With us. I know things have changed."

He doesn't even know how to verbalise it all—and in a corridor where anyone could be listening, he doesn't dare try.

By the sad smile that ghosts across Theo's face, Draco knows he understands. That their friendship is almost nonexistent—and that there's nothing either of them can do to fix it.

"It's alright, Draco." Theo's voice is quiet, scarcely above a whisper. "We're in the middle of a war. I don't hold anything against you." He casts a glance down the hall, as though to be certain they're alone. "We've all had to make hard decisions in order to survive."

"Yeah," Draco says at last. "Yeah, I guess so."

For only an instant, a brief flicker of time, Draco sees the warmth in Theo's face. The irreverence and the amusement that used to carry his friend through the tough days. But then it's gone, and with a quiet, "Lieutenant," Theo disappears.

By the time Draco makes it into the dungeons, he's stowed the conversation with Theo to the back of his mind. It's a thought for another day, another time, when he doesn't have duties to attend. He finds Pucey outside the bank of cells that houses their highest priority prisoners.

"Take a break," he drawls, crisp and curt, fixing Pucey with a look. "You're relieved from duty today."

Pucey lifts a brow but doesn't dare contradict him. Only a select handful would argue over dungeon watch, as Draco knows even the most hardened of Death Eaters don't prefer it. Without a word, Pucey ducks his head into a nod and makes for the stairs which Draco just descended.

Swallowing his reticence, Draco draws his wand and steps near.

The dungeons are rancid, ripe with the scent of unwashed filth, blood, and fear.

Draco has never cared for being down here either, but he can't argue the necessity. Prisoners of war offer untold value—and hopefully in this case, a bargaining chip.

Strolling down the row of cells, he ignores the stares, seeking out the prisoner who's haunted the back of his mind all week. When he finds Longbottom, seated at the back of his cell on the hard ground, eyes shut, Draco observes the man for a long while.

He's scarcely recognisable. When the mission was intercepted, a couple of them didn't survive the altercation that followed. The rest were brought for interrogation. Two of the others have already outlived their usefulness, though they didn't give up much. Three remain—including Neville Longbottom.

Between Longbottom's Occlumency skills and his sheer stubbornness in withholding resistance secrets, they haven't been able to uncover anything.

His clothes are filthy with dirt and dried blood, one of his eyes is swollen shut, and his strong form has grown emaciated since he became Draco's prisoner. They've fed him enough to keep him alive, but only just.

Now, in light of Granger's insistence that he survives, Draco surveys the man. His loyalty to the resistance is admirable, if a little nauseating. More than once, Draco's considered whether he would continue to hold out in the face of everything Longbottom's endured. He suspects he would have succumbed by now—not because he can't handle the pain, but because he doesn't care enough.

If he were to give up information about the Dark Lord, he would be dead regardless, whether at the hand of the resistance or his own master.

Surely Longbottom must know his death hovers, growing nearer by the day.

If they truly can't get anything from him, they'll dispose of him. It's a waste of time and resources to keep prodding when Longbottom would sooner die than give up secrets.

Not for the first time, Draco wonders what it is that Longbottom protects.

The man shifts, cracking open his good eye, but doesn't speak. Revulsion and hatred pull at his face, even through the dim lighting of the dungeons. A chunk of bread sits on a metal plate beside Longbottom's leg, as if he either didn't care to eat or thought to save it for later.

Despite the tension that takes his countenance, Longbottom remains on the floor. His shoulders are slumped, like he doesn't have the strength or the energy to even brace himself.

Pucey was the only Death Eater on duty when Draco descended into the dungeons, but a few other prisoners keep residence in the damp, unpleasant space. None nearly so resilient as the man before him.

"Get on with it, then," Longbottom bites out, his voice hoarse, when Draco continues to observe him.

Drawing his wand, Draco stares at the hawthorn wood for a long moment, twirling it in his fingers. Then, Longbottom does seize up, his fingers twitching as though longing for a phantom wand he no longer possesses. Draco can only imagine what would happen if Longbottom were to get a hold of a wand. He suspects the man harbours enough cold fury to kill him in an instant.

Fortunately, even if he were in possession of wandless magic, there are enough dampening wards on the dungeons that he would never be able to use it.

When Draco lifts his wand, Longbottom flinches—it's small, almost unnoticeable. A sneer tugs at Draco's lips.

But he only casts a silencing charm around the cell, enveloping himself and Longbottom in a muffled cone of absence. The man lifts his chin, eyeing Draco for a moment through one eye.

Draco isn't taking any chances—and this isn't a conversation where he's willing to allow eavesdroppers. The other prisoners would use any whisper of disloyalty against him as a means of garnering favour with the others who guard the cells.

Even with the spell, Draco speaks softly. "You might be interested to know," he drawls, "your absence is noted."

"Of course it is," Longbottom seethes, the words sounding like a curse. He coughs, and Draco wonders what sort of harm Theo inflicted upon him. But Longbottom isn't stupid—he's proven that time and again—and his eyes narrow shrewdly. "By whom?"

It's been weeks since their mission failed and the man took up temporary residence in the manor dungeons. Weeks wherein he's had no information about what's happening beyond the stone walls that surround him.

Draco smirks at him. "Let's call it a friend of yours."

"The fuck did you do," Longbottom spits, incensed. "I swear to fucking Merlin, Malfoy, if you—"

Lifting a hand, Draco shakes his head. "Shut up." He glances back down the corridor when, surprisingly, Longbottom falls silent. "They're alive."

Sometimes, Draco thinks about the forgetful pushover of a boy Longbottom had once been. Then he remembers the fierce young man who beheaded the Dark Lord's prized snake, and he knows never to underestimate him. Draco hasn't gotten to this point by ignoring others' strengths—even his opponents.

In the silence that looms, Longbottom pushes himself to his feet with significant effort and drags himself to the bars of the cell. Up close, he looks even worse, his face covered in dried cuts and yellowing bruises. He clutches one hand across his middle, as though nursing internal damage.

Maybe Draco ought to send a healer down—not for a full recovery, of course, but just to keep him functional.

"What are you talking about?" Longbottom grinds through his teeth. "Who?"

"That's irrelevant." Lifting his jaw, Draco stares the man down. "All that matters is that they're willing to offer a great deal for your release."

Draco hasn't even heard back from Granger since they discussed the possibility of an exchange—but even if she changes her mind, he can use it as leverage. He can tell by the way Longbottom's expression doesn't shift that he realises there's a catch.

"It does make me curious," Draco presses on, allowing amusement to colour his tone, "why."

With a casual shrug that belies every element of the situation, Longbottom clips out, "Not a fucking clue."

If he knows the man well enough—and Draco's certain he does—he suspects Longbottom wouldn't want the resistance risking anything or giving up information to recover him. He's the type to take a cyanide pill and be done with it. Draco's certain he's probably wished he had one a few dozen times since they captured him—to be honest, he wonders why he didn't.

"Regardless," Draco drawls, lifting his wand. "They do. So something you know is worth finding out." Lifting his wand, he smiles, slow and cold, lowers his voice. "I know you want to die, Longbottom. I know you think eventually I'm going to grow bored when you don't tell me what it is I want to know. And that your secrets will go with you to the grave. But I'm not going to let that happen."

Before he casts the first spell, he allows his Legilimency to prod at the man's mental walls. Considering his condition, it's almost astonishing that Longbottom's Occlumency continues to hold. But in case this is the day—if his walls are going to crack at last—Draco will be ready.

And he isn't certain whether the fact that Granger wants to save the man before him endears him towards the situation—or whether it makes him despise Longbottom even more.

Curling his hands around the bars, Longbottom glares back, hatred searing in his hazel eyes in the low light.

They've been down this road so many times before—and Draco doubts today will be the last.

For a fleeting moment, he pictures the look on Granger's face when she asked for the man to be spared. For him to be released. Stomach churning with bile, he pushes the thought to the back of his mind. There's no room for sentimentality here—not if Draco values his own existence. Which he does.

As he tightens his grip on Longbottom's mind, the first Crucio falls from his lips in a purr.

Too many things lurk in the back of Hermione's mind, and she can't seem to shake any of them. En route to meet with an informant, the sun still below the horizon, she can think only of Malfoy. Of the way he taunted her with detailed knowledge of her schedule, including the very meeting she's about to have.

She modified the time and day of the meeting, of course. But something tells her Malfoy will know about that anyway.

Their last conversation haunts her, too. Just the thought of trading over further information on Foray—to give up the name of the resistance's inside infiltrator—leaves her cold and nauseated. It was bad enough for her to give up information about Foray in the first place.

She knows Neville would be horrified to know she's even considered the swap. And she knows all too well what Cassius and Kingsley would say. Hell, even Harry would look at her as if she'd grown another head. The good of the resistance as a whole always ranks higher than any individual. Period. It's how everything works, how they've remained afloat for as long as they have.

No matter how important Neville is to her—especially knowing he's alive and trapped at the mercy of the Death Eaters—she can't even allow herself the thought.

Hermione's been trained as much as any other resistance operative, and she's been a key asset for years now.

She knows.

But on the days when it all feels futile, when she wants to scream and cry and run as far away as she possibly can from this whole Merlin-forsaken mess…

What she wouldn't give to have her friends again, the way they used to be. Before Harry became hardened by their circumstances, before Ron was killed.

The first hints of sunlight peek over the horizon, and on cue, her informant arrives in the clearing with a furtive glance around. His moustache is trim, and unbidden, her gaze roves his unpolished shoes.

Damn Malfoy and the way he's crept into so many aspects of her life. She ought to have killed him before everything grew so complicated. She still can, she reminds herself.

Turning to the man, she nods. "What have you got for me?"

There's no sense in courtesies, when they could be discovered at any moment. Informants like the man before her are professionals, and they understand the situation as well as anyone. They get away with walking the line of neutrality by offering information to those who seek it. And the price they ask isn't always silver and gold.

Hermione doesn't even know his name, aside from an alias—Gilbert.

"Death Eaters are preparing to make a move," Gilbert says in a low voice. "I don't know all the details yet, but they're planning something big."

She withholds a scoff, the bitter creep of disappointment settling in her stomach. "They're always planning something big."

It isn't untrue. But the man shakes his head slowly, and something about the flash in his eye implants unrest in her soul. "Not like this. This is something to do with one of the lieutenants."

Her gaze roves his face as she searches for a hint of a lie. Ordinary raids are often coordinated from the lower ranks. For numerous lieutenants to be involved, it must be something else.

"What do you know?"

"Malfoy." The man hisses his name like a curse, a grimace overtaking his face. "The Ghost, they call him. He's the mastermind in all of this."

At the sound of his name, Hermione feels a shudder pass her spine. She drops her own voice and asks, "Malfoy is? Not the Dark Lord?"

"Dark Lord's right hand, isn't he? His man on the ground." With another flickering glance around, Gilbert shifts a step closer. "Word in the networks says Malfoy's behind everything these days. That he's the one pulling most of the strings in the Death Eater camp."

Ice passes through her veins. She's heard whispers that no one's seen Voldemort in a while, that he sits atop his throne and sends his Death Eaters to do all his dirty work for him. But she didn't realise the extent of Malfoy's involvement.

"Anyway." The man waves a dismissive hand, as though a soft quake hasn't overtaken her hands. "Some sort of strike into the heart of the opposition. Something that's going to leave the other side crippled for good."

She's heard as much from Malfoy directly, and she knows it has to do with Foray. Unless there's something else. Almost instantly, she berates herself. Of course there's something else—and of course she only knows the bare minimum. Malfoy would have no reason to tell her something if he doesn't need information from her to proceed.

Grinding her jaw, she turns back to the man. The sun breaks the horizon in earnest, and she squints a little in the bright flare. "That's all you have?"

"Just that they're nearly prepared. That the move will occur within a month—maybe a fortnight."

A fortnight. It's worse than she feared. She's not heard a whisper of such a tight deadline from Cassius or Kingsley, and she wonders whether it has anything to do with the information she handed over regarding Foray.

Nausea churns in her stomach.

If she's condemned the resistance to ruin… she'll never forgive herself.

Turning her back on the man will condemn Neville, too. But if Malfoy's the brains behind all of the Death Eater attacks, she can't proceed. Already, she's told him too much.

"Thank you," she murmurs, ducking her chin. "Stay in touch."

Gilbert nods in return, and before she can say anything more, he's gone.

Hermione sags against the nearest tree, her energy deflated, skin cold. A gentle shiver courses through her, unbidden. The man's words linger in the back of her mind more than she cares to admit, and a part of her doesn't want to return to the safehouse just yet.

She feels guilty, like she's carrying the weight of a betrayal, and in a lot of ways, she is. Sharing information with Malfoy—with the man considered the Dark Lord's right hand—leaves bile in the back of her throat. The Ghost, the man called him.

Startled, she jumps at a sudden warmth in her pocket, and dread creeps along her spine. Somehow, without even looking, she knows who it is.

She wouldn't be lucky enough for it to be someone else—anyone else.

Hermione curses the slight tremble in her fingers as she reads the message temporarily engraved into the smooth surface.

I took it easy on your friend yesterday.

Targeted words meant to hurt. Hermione knows all too well what Neville must be facing at the hands of the Death Eaters. But moments later, another message appears.

He isn't looking very good. Do you have anything for me? Time is running out.

The dread crawling along her skin embeds itself deep within her soul, and Hermione begins to shake. She can't give up information for Neville—even if she knows who has infiltrated the Death Eaters by way of the mission known only as Foray.

Moisture pricks at the corners of her eyes. She knows to deny him, to refuse the deal, is to sentence Neville to a slow and painful death. Hermione doesn't know how she'll possibly live with herself. She's been responsible for the deaths of many since the war began—at some point she lost count as the faces and the masks began to blend together—but this is different.

She feels a cold scream build within her chest, icy and white-hot with fury; stamping it down, she aggressively taps a response into her coin.

Fuck off.

She's so tired. For too long, they've fought these battles. For too many years, war and death and pain have haunted her sleep. Followed her every step. She doesn't even remember what a proper life felt like, before all of this. They gave up their youths and their young adult lives to war.

Hermione has no delusions that she'll make it through any of this alive—and if she does, most certainly not unscathed.

The message comes through, and a shred of curiosity is the only reason she even looks.

Wrong answer.

Collapsing back against the trunk of the nearest tree, Hermione sinks down the length of it. The coarse bark scratches her back, but she embraces the sting of it. Tears spill from her eyes at last, weeks and months overdue, and her fingers slacken around the coin.

The energy seeps from her into the forest floor, choked gasps breaking free as emotion swells in her chest, too tight, too much, and a ragged cry tears from her throat.

Tightening her hand into a fist around the coin, she throws it into the trees as hard as she can with a broken scream. Through her tears, she can't even see where it lands.

In the otherwise stillness of the woods, dry sobs slip from her mouth, her chest heaving with each breath. She's been forced to make so many difficult decisions; time and again, she questions whether she made the right ones.

This, now, isn't right. Not by any stretch of her imagination.

But she doesn't know what option she has. She dug this hole for herself when she indulged the blurring lines between them. When she allowed her guard to drop, and when she left Malfoy alive one too many times. She traded her honour for a clean shot, and now she can't possibly navigate her way free from this mess of her own creation.

Deflating in on herself, Hermione clutches her knees to her chest and drops her head, shattered cries falling from her lips. Tears drip into the torn knees of her jeans. For the first time in years, she allows herself to crumple, giving up the shreds of herself that still care, deeper and harder than she has any privilege to do.

Her throat is hoarse, the sun well into the sky when she finally collects her coin and returns to the safehouse.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Hermione glances up from her plate. She's been picking at dinner, scarcely able to stomach the idea of food. Nausea prickles within her, skin warm and clammy. She releases a sigh.

Though she did her best to glamour the redness of her eyes after her shameful breakdown in the forest that morning, Harry knows her well enough to recognise the defeat in her shoulders.

"Fine," she returns, taking a halfhearted bite of a plain roll. "It's been a long day."

Harry hums with a flicker of his brows and she can tell he doesn't believe her. "Except that it isn't just today. Whatever this is has bothered you for weeks."

Lifting her hands, she gestures to the room around them.

Harry only scoffs. "I know we're in the midst of a war. But you've rather thoroughly declined."

Her first instinct is to defend herself, his words striking a chord within her she doesn't care for.

But she knows. She feels the truth behind his words. Despite her best efforts, she hasn't been managing well. Not since everything became such a mess with Malfoy.

Things were so much easier when they were simply dodging lethal curses.

"I know you've been dealing with a new informant," Harry says, lowering his voice to the point where she can hardly hear him. "The one who told you our raid had been compromised. And—I know you can handle yourself, Hermione, but—I'm worried about it."

"It's fine," she blurts, forcing down a scoop of mashed potatoes. "It's nothing."

Harry frowns. "Only a Death Eater would have information like that straight from the inner circle. A high-ranking one."

Hermione swallows, keeping her face carefully blank. "Then the informant must have picked it up from a Death Eater."

Releasing a heavy breath through his nose, Harry frowns. "Are you communicating with a Death Eater, Hermione? Is that what all this is about?"

"Of course not." The words fall from her lips almost of their own accord. Horror creeps through her at the very thought, but yet…

"I'm really glad to hear that." Far from relief, Harry's voice carries a note of warning. "Because I can only imagine the sort of trade a Death Eater would require for inner circle intel."

Hermione sets down her fork, her appetite thoroughly lost. "Absolutely."

Although Harry continues to observe her several moments longer as he sips his water, the tension releases from him and he straightens in his seat. "I'm glad to hear that. I hope whatever has been bothering you will sort itself out soon."

She doesn't respond. Because after her last message to Malfoy, she would be surprised if he ever reaches out again. She would also be surprised if Neville still breathes.

"Besides," Harry presses on, "you've been too distracted to complain about Malfoy lately. The prick still alive?"

She nods, a little too voracious, but Harry doesn't react. "Unfortunately," she returns, forcing a wry roll of her eyes. "He's been slippery this week; I've scarcely seen him. But I'll get him."

And she means it. Especially if Malfoy's killed Neville.

If it's the last thing she does, she'll make sure her spell hits first.

"I can't help but notice," Draco drawls as he slips up behind her, "that you haven't responded to my last few messages."

Granger stiffens as though he's caught her off guard, but surely that can't be the case. She's never that careless. Turning on the spot, she scowls at him when she finds his wand at her throat; her own is already clenched in her hand. She's close enough that he can see the flecks of gold in her eyes. "I haven't had anything to say to you."

"Interesting." He drifts the wand tip along the flesh beneath her jaw, jabbing it upwards just enough to put pressure. "One might think you'd be invested in our potential arrangement."

Her eyes shift sidelong, as if she's looking for something—or someone—but Draco knows she's alone. He's been stalking her for a quarter hour; if he wanted her dead, it would have been the ideal circumstance. And now that he thinks more about it, maybe she didn't notice him.

"I think I made it clear there is no arrangement. Not under the terms you demanded."

As much as Draco wants to know who's involved in Foray—whose arse he needs to skin—he can understand her reticence. He's the one who stands to gain the most from the exchange. Obviously, for as much as she wants to rescue her friend, she's pragmatic enough to realise that saving one person can't jeopardise an entire mission. He can see the strain in her face, the tension in her shoulders as she stares him down, unflinching.

Not for the first time, a flicker of something akin to respect for the woman in front of him drifts through the back of his mind.

Still, he snorts, infusing his words with derision and lowers his voice. "You want to fuck, Granger?" A slow smirk curls his lips as he locks onto her stare; he folds his arms and leans against the wall.

Granger's eyes widen minutely in surprise. Moments later, she catches herself.

"No," she sneers, disdain covering her face. "Of course I don't—why would you even suggest such a deplorable thing?"

"You're so bloody uptight," he says, unable to keep the amusement from his tone. "I could snap you in two over my fucking knee."

Colour infuses her cheeks, and Draco can tell he's caught her off her guard; it's even more apparent now than when he first approached her. Then he can see the fury.

"Even if I was uptight," she snarls, "I would sooner cut off my own arm than sleep with you."

His lips twitch. Biting down on his tongue, he drags the tip of his wand to the joint of her arm where it meets her shoulder. "I can help you with that, if you want."

"What do you want, Malfoy?" She roves her gaze over him with revulsion but doesn't retreat away from their proximity.

Draco rolls his eyes. "You know what I want."

What he most certainly does not want is to fuck Granger, but he can't help himself at the look on her face. A part of him feels ready to crack—and maybe he's let his guard down around her too much as well. They aren't friends; they aren't even cordial. He still doesn't doubt she would attack him if it served her purposes, even though he's ultimately decided to keep her alive.

"What you want is impossible," she hisses, gaze darting around. "I'm not privy to information regarding Foray, and even if I were, I'm not giving up any names to you."

"Shame," he drawls, rolling his eyes. "Fine, then. I suppose we have nothing more to say to each other."

Granger tenses, her hand tightening around her wand as though she anticipates an attack. She prowls a step back, her wand raised and eyes narrowed on him as she inches away. Draco isn't sure what he expects, but he brandishes his wand as well, prepared to cast a shielding charm if need be.

"If you change your mind," he murmurs, keeping his focus locked on her, "you know how to reach me. And if you don't… I think we're back to square one."

He doesn't need to reiterate what that means. The days when they hunted each other, cursed each other, tried to kill each other. For a while now, he's wanted to utilise her talents to his own ends—but he can only push so hard. And if Granger has no interest in coordinating with him, her ability is only a liability in the way for his side.

The tension hangs, as if she too recognises the close of their uneasy and tentative truce. "Square one," she echoes, ducking her chin.

He quashes the disappointment that threatens to rise. "Let me know." He glances down at his watch, taking the risk that she won't shoot to kill just yet. "Three days."

A knit of concentration forms on her brow. "Fine. Three days."

And after that… he doesn't need to tell her.

As a gesture of faith, he lifts his wand from a fighting stance; she does the same. Still, pressure roils within him. He can read the indecision on her face, and he knows she isn't quite ready to give up on her friend just yet.

Longbottom's life is the only leverage Draco currently holds over her. He locks on her stare a moment longer, toying with the idea of saying something more. But he only slips his mask into place, watching her expression shift into ice, and he Disapparates.

Chapter End Notes

Hi! Posting this chapter from my hotel breakfast before heading home from my trip (but it was already in drafts ha). I hope you're all well, and I hope you're enjoying the story. We have a long way to go with these guys! ♡

Alpha and beta credit, as always, to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows respectively.

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Squaring his shoulders, Draco stares down the slitted eyes of his master. He ducks his chin in reverence. "You called for me, My Lord?"

"I did." Voldemort's cool tone is droll and unimpressed. "You are aware, of course, you are one of my finest lieutenants."

Draco's blood turns cold. "I am grateful to hear this, My Lord."

Steepling his fingers across his front, the Dark Lord gazes at him from his seat upon the dais. "But yet… I have assigned to you a task which you have failed to complete. For months, you have assured me of its simplicity; you have promised you are the one with whom I can entrust this mission."

Releasing a measured breath, Draco remains silent.

The Dark Lord unfurls one dismissive hand. "I have been forced to question whether you are, indeed, capable of carrying out this task? And if so, tell me, Draco, why is Hermione Granger still alive?"

Draco lifts his chin, levelling his stare with his master. "She is only alive, My Lord, because it is my belief that she can be of more value to me alive than dead. In my time tracking her, I've learned not only of the magical power she possesses, but also of certain… cracks in her facade."

"Magical power," the Dark Lord muses. "And why have you not spoken of this before?"

"Because I wanted to be sure it was true before I came to you."

Silence hangs in the otherwise silent hall; not a single Death Eater lingers, and the implications are unsettling. Evidence the Dark Lord sought to ensure complete privacy for the meeting.

"And it is," he says at last, his words a cold hiss. "True."

"It is, My Lord."

"And would this not be all the more reason to dispose of her? Miss Granger is loyal to the resistance—to Harry Potter."

Draco almost tenses at the name; in his understanding, Potter isn't a pivotal force in the resistance, if he's even still alive. Although Draco knows Granger isn't, either. At the very least, the high ranking officers in the resistance don't consider her as such.

"She is, My Lord—but she has her limits." He releases a breath and lowers his voice. "It is my belief that I can break her."

He watches the slight jolt of surprise in Voldemort's face before it gives way to disbelief. "You seek to break her?"

"I do."

"Fascinating." The cold drawl flows like honey, and Draco doesn't dare look away. "To what end?"

He knows the line he walks. He also knows that if most other Death Eaters thought to suggest such a thing, they would already be dead. It's thin and precarious, and this could spell his own doom if he makes a misstep.

"I believe she will be of greater value to us alive. I seek to utilise her against the resistance."

Even as the words fall from his lips, Draco can't be certain as to their veracity. But he has no other excuse for leaving Granger alive as long as he has—for offering her an exchange of information. The witch is valuable, of that he carries no doubt.

Amusement curls the Dark Lord's thin lips, though not a sparkle of warmth crosses his face. "A cruel form of justice to those who command her loyalty."

"Exactly," Draco purrs. When tension hangs within the room, Draco can tell his master is considering the thought—and the moment carries enough promise he lifts his chin. "I will require more time, however. Time to slip into Granger's mind. Time to lower her guard."

The amusement drops off. "How much time?"

"Two months."

If this fails, if Draco's miscalculated and misjudged, if he's wrong.

The cost will be his life.

Voldemort's eyes tighten with disdain. "No. We cannot afford two months."

Draco bites his tongue on a retort. The Dark Lord isn't aware of most of what goes on beyond the walls of the manor. He sits upon his throne, relying on loyal soldiers and frightened sycophants to fight his battles, but he doesn't face the realities of war. The dangers and the triumphs and the risks.

Meanwhile, his soldiers carry the war efforts on their shoulders. The strain of it weighs on Draco by the day. Threatens to drag him beneath the depths of his sanity.

"Then how long," he muses, voice as smooth as he can manage.

A thought flickers through the back of his mind. That he and Granger had—in uncertain terms—returned to open war between them. It would certainly make his efforts more challenging.

Straightening in his seat, the Dark Lord stares down at him, cruel and imposing. "A month. You have a month. And if you fail, I'll kill Miss Granger myself."

A month.

Voldemort sneers and adds, "And then you."

Only years of fighting have trained him to keep his face blank at the words. A month—and if he doesn't bend Granger to his will, they'll both be dead.

Draco ducks his chin. "Very well. I won't let you down, My Lord."

Despair weighs on her, making every step a struggle. Since her last meeting with Malfoy, foreboding has hung over her like a dark cloud, incessant and cloying.

She doesn't trust him; she never has, even though she once dared an exchange of information.

And that only made matters worse.

If he doesn't get what he wants, she doesn't doubt he'll kill Neville. Maybe he already has to spite her, and she'll never know.

And then he'll come after her. Their last meeting left matters simple enough, and she has to clear her mind of anything else that might have once occurred.

The next time she sees him, she'll lift her wand to kill.

Like so many times before.

And it shouldn't be any more complicated now.

If anything, she's even more aware of how cruel and manipulative he can be. Of how much danger he actually presents.

The man has no scruples, no conscience, and a vicious will.

As she stalks the corridors of the safehouse, feeling inexplicably pent up—more so than usual—she pauses outside of the war room. The door is sealed and the utter, stifling silence informs her someone's bothered with a silencing charm.

More frequently than ever, the leaders of the safehouse have taken to meeting with others among the resistance. And more of the information remains unknown to the rest.

To the soldiers who venture out and fight each day; to those who run supply raids and track Death Eaters and live the ever haunting toils of war.

Hermione casts a furtive glance down the corridor.

A group left on a raid that morning, and the house has been quiet ever since.

They aren't expected back until the late afternoon or into the evening.

Her gaze slides back to the door. She knows better; Merlin, she's been trained to know her place and to keep her head down.

But if they're discussing something… if news has arrived regarding Neville's team and the mission she knows to have failed…

Her heart goes cold.

If they're discussing Foray.

Hermione's already crossed so many lines in her dealings with Malfoy, already broken so many rules that her deal with him could be considered treasonous.

She knows she can't simply tell them what she knows—even if she did know anything of significant consequence.

Because to reveal her source would surely leave her in an even bigger mess.

Steely determination settles in her gut, warring with the harsh stinging of nausea.

If she can manage to get a leg up on Malfoy—if she can diminish the power he holds over her, she might stand a chance. For too long, he's taunted her and held circumstances against her. If she can learn who's involved with Foray, it will give her a weapon.

Stronger and more powerful than any spell she can cast from her wand.

Rummaging in her satchel, she coils an extendable ear tightly in her palm.

No one's nearby, but the risk is incredible. If she were to be caught, she would be no better off.

Releasing a breath, she slips around the corner and out of view. She can disillusion the narrow cables—but if someone were to walk by it would be evident what she's doing.

Nerves crawl through her as she works out the idea in her head.

Searching within herself for the fortifying courage she needs, she activates the extendable ear. She tenses, focusing on the corridor behind her in case someone approaches, but also partway listening in on the conversation. Guilt swells within her instantly, and it's only her desire to put Malfoy in his place that stays her from giving up on the idea right away.

Cassius' voice, and Kingsley's—and Wendel, a resistance leader from one of the other safehouses. If she remembers correctly, he operates the house in charge of Neville's mission.

Her heart clenches at the thought, even as her pulse begins to race. She longs for any information about the mission—even though she knows so much of it already.

Not for the first time, irritation flares within Hermione at the extent of their privacy. Increasingly, the level of information shared between the leaders of the resistance and everyone fighting on the ground grows opaque.

A female voice speaks next and she recognises it as the woman from the last time she listened in. The words are slightly muffled despite the extendable ear—a sign the device is fighting the silencing spells—and Hermione shifts a little closer.

Nerves flaring, she casts a furtive glance around the corner.

She throws a silent hope into the universe that she'll get something of consequence. Everything she's caught so far has been bits and pieces, seemingly unrelated and inconsequential.

The woman speaks again, and Hermione hears a word that shoots ice straight to her core.

Foray.

She doesn't breathe, doesn't dare hope as she freezes, her back plastered to the wall.

It isn't that she wants the name for Malfoy. She's done giving the prick information.

She needs leverage.

The rest of the plan is still hazy, and she'll work it out as she goes, but some part of her needs to know. To work her mind around the fact of just who has managed to integrate themselves into the Death Eaters—to the point where not even Voldemort's right hand man can detect their presence.

"Our operative reports change inside the Death Eater circle," the woman is saying through the door. "All clues suggest something big. Something they think will turn the tides of this war."

A grim silence follows, along with a dull chorus of vague muttering she can't understand.

"Come on," Hermione whispers to herself, "who is it?"

The thought of the Death Eaters planning something big isn't news—her own informant suggested as much.

As well as the fact that Malfoy is spearheading it.

It could be hearsay, or a ploy. The Death Eaters enjoy their tricks—to turn resistance informants against them by feeding false information into the aether.

Hermione can't dwell on that right now.

Her heart begins to race as the seconds tick on, arduous and lazy, precious seconds she doesn't have to spare. In the next corridor, she can hear quiet conversation break out, and her palms grow slick. If she's caught now, there will be no way to explain what she's doing. It's an act of defiance against the resistance.

Then she hears something that stops her heart in her chest. A name—the operative.

And it's one she knows.

Disbelief curdles her stomach but she withdraws the ear, running from the corridor before she can catch a breath.

Meet with me. Now.

Draco stares at the coin long after the message vanishes. He hasn't reached out to Granger in a while, not since their last meeting where they'd implied open season on each other again. Fidgeting with the faux galleon, he smooths his thumb across the bare surface while he waits.

An hour passes.

Then two.

Frustration begins to build within his gut, churning and insistent, and heat flares in his veins. For all he knows, she doesn't intend to respond.

For the first time in a long time, Draco feels trapped. Caught between his own desires and the responsibility he bears towards his master, his mind whirs through a variety of options. Each feels less palatable than the last.

If he doesn't bend Granger to his side, she'll be dead. If the Dark Lord decides he's tired of waiting on Draco to take care of her, he'll unleash the full might of his Death Eaters.

That option doesn't bode well for Draco, either. Because if he fails to prove his worth, rank notwithstanding, he's disposable.

For so long, the battle between himself and Granger has been personal. More personal than he ever anticipated when he'd first been given the task.

But if he can succeed. If he can turn her, manipulate her, the options spread out before him like a buffet. He already knows it won't be easy—he's attempted his best methods on her already but her mind is a steel trap.

She's a formidable opponent, and he can shelve his pride to admit such a thing.

The last edges of his temper begin to fray, and he sends her another message.

If you want to survive, you'll listen to me.

Another half an hour passes, but finally he feels the coin warm in his palm as he clenches it tight.

I thought you were back to wanting to kill me. I'm having a hard time keeping up.

He scowls at the coin, feeling her derision through the fine script, and a part of him wants to simply say fuck it and be done with the matter. She's driven him up the wall long enough. Grinding his teeth, he sends another message, albeit more aggressive than he intended.

Then he Apparates to their usual meeting space, hoping she doesn't Avada him on sight.

"What do you want?" Hermione folds her arms, scowling at the blond before her. He's dressed as casually as she's ever seen him, in jeans and a button down shirt, snugly fitted to the muscles in his arms.

She carefully averts her gaze as he sweeps a hand through his pale locks.

Malfoy looks as though he doesn't want to be there any more than she does. If anything, it piques her curiosity despite herself.

He rolls his eyes and drawls, "What I want, Granger, is a fucking coconut full of rum on an island in the Caribbean."

She blinks, thrown.

"What I need—" his voice drops, ice and steel "—is for you to do exactly as I say and we'll both stay alive."

Confusion grips her heart, and for a long moment she stares at him. Then confusion drips into a thrill of fear and rapidly shatters into the panic that threatens to seize her chest.

She's known all along Malfoy meant to kill her.

But never once has he given an indication that his life might be at risk if he doesn't.

Everything she's heard—even in her most recent informant meeting—suggests Malfoy is among the most powerful and favoured of the Dark Lord's inner circle.

"This is a trap," she mutters, surprising herself when she says it out loud.

Malfoy grimaces, and she almost doesn't recognise his face without the cruel irreverence. "I wish it were."

"Then I need you to elaborate."

"If you don't play along," Malfoy says, crisp and posh, "I'm going to seize you against your will and you'll be forced to do so."

It's only then that Hermione realises, thrown as she's been by the interaction, that his wand hovers just below her throat.

A bitter swell of shame crests through her.

It was a trap—but not as she first thought.

And she can see in his eyes he isn't playing.

Through a breath that snags in her lungs, she asks, "What do you want me to do?"

Hermione has known Draco Malfoy a long time. Since the years where he was simply an irritating, petulant boy, self-righteous and a bully—to the young man entrusted with a task near impossible.

And the years since. When Malfoy honed his magical skill into deadly ability, his cunning and logic a wicked blade.

She doesn't trust him, and knows better than to dream otherwise.

But his grip on his wand falters, and she almost thinks she sees the fear he wore as a cloak during their sixth year.

The first chink in his armour she's seen since.

"You must know I've had reasons to halt the relentless pursuit between us."

She does. And she's had her own as well.

In a blink, his face is stoic once more. "The Dark Lord isn't pleased you still walk and breathe. And the only reason he has yet to send an entire unit of Death Eaters after you is because I convinced him you're of value to me."

A shiver crawls the length of her spine, icy cool.

She's heard stories of the revels. "What sort of value?"

"Not that sort," he clips without hesitation, his voice dark.

Relief blooms against her better judgement. She can only imagine his plans are worse.

Malfoy scowls, and she can see the internal battle he fights as it flits briefly through his expression. It would be fascinating if it weren't terrifying.

For him to lose his composure is terrifying.

"Look, Granger," he says at last, adjusting his grip on the wand, but she can still feel the tip of it beneath her jaw. "You and I aren't on the same side. Obviously."

"Obviously," she mutters, ignoring his sharp gaze.

"This isn't some act of benevolence," he huffs, yanking a hand through his hair again, "so if you think that's it—"

"I don't."

Although he scowls at the interruption, some of the tension releases from his shoulders.

She knows him better than to believe anything he does comes from the goodness in his heart. Because she knows no such goodness exists.

Every move is calculated and she knows if he doesn't want to kill her, it's only because of his own motives.

"I need to break you," he says simply at last, as if tired of edging around the truth. "Or you'll die."

A sudden and visceral shock lances through her.

Moments later, she snaps to her senses. "Then I'll die," she spits, "because I'll never break. Or haven't you learned as much?"

The glint in his eye is unsettling enough for her to shift on the spot. She recalls the moments of weakness he's evoked in recent weeks. The way she's shared resistance secrets.

Mercifully, he doesn't speak the thoughts out loud.

Carefully, he continues, "I need to appear to break you."

The next retort withers and dies on her tongue.

"What if I just kill you?" she asks, infusing the question with his brand of irreverence. "Given you're the root of most of my issues."

"I am the only reason you don't have a fucking battalion of Death Eaters on your throat right now," he hisses, not an ounce of disinterest on his face. His upper lip curls into a sneer. "Be my guest—but I promise my comrades won't so much as hesitate. And they won't make it quick like I will."

At the blatant honesty, her blood runs cold.

"I'm not betraying the resistance."

"The resistance that's left you out to dry? That's done nothing but mistreat you? Ignore your tips? Leave you out of everything they deem important?"

A haunting silence stretches on at his accusations, and they hit uncomfortably close.

"Don't tell me you harbour any true loyalty to your master," she snarls at last. "The highest ranked slave still wears cuffs." Her gaze skirts to his sleeve, beneath which she knows his Mark lies like a permanent brand.

Malfoy's eyes burn into hers, hard and unforgiving. "We all do what we need to do to survive."

It's as close of an admission as she expects he'll ever give up.

"I know you're his favourite, Malfoy." Hermione shakes her head with disgust. "And even you aren't safe from his wrath. What game are you playing?"

"The game where I fucking stay alive," he bites out.

In the wake of too many uncomfortable truths, they glower at each other.

"What, then?" Hermione breaks the silence. "You figure you're going to kidnap me? Keep me in your dungeons like an unwanted guest?"

"And how would I prove you're broken if I have to keep you locked up?" he drawls, then lowers his voice. "Look at it this way, Granger. You want a bloody chance to play spy? To learn about the Death Eaters from the inside?"

Silence clangs through her skull, almost unbearably loud.

"Forget Foray," he says, so close his breath flutters across her skin. "We can help each other out of this mess. For real, this time."

"As your slave," she spits.

Malfoy shakes his head, once, slowly. His lips quirk up at last with a hint of wry amusement that doesn't reach his eyes. His words wash over her, cool and enticing. "As my wife."

Hermione's certain she misheard him. Because there isn't a chance in the seven circles of hell that a blood supremacist like Malfoy would ever marry someone like her.

Nausea rolls within her at the thought.

"Surprised you would dare sully the purity of your line," she says, as scathing as she can manage in an effort to disguise the way her heart leapt into her throat. She would never so much as fathom the thought of marrying such scum.

She doesn't understand his angle—rarely does—but she knows he has one. Malfoy's a grand master in these games, always several steps ahead of everyone else, and usually by the time she reads his intentions it's too late.

All she knows is this, like their last arrangement, leaves her on the wrong end of the deal.

There's nothing to gain for playing along with this, and everything to lose. Even if she discovers inside information about the Death Eaters—which invalidates the efforts of Foray—she knows Malfoy would never let her know anything that would provide a real edge to the resistance.

If he even allowed her access.

She can imagine agreeing to such folly, only to regret it daily for the rest of her—presumably—short life.

A slow smile drags at his mouth as he watches her, gaze tracking the minute shifts in her expression. "Here's a secret, Granger," he says at last, low and sensuous, "I don't give a bleeding fuck about anything other than survival."

Tension crawls across her skin, so thick and rancorous she wants to shrug it off. Wants to run, to escape from him, from all of this. "You would marry me," she says, the words falling a little less certain than she intended them. "I can't even imagine that being an option to you."

"I can marry as I like." His flippancy deludes the heaviness of the proposal—and she can scarcely imagine anything less sincere.

"I'd sooner fight off battalions of Death Eaters," she hisses, unwilling to even indulge the idea. "I'd sooner die."

Mirth dances in his grey eyes as he stows his wand and slides his hands into his trouser pockets. "That can be arranged. In fact, it's the most manageable alternative. I'll even do it myself so it's easy for you."

She scowls at him, her hand flinching towards her wand. "I fail to see the logic in this. In any of this. You must know I gain nothing from an arrangement like this."

"On the contrary," he drawls. "You'll gain far more than you realise. I'll allow you contact with the resistance—within reason, of course, and carefully. Anonymously. Exposing the arrangement will do neither of us any good." Before she can retort, he holds up a hand. "The marriage would be in title only. You will have certain expectations as the lady of the manor, of course, but nothing will be expected of a romantic nature."

"As if you know a thing about romance," Hermione huffs under her breath.

The slow smirk that teases the corner of his mouth unnerves her. "Regardless."

Hermione shakes her head, too many things whirling about and causing a swell of chaos. "And what exactly do you get out of this? You and I both know you don't care if I'm killed."

"I don't," he says baldly, gesturing a hand. "But as I've told you—I'd sooner utilise your skill in magic for my own motives."

"And what are your motives?"

"That's private."

"Not if you think I'll agree to be your wife."

Malfoy stares at her, his grey eyes hard and impenetrable, searing, and she can feel heat rising in her cheeks unbidden. "Fine," he clips at last. "I will tell you when—and only when—it benefits me to do so."

"No." She shakes her head sharply. "I'm not giving up everything—everyone I know—to be just another pawn in your little games."

"You won't be a pawn," he muses, his voice scarcely above a breath, and the words sweep across her skin at his closeness. His eyes drift up to lock on hers; against her will, a breath snags in her throat at the look in his eye. "You'd be the queen."

Chapter End Notes

Heh. Thanks for reading everyone, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

For people who like knowing this sort of thing, A Game of High Stakes officially surpassed Nocturnus in length over the weekend to become my longest fic! It's currently drafted around 219k (with a fair bit yet to go).

Many hugs to my alpha, Kyonomiko, and beta, sweetestsorrows.

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Malfoy's words haunt her waking moments for days, swirling around her brain relentlessly, even though she can't allow herself to consider the legitimacy of the offer. She still carries enough regrets over sharing details about Foray with him, for what little good it did when he warned her of the raid-gone-wrong.

There's no reason for it—no validity behind the proposal. Even if she were to go along with the idea—which is hard enough to even imagine—marrying Malfoy does the resistance no good. For all she knows, he won't even allow her to keep in contact with anyone.

The only benefit would be the protection of her own life—which hasn't been her top priority for years.

If she were only concerned about surviving, she would have fled England when everything went south after the Battle of Hogwarts. But she stayed to fight, and in the years since, she has taken on numerous tasks and missions that put her own safety at risk for the good of the resistance as a whole.

Malfoy would only use the arrangement to draw more information from her. No matter his words, he would treat her as a tool—a means to an end. She would be little more than his easy access to resistance secrets.

She doesn't trust him as far as she could throw him.

If he bothered to tell her of his actual reasoning, she might have more to go off of.

But he's the Dark Lord's favoured lieutenant. His right hand within the inner circle and boots on the ground. And given the way Voldemort's hardly left Malfoy Manor to do his own dirty work in months, she suspects that makes Malfoy the most dangerous man on the dark side.

A shiver trawls her spine at the thought of it.

Too many times, and too easily, he's left her disarmed. He doesn't wear his robes and mask when they meet anymore, and she knows it's strategic. Her guard falters when he comes across like anyone else. It's when he looks the part that she can more easily remind herself of the treacherous Death Eater he truly is.

Even if none of that were true, the thought of marrying him—of appearing, even outwardly, to be loyal to the Death Eaters—is repulsive.

No matter if it would be only in appearance. Surely someone would learn of their deception. Something would go wrong, or one of them would slip up in the game, and the cost would be both of their lives.

Hermione isn't willing to give up her life for Malfoy's. She's far more willing to put a knife through his jugular.

But despite it all…

She's curious. She can't help it, and though she's suppressed those instincts for so long, forced herself to play the role of dutiful soldier, Malfoy draws something else out of her. Something long dormant—and for the life of her, she can't push it back now.

She wants to know what he has up his sleeve. He's a master strategist, always thinking several steps ahead of everyone else. It's probably why he's still alive, why he thrives in a position at the Dark Lord's side.

For a long time now, Hermione's known how capable he is magically. On top of that, he has the mind and the cunning of a snake.

If she didn't hate him for it so much, she might almost admire it. The way his self-assuredness bleeds into every interaction between the two of them. Their most recent conversation was the first time she's seen him falter in any way.

And maybe that's what caught her notice.

Malfoy is never nervous, and he doesn't hesitate. But she could see it, then. His concern; his fear.

He could die, too, if all of this crashes down around him. He's kept her alive, and she briefly indulged the exchange of information between them at the cost of her own dignity and honour. But now the situation is at a crossroads, and both of their lives are at stake from forces beyond the pair of them.

The gravity of the situation settles within her.

That her continued existence has drawn the attention of the Dark Lord himself.

And for whatever reason, Malfoy doesn't want to simply kill her and be done with it, when surely he realises it would be easier. If she's honest, it's this thought that gives her pause. It's the reason she's even considering the idea, though she knows it's ludicrous. She longs to know why Malfoy wants her alive. Why he would rather marry her than kill her, though they're sworn enemies.

She sits alone in a resistance meeting, clasping her hands together tightly in an effort to prevent herself from fidgeting.

Harry's left on a raid with a few others, and Warrington's been talking for half an hour about the importance of being able to trust informants.

Idly, Hermione wonders why they didn't trust her when she informed them the raid would go south. It's ironic, to consider the way Malfoy, of all people, was her informant then. Maybe she would think differently about this whole situation had he given her information that actually proved useful.

Maybe it's the reason she can't quite shake the idea.

Because if she can get inside the Death Eater camp… if she were somehow able to get ahead of Malfoy and stay ahead of him, she could provide information to the resistance that no one else could ever find.

A thought flutters through the back of her mind as she lands again on the name of the Foray operative. Malfoy clearly doesn't know, and she deliberately didn't mention it at their last meeting, choosing to sit on the information for as long as she can. Never mind that the individual has put themselves at great risk for the sake of the resistance, if she is to ever tell Malfoy, she wants to get as much out of it as possible.

It's cold and callous, and makes her think she's even more jaded by all of this than she even realised.

Some part of her knows she needs to keep the name close to her chest. There may come a time when she needs to use it, and even more so if she were to find herself within the ranks of the Death Eaters.

The Foray operative could prove more valuable as an ally than a bargaining chip.

And their contribution to the resistance is surely invaluable.

Mind drifting, she doesn't notice Warrington's eyes on her at first until he lifts his brows expectantly. Warmth prickles her cheeks. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I asked," Warrington says with an edge to his voice, "where we're at with Draco Malfoy. I can't help but notice he's still alive."

A few pairs of eyes land on her, and Hermione bristles at the implication. That she isn't good enough; that she isn't up to the task. She reaches out, scrounging in the back of her mind for something appropriate.

"I'm collecting information," she settles on at last. "I've managed to intercept some of his networks."

Warrington's scepticism wars plainly with his intrigue. "What sort of information? And why haven't you spoken of this sooner?"

Hermione lifts her chin, aware of the entire room now watching her. "I wanted to be certain it would be of value. Malfoy is on the inside of every significant move the Death Eaters make. He's the Dark Lord's feet on the ground in every conceivable way, and if I can crack his informants, I'll have an inside line to his movements."

Though Warrington's eyes remain narrowed on her for several long breaths, he mutters something to Kingsley, then nods. "Fine. But be sure to keep me posted. Regular updates."

"Very well." She ducks her chin, releasing a small breath. "I'll be certain to do so."

It isn't entirely fabricated. Most of the information of any significant value she's received lately has been either about Malfoy—or from Malfoy himself.

It's a narrow line, that much she knows. But she's been on a tightrope with him for months.

There's something oddly reassuring in the fact.

Draco sinks down onto the bench beside Theo in the near dark, folding his arms across his chest. He longs to retreat to his quarters for the night, to remove the mask and robes, to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. If he's lucky.

He's been more fatigued than usual, exhausted and run down.

"Your shift is up," he murmurs.

In the cell across from them, Longbottom is a dark mass on the ground, and by the soft snores that filter occasionally through the dungeons, Draco can only surmise he's asleep.

The last one alive of those captured from the mission, Longbottom's persistently held firm in the face of all manner of atrocities thrown at him. The rest of his crew are gone. Some consumed capsules rather than allow themselves to be captured, and the others—the ones who either didn't have them or thought they wouldn't break—broke.

But the information they gave up was of little consequence.

Theo hasn't said anything, the pair of them gazing into the darkness in silence. At last, he speaks, the words quiet and thoughtful. "I knew him, you know. Back in seventh year when the Carrows came in. Not well, just a little. More in passing than anything else."

"You," Draco confirms, lifting a brow, "knew Longbottom?"

With a flippant shrug, Theo sinks back into the bench. "Bastard kept trying to throw himself in front of the wand to protect students from the lower years. Don't know how many times I saw him take a Crucio for someone else."

It's a sentiment Draco can't understand—will never understand. His self-preservation is such a part of who he is, it's in his veins. "Idiot," he mutters.

A wry hint of humour tugs at Theo's mouth in the pale yellow light from the lanterns that hang on the wall, equidistant between cells. The gaps between them are cloaked in near complete darkness.

"Yeah," Theo says at last, then releases a sigh. "He isn't going to break, Draco. I think you're wasting your time. Whatever you're hoping to get from him—whatever information you think he's going to give up—you're going to have to find it elsewhere." Draco stiffens, uncertain what he detects in Theo's words. But his friend waves a hand and continues. "The prick is too stubborn, no matter what I throw at him."

Draco snickers, shaking his head. "He's got bollocks, I'll give him that." He squares his jaw, staring at Longbottom's immobile form. "I might not need anything from him after all."

"Always another plan," Theo muses.

"Always."

It's the first time they've truly talked in quite some time, and sometimes Draco longs for simpler days. Then he reminds himself that those days will never happen again, and a chill seeps into his chest.

"Don't suppose you're going to tell me," Theo says, but his gaze drifts to the ceiling and he gives a chuckle. "Don't answer that—I already know you aren't."

Folding his hands in his lap, Draco allows his eyelids to flutter briefly. It's a moment of vulnerability he wouldn't dare allow in front of anyone else. "I don't know, Theo. It's just how all of this has gone, isn't it? I always need a contingency on top of every contingency."

Theo's quiet for a long moment, then he drawls, "Is this about Granger?"

"Damn swot's been a pain in my arse for months," Draco huffs, though the words come out resigned more than anything else. He can only imagine how Theo would laugh if Draco were to tell him about the situation. That he'd gone and bloody proposed to Granger.

Theo wouldn't understand; not any more than Granger understands.

For so long, Draco's operated on his own, and he doesn't even know how to trust his oldest friend anymore.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you've gone soft for her, mate."

Draco scowls, the expression concealed beneath his mask, so he jams an elbow into Theo's ribcage for good measure. "You know that will never happen."

"Yeah." Theo nods, leaning his arms forward on his knees. "So how do you plan to break her?"

"Same as anyone else."

Except it isn't the same. Not even remotely the same. Because Draco's usual methods involve torture, manipulation, and threats of death. His plan for Granger involves getting her to trust him.

It's infinitely more dangerous; infinitely worse.

He nods towards the cell. "I'll give her this clod."

"You're going to let Longbottom go?" Theo's words are incredulous.

Draco shrugs. "He hasn't learned anything of value here that he could take back to the resistance. And you said it yourself—he's of no use to us if he doesn't give us information. He has more purpose as a bargaining chip at this point."

Theo shakes on the bench beside him, and it takes Draco several moments to realise he's laughing. "You really are willing to do anything at this point, aren't you?"

Although he opens his mouth to deny it, no words fall from his lips. He thinks of everything that's happened in the past months, of the lines he's been forced to walk, of the decisions he's made. To his own surprise, a snort breaks free.

"Maybe I am," he drawls, eyes sliding to catch on Theo's. "Think of it this way. If you could end the war, what would you be willing to do?"

Theo's mirth dies in an instant, and a breath sinks from his chest. "The better question would be: what wouldn't I be willing to do? Because the list is very short."

Draco understands that. He relates to the sentiment on such a base level that it makes his chest tighten in despair. "Yeah," he murmurs at last. "Yeah. Same. Fuck, I hate it, you know?"

They're words he wouldn't dare speak in front of anyone else. Longbottom's prone form is the only other person in the dungeons, and the wards are all attuned to Draco himself.

He adds on, softer, "I might do just about anything to put an end to it at this point. But I don't think there's a place left in the world for me after all this is over."

The seed of despair blooms, swelling through him and infusing a chill in his soul that has nothing to do with the draft in the dungeons. The words are truth beyond what he ever thought he'd hear himself speaking.

Theo only says, "Yeah. Me neither."

Draco claps him on the shoulder. "Get out of here. Get some sleep."

Nodding once, Theo rises to his feet; Draco's already counting the minutes until his relief will arrive. Somehow, the idea of throwing curses at Longbottom carries no appeal tonight. Especially not if he's going to cut him free to the resistance.

As Theo's retreating footsteps disappear up the stairs and out of the dungeons, Draco sinks down into the bench, trying to imagine a world where this isn't his reality.

He can't do it.

For over an hour, Hermione contemplates her coin in silence, having relegated herself to her own room in the safehouse. The message is long faded, but she can still picture the ambiguous message that passed through earlier.

I have a gift for you. Meet me at noon.

It's from Malfoy; she knows it is. And she can't even imagine what sort of a gift he might have for her. For all she knows, it's a curse through the heart. It seems like the sort of thing Malfoy would find amusing.

But she knows better than to think she won't entertain the summons. Especially given their last conversation has kept her nerves frazzled ever since. Perhaps a bit of clarity will help her sleep at night.

At ten minutes to noon, she slips from the house, bag slung over one shoulder, and Apparates to their usual meeting location once she clears the wards.

Instantly, she sees him leaning against a nearby tree, eyeing his wand idly as he waits. Her stomach lurches; a body lies on the ground in a heap beside him, battered and unmoving. For a surreal moment, Hermione wonders if her gift is the corpse of one of her enemies. But no enemy is greater than the blond himself, who turns towards her with a cocked brow.

"What's this?" she asks, shoulders tense as she eyes the distinctly male body on the ground. "Is that a dead body?"

The bridge of Malfoy's nose wrinkles with distaste. He toes the immobile form with his boot, peering down as though surprised to see him. "Not dead," he mutters. "Wasn't the last I checked, anyway."

His utter lack of concern makes her hand twitch towards her wand, but she hesitates and takes a careful step closer. "Why did you say you have a gift for me?"

He flicks a lazy hand towards the body. "Because you wanted him. Honestly, Granger, do keep up."

As the words slot into place, her mouth falls open in genuine surprise, which she quickly schools. Upon a closer look, she can make out some facial features through the swelling and blood. "Neville?" she asks, scarcely able to voice his name aloud.

As if on cue, a quiet groan falls from the figure, and he shifts ever so slightly on the forest floor. Hermione can't quite believe it, and she turns her suspicious gaze back on Malfoy.

"See?" Malfoy folds his arms with a saccharine smile. "A gift."

Hermione stems the elation that hovers below the surface. When Malfoy failed to mention Neville after their last discussion about him, she imagined the worst. She releases a heavy breath, dread seizing her where happiness had nudged moments before.

"And what do you want in return?"

A look of surprise crosses his face, false and mocking, and he holds a hand to his chest; Hermione barely suppresses an urge to roll her eyes. "Who says I want anything in return?" he drawls.

"Because you never do anything out of the goodness of that lump of coal in your chest," she huffs. "Out with it. What do you suppose I'm going to do for you in exchange for Neville's return?"

If she's honest, Neville looks scarcely alive.

Malfoy nudges him again. "You're going to want to get him a healer, I imagine."

Hermione bites her tongue on a retort—that Neville's only in that shape because of him—and waits on a proper response.

"I thought," Malfoy says after an extended moment, "perhaps you might have considered my… offer."

An incredulous huff of laughter slips unbidden from her mouth. "Your completely insane marriage offer? So this is, what, some sort of obnoxious engagement present?"

If the situation were any more ridiculous, she might have dissolved into full on laughter. Were any part of this funny; were Malfoy a friend or even a colleague, and not her sworn enemy.

"Did you even think about it?" He lifts an unimpressed brow.

"Think about it?" She shakes her head. "Of course I've thought about it—I've thought about how you ought to be checked at St Mungo's. Surely you realise how terrible of an idea this is. You and I? We've been stalking each other for months. Not a soul alive would buy that we legitimately want to marry each other. And without a shred of legitimacy, your idea holds no weight at all."

Malfoy scowls at her, folds his arms, prowls a step closer. "You seem to be forgetting about the fact that we will both benefit from this."

"Disproportionately," she retorts.

The grey in his eyes flash, storm cloud and silver, searing into hers. "Then name your terms. Perhaps we can reach an arrangement."

"Tell me why," she snaps back instantly. "I'm not indulging this for a second until I know why. Until I know your end game."

The man's not only a closed book; he's also a master strategist. No matter how long she thinks on it, she can't reach any of his conclusions about how this could possibly benefit them both. All Hermione sees is the idea of turning her back on the resistance, on Harry. Of forcing herself to slip into the opposing side, and most likely forfeiting her own life as a result.

"I'm not telling you why," he grits through his teeth, eyes skirting the forests around them. "I don't trust you to keep it private—and if that information falls into the wrong hands, you're dead, I'm dead, none of this matters."

This time, Hermione does roll her eyes. "If you don't trust me, why do you want to marry me? Why allow me access to the inner circle? Why give me any information at all?"

"Like I told you," he replies, silky smooth once more, "we can both reap benefits from this. You'll get information you can use—and I'll have you on my side."

Were the circumstances different, Hermione might be flattered by his efforts to obtain her power for his usage. As it is, however, a shudder of revulsion crawls through her at the thought.

Something in his language strikes her as off, though, and she narrows her eyes. "Your side," she echoes, watching him for a reaction. "You mean the Death Eaters."

For a long moment, his face remains blank, stoic. Something flashes in his grey eyes.

Finally he says, little more than a whisper, "More or less."

Hermione tenses at the admission. "And what does less entail?"

"It means not everything I do is commanded by the Dark Lord."

It isn't a big revelation, when she knows Malfoy holds enough of Voldemort's trust that he's allowed a certain measure of free reign. It's the reason he stopped trying to kill her in the first place.

But something about his wording, about the set of his jaw, leaves her anxious all the same.

She wouldn't be surprised to learn he's playing a few games of his own, even within the inner circle.

And dammit, but she can't help but be intrigued.

"I already knew that," Hermione says, after the tension stretches on between them, careful in her efforts to pry. "But that still doesn't benefit me any."

"Doesn't it?"

His words are deathly quiet now, an edge to his voice that leaves her feeling on the outs of some vital bit of intelligence.

Her mind whirls.

What is Malfoy implying? And what does he have up his sleeve?

He casts a brief look around the otherwise empty clearing, and if she didn't know better, she might think she notes a glint of fear.

"Tell me your plans," she says, desperate for something, anything, from him. "What are you doing that reaches beyond your powers as his lieutenant?"

Something falters in his face in a way she hasn't seen since Hogwarts. Uncertainty—and something else.

He stares at her as though willing her to piece it together. To speak it aloud for him.

She doesn't dare guess.

If he doesn't want to speak, she can follow his lead.

At last the glimpse of vulnerability fades away as though it never happened, and he drawls, "Nothing out of the ordinary. You know the bulk of it anyway, I imagine."

Disappointment swells, churning within her stomach to the point of nausea.

Even as she has the thought, she curses herself. Of course he wouldn't tell her anything.

He's Malfoy, the Dark Lord's most honoured lieutenant. He epitomises the Death Eaters in every facet, from his cruelty to the power he chases, to the swirls that adorn his mask.

"I imagine I do," she says at last, unable to dredge up anything else. Her own voice sounds small, defeated. "But unless you're going to give me more than that, I have nothing for you at all."

His eyes lock on hers again, the line of his jaw so hard she wonders if his teeth hurt.

"Fine."

Hermione averts her gaze to Neville's prone form. She can't even remember what Malfoy wanted in exchange for Neville's freedom anymore.

The whole situation has become such a convoluted mess that she almost misses the days when they used to curse and torture each other.

"I decline," she says softly, "so unless you're going to curse me, I'm leaving." Her eyes snap back up with a warning. "And I'm taking Neville."

Malfoy waves a flippant hand. "I have no use for him."

Despite his suddenly casual manner, she can only imagine what this has cost him. It's the reason her next words slip from her mouth. "Thank you, Malfoy."

He offers a clipped nod, jamming his hands into his pockets. "You're welcome, Granger."

There's something different about him; he lacks the cocky air she's come to expect. It's enough to throw her off, though she can't ascertain whether it's genuine.

Before she can say anything more, he turns on the spot and vanishes.

Leaving Hermione with Neville's unconscious form and a million questions.

"What do you mean, you just found him?"

Hermione scrambles for a response, and even after half an hour from the moment when Malfoy left her alone with the issue, she can't wrap her head around an answer. Because the truth is, even she doesn't understand the circumstances which led to recovering Neville's broken form.

Upon arriving back at the safehouse, she immediately surrendered her friend to the care of the best resistance healers available. But even the healers couldn't hide the grim looks as they took in Neville's appearance.

"Yes," she offers, clasping her hands together. "I didn't find him, per se," she improvises, "but he was unprotected. I grabbed him and fled."

"Unprotected," Cassius echoes, lifting a brow. "Where?"

"Like I told you," she grits through her teeth, "I've been tracking Malfoy's information networks."

Never mind the fact that it has nothing to do with this particular situation, but she knows better than to admit that Malfoy simply gave Neville to her, knowing full well she would be strung through these paces. He probably found it an acceptable exchange.

Cassius looks unconvinced. "Uh huh," he mutters. "And you checked Longbottom for curses? Tracking spells?"

"Of course," Hermione returns, affronted. "It was the first thing I did."

After Malfoy left, and before she grabbed Neville and pulled him into a careful side-along, she cast a full series of charms. She knows better than to lose her head, and despite the strange situation with Malfoy, she wouldn't put it past him to use a potential offering of peace as a means to discover the location of their safehouse.

Warrington releases a huff and glances at his watch. "Very well. If Longbottom recovers, we'll have to brief him as soon as he's able to speak. See what we can get out of him, if his brain isn't liquid by now."

"Neville's tough," Hermione murmurs, more to herself than anything. It would be a cruel sort of irony if Neville were to wind up like his parents, tortured beyond his mental limits. She can't allow herself to think that way, much as she can't let herself fear he may succumb to his wounds.

The very fact that Malfoy gave him back at all still whirs around the back of her mind, blatantly at odds with everything she knows about the man. Malfoy doesn't show mercy—he's a Death Eater. He operates by the wand, torture and death day by day.

And even if he wasn't trying to persuade her into this inane arrangement he believes will benefit them both, Hermione wouldn't trust him. She's certain he has an additional motive for returning Neville to the resistance; she simply hasn't figured it out yet.

Another thought niggles at her, irritation coursing through her at the thought.

She owes him.

And she's going to have to talk to him again. If not to discuss this matter, then over the fact that she will never bend to his will again. A few momentary lapses in judgement might explain the way she traded information to him before, though she knows none among the resistance—even Harry—will understand that.

But this would be akin to turning her back on her side. She would be branding herself as an enemy to the cause for which she's fought and bled and killed for years.

Her heart hurts at the thought.

"And we'll be questioning you as well," Cassius throws over his shoulder, unkindly, as he retreats from the corridor. "Because no part of your explanation holds weight."

Hermione scowls at his retreating form, some of the sentiment dissipating in an instant.

For the resistance as a whole, she fights. Not for self-entitled arseholes like Cassius Warrington.

Again, her mind slips unbidden to Malfoy. His cold, sneering contempt for the resistance, for the way they treat her like any other grunt or foot soldier. The thought is sobering: it's all she really is.

Any point in time when her name—when Harry Potter's name—carried weight is long gone. She might be afforded a certain level of freedom to carry out her tasks, but she has no more influence in the resistance than anyone else.

Most of the time, she doesn't mind. She doesn't even care. Like Harry, she grew tired of carrying the weight of too many expectations on her shoulders during the year they spent on the run as teenagers. Now, years later, she's happier without it.

"You're fucking welcome," she grumbles to herself, rubbing at a kink in her neck as Cassius rounds the corner towards the war room. To inform the other heads of the safehouse, no doubt. Likely Neville's own safehouse leader.

It's uncharitable, when her primary concern ought to be Neville's wellbeing. But her careful negotiations to get him back have amounted to this—less than nothing. Her friend is back, but she's left once again to answer for the mess Malfoy's dragged her into. And this time… she has no way around it.

Chapter End Notes

Oh my goodness, all your comments on the last chapter just had me BEAMING during a tough week. I appreciate you guys so much. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I'll see you soon <3

many hugs to the lovely kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows for their assistance with this fic!

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The air is full of smoke, the searing remnants of a fire bomb set off by some especially zealous member of the resistance. Draco can feel the heat of it in his lungs, even distanced as he was from the initial blast.

Through the haze, he can scarcely tell whether the bodies on the ground are ally or foe—nor can he tell anything of those who still fight on, streaks of light leaving ghostly trails through the smoke.

He casts a glance around, wand held aloft.

A frisson of nerves darts the length of his spine. The blast has left him disoriented, partially blinded, ears ringing.

He curses under his breath, unable to track the streaks of magic as he ordinarily would, and as a spell appears in his periphery, dread seizes his chest.

Magic knocks him in the ankles, dropping him hard on his back to the ground below. The air chases from his lungs with a whoosh at the hard impact, and his eyes freeze wide open as the flash of neon green shoots past above him. It collides harmlessly with the nearest tree in a burst of magic and bark.

A sharp breath falls from Draco's lips. He hadn't seen the Avada coming towards him until it was nearly too late. And while his ego is wounded by the way he allowed another spell to hit him in his distraction—to say nothing of his arse—he could have died.

Making to stand, Draco catches the eye of someone looming over him. A slight, female figure, who lifts a hand to someone in the distance. "Down!" she calls, and he recognises Granger's voice. Softly, she says, "Stay the fuck down."

A minute later, while Draco's heart beats wildly against his rib cage, she sighs. "You're fine."

"The fuck was that, Granger?" he asks, grumbling as he rises to his feet and rolls out his neck.

"That," she mutters in return, tone as unappeased as he feels, "was me saving your sorry arse."

The situation clicks—that Granger knocked him from his feet so the death curse would miss. He scowls at her, not caring for the thought of owing her anything. "Surprised you didn't let me die," he clips, looking around and taking stock of their surroundings.

Some of the smoke has cleared, and he can see masked, immobile forms dotting the ground. They outnumber the fallen resistance members two to one, and his upper lip curls at the underhanded tactic. Most of those remaining have Disapparated, another rapid skirmish on the books. He realises there's no one else within range, but doesn't stow his wand.

"Should I have?" Granger said with a snicker, folding her arms across her chest.

"Would have made your life easier." Draco eyes her for a moment, the way she wears a pair of goggles atop her hair, as if having recently removed them. His eyes narrow at the thought—at the way the resistance were able to gain the upper hand in this particular fight.

"Easier, yes," she allows, tucking her own wand into its holster, as if she doesn't expect him to attack her. "But less interesting."

He shifts, aware of the tension that hovers between them. The lines are so blurry he can't make them out anymore. The last time he saw her, he returned a war prisoner for nothing in exchange—and now, she saved his life. An unpleasant sensation builds in his chest at the thought.

Draco doesn't care to owe anyone anything. Let alone to owe Hermione Granger a life debt.

He glances away, unable to meet her gaze, and drawls, "Thanks, then."

"What's that?"

Her lips twitch with a hint of humour that he fails to reciprocate. He grinds out, "Thank you. For saving me," and levels her with a glower.

"It was nothing," she returns, offering a sardonic smile. "Nothing you wouldn't do for me, I'm sure."

Draco hates her like this. He would much prefer her holding a dagger to his throat than engaging him in humour and taunts. "I wouldn't, in fact," he clips, making a show of brushing the dirt from the sleeves of his robes. "I would have let you die, in case you were curious."

"I wasn't."

"What do you want," he grits out, disinterested in carrying on this conversation longer than necessary. He knows he doesn't need to elaborate, especially at the glint in her eye. His pride is already wounded enough, so he snaps, "No games."

"Games?" she echoes, the amusement dropping from her face. "As if you haven't been playing games this entire bloody time?"

Scowling, Draco stares at her for a drawn out moment. "They aren't games when our lives are on the line."

"And here I was thinking that was your favourite sort of game," she hisses in return.

It strikes Draco in the moment, his chest heaving a little with frustration, how close they're standing. The rest of the battlefield is empty, most of the deceased already collected by those who stayed or returned after the battle.

Instead of leaving for the manor and taking stock of the fallen, he's trapped in a spitting match with Granger. Her brown eyes flash, a deep furrow on her brow as she glares at him, and nervous energy flutters through him. He wants to curse her. Wants to bury her in spells until he can hear around the maddening pulse in his ears again.

Instead, he only stares at her, highly aware of the way his heart races a little faster. Her proximity is unnerving, and for a sudden, startling moment, he regrets all of it. Regrets the way they ever engaged in anything beyond what they were assigned to do; regrets approaching her as anything more than a sworn enemy.

The lines are so long gone he can't even find where they originated anymore.

And against his own volition, his eyes drift downwards.

Draco allows himself a moment of insanity, a pure mental vacation wherein he stares at her mouth. The soft curve of her pink lips, the gentle downturn. The way they're slightly parted as a breath falls from her mouth—and then he catches her eyes again.

Tension tightens his chest.

And for the first time in years, Draco's grateful for the silver and black mask that obscures his features. Warmth crawls up his throat and floods his cheeks, and he narrows his eyes in defiance, as though he can pretend in any way that he wasn't staring.

At last, Granger presses her lips together, forces a thick swallow, and shakes her head. "I don't want a damn thing from you. I want you to leave me alone. Don't seek me out—don't send messages to my coin." Her voice drops, and it sounds like a threat. "I don't want to see you, and I don't want to fend off your curses."

Her words are a jolt to his chest, and Draco curses silently at the way he's allowed himself to become distracted.

The words fall from his lips, sounding strangely unlike himself. "You know I can't do that. I'm assigned to kill you."

"Which you haven't done," she whispers.

Yet despite her words, she hasn't stepped back. Her eyes snag on his again, blazing with a heat that latches onto him, and it's a physical effort to plant his feet to the ground.

"If you wanted to kill me, you would have done so already," she says again, clearing her throat. A wand tip jams into his chest, and Draco barely manages to keep from flinching. He didn't even see her draw, so caught up. "And unless you're going to do it right now, you're going to lose your chance. Because I'm done with your games, Malfoy. And this isn't one of them."

His own hand twitches towards his wand. The entire exchange has him off kilter, uncertain what to make of her and the ever-shifting dynamics between them.

The last time he saw her, he gave up a prisoner for nothing.

And now…

His upper lip curls into a ghost of a sneer he might have once thrown her way. "I'm not going to kill you," he says quietly, the words hanging between them, though her wand remains pressed against his sternum.

The tension hanging between them remains unacknowledged, and he hates every part of this. Hates her demands, and the fact that he can't look away.

"Fine," she says, something else lingering in her stare as she squares her jaw.

He doesn't know where any of this leaves them now.

"I'm not going to kill you, either," she admits at last, tension wracking her form. "Unless I have to."

Draco wraps a hand around her wand, shoving the tip from his chest, and drawls, "Fine. It seems we've reached yet another impasse. Watch yourself, Granger."

Wry amusement twitches her lips for only a moment. It doesn't reach her eyes. "Best worry about yourself."

Merlin, he doesn't know what's happening between them anymore, but he recognises that they've both acknowledged the same. He wants to reach for her, to draw her close and, simultaneously, shove her away.

To protect her and piss her off.

And he doesn't understand any part of it.

So he leaves.

Her hands shake unbidden for the first time in years.

The last encounter with Malfoy replays itself on a constant loop, and Hermione wishes with every part of her she could block it out.

He's under her skin—maybe has been for longer than she cares to admit—and she can't shake the way he'd looked at her. Even with every part of his face obscured but for his eyes, she could feel the searing heat.

Merlin, it was indecent.

Her skin prickled with energy, but the revulsion she expected never showed. Instead, she drowned in the rapidity, the intensity of the adrenaline pulsing behind her ears.

Even now, her heart races as she thinks of it. Hermione swears under her breath, wringing her hands.

For as long as she's denied it, she now knows it's true: she's in trouble.

She certainly holds no delusions of the man: she knows who and what he is, through and through.

But the situation is so much more complicated now than it ever should have become.

Steeling her nerves, she raps lightly on the door to the safehouse's makeshift infirmary.

Through the doorway, slightly ajar, she can see Neville on the nearest bed, and Hermione slips through the door uninvited.

The sole healer in the room glances up; Penelope Clearwater, a woman whom Hermione knew vaguely at Hogwarts. "Hermione. Any news?"

"Nothing today," she returns with a nod. Most of the house is still in a bright mood from the successful skirmish the day before. "And you? How's the patient?"

Penelope offers an apologetic grimace. "He's still unconscious, I'm afraid. His vitals are steady, but those Death Eaters did a number on him. Physically, I can treat his wounds—but the mental damage runs deep, and that isn't my specialty."

Nausea rolls in the pit of Hermione's stomach as she offers a perfunctory nod.

It's simply another reason to dismiss all lingering thoughts of Malfoy from the back of her mind.

She can't quite manage it.

"Do we have a mind healer within the resistance network?" Hermione asks. Despite that none of this is her fault, she feels a drive to ensure Neville recovers.

Perhaps it's latent guilt over the fact that she hadn't killed Malfoy, thus allowing Neville to be tortured at the man's hand.

"We do," Penelope offers, then hesitates. "Two in fact. But they have their hands full elsewhere. Neville's been unconscious since you brought him in, and, well... there isn't a lot of hope for his survival."

Hermione gapes at her, quelling a sudden surge of rage. "He isn't a priority? He was tortured inside Death Eater headquarters! While undertaking a mission at the resistance's bidding! Surely if that isn't enough of a reason, he has information they could use."

With another grim look, the woman shrugs. "That's what I tried to tell Cassius as well. But resources—especially human ones—are just so limited. As soon as one of the mind healers is able, they'll come here and assist with Neville's care."

Hermione curls her hands into fists. Anger mingles with despair, clouding her rational thoughts, and she clenches her jaw on an urge to scream.

"Thanks, Penelope," she grits out instead, casting Neville's immobile form one more glance. She wraps a hand around his shoulder with a squeeze, then leaves the room, leaves the safehouse, Apparates from the grounds.

Devastation and helplessness swirl within her and, in the middle of an empty field, break from her lungs in an anguished cry as she drops to her knees in the grass.

A pensive frown curls Draco's mouth downwards as he gazes upon a memory, freshly drawn from his own consciousness. He's skimmed through the details twice now, and he's starting to suspect a part of him is so desperate for something.

But he can't shake the feeling that he's missing it.

In the weeks Longbottom spent in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, this is all Draco was able to get from him. The man has a mind like a steel trap and willpower to match. And though there has never been any love lost between the two of them—and even less so now—Draco can't help the flicker of respect he felt.

He doesn't know whether he would have had the sheer determination to keep from breaking, had the tables been turned.

And Draco's faced down many torture curses of his own. He's experienced the worst of the Dark Lord's anger.

But this… it wasn't drawn from torture or duress but from a simple dream.

It wasn't the first time Draco was able to extract information from a person's sleeping mind, but it was the only time Longbottom's mental defences were low enough for Draco to slip inside. If he's honest, maybe he's so keen to extract something from this dream because he gave the man up to Granger without anything to show for it otherwise.

The dream is basic; boring, almost. A simple, quiet recollection—or perhaps a complete fabrication—but each time, Draco falters.

Longbottom's dreamt of Granger, of others clad in the cobbled together gear of the resistance. A group of people—some of whom Draco recognises from Hogwarts, and some he doesn't—enjoying an afternoon outdoors. A reprieve of some sort.

The only reason Draco gave pause at all was the fact that Granger's sporting a cut on her cheek.

He remembers giving it to her. A glancing blow that skimmed her face and nearly missed harming her. Each time he watches the memory, his heart rate picks up. A dream would avoid such irregularities.

Some of the group are easier to see than others, and Draco focuses intensely on this pass through on the blurry form standing over Granger's shoulder. And this time, Draco's looking closely enough that adrenaline fires through his veins.

It has to be recent enough; the skirmish that led to Granger receiving that cut was a matter of months ago. Shortly after Draco had been commanded to kill her.

Pulse elevating, Draco watches the man as he sidles into place alongside Granger, clapping Longbottom on the shoulder.

A breath of incredulity and disbelief fills him as he watches Granger turn towards the man, a soft, thoughtful smile spreading across her face. Draco almost can't comprehend it; he's long believed the man to be dead.

As he watches the rest of the scene play out before it fades into nothing, a smirk curls at his lips. His mind reels with the possibilities.

The dream—the memory—begins to blur at the edges, but now Draco's certain as he views the memory once more. A slow, lazy grin takes over as he shakes his head. "Harry Potter," he murmurs to himself, fixating on the man's scruffy hair, the glasses perched over bright green eyes, "long time, no fucking see."

And something tells him he's found the leverage he needs.

Flipping his pilfered resistance coin between his fingers, Draco plots the next step of his plan in his study.

He eyes the smooth golden surface, brain whirring. Now that he knows Potter's still alive—and a part of him marvels at the fact that the resistance has kept him concealed all this time—he has a way forward.

The very fact that the resistance has kept him hidden doesn't surprise Draco; even if Potter doesn't hold the power he once did before the Order of the Phoenix dissolved, he's a powerful weapon strictly for the image he offers. He was the other side's symbol of hope for years.

He hums, feeling his ideas coming together.

Every time Granger changes her schedule, her supply raids, her informant visits, Draco tracks her down and figures it all out again. A quick glance at his calendar informs him where she is right now, and more importantly, where she is not. A hint of amusement tugs at his mouth.

After weeks of tinkering with the magic that powers the coin and connects to the wider resistance network, Draco knows how it works. He's never had cause to disguise his magical signature because Granger always knows it's him when he sends her a message.

He's been inside the woman's head. He's received over a dozen correspondences from her coin to his.

Careful cataloguing and dissection of her magic has brought him to the point where he knows her magic; he recognises her magical core almost as surely as his own.

And he knows her magical signature well enough for a forgery.

Idly tapping a message into the coin, Draco envisions his recipient, wills the message to reach its intended target despite the magic that conceals and glamours his existence to those outside of the resistance.

Supply raid ambushed; need backup ASAP.

He smooths his thumb along the engraved letters that appear on the surface, and then includes a rough location in a war-torn and abandoned part of London. Concentrating all of his will into the spell, Draco installs the forgery, covering up his own magical signature with Granger's.

If it isn't perfect, he has to rely on Potter lacking the keen eye for details that Granger possesses.

Before he sends the message, he Disapparates directly through the wards to the location specified. Scopes out the area to be certain everything is as it should be, then he releases a gentle breath and sends the message to Potter's coin.

Minutes pass, and Draco grows increasingly aware of his pulse hammering in his throat.

The coin warms in his palm, and he scarcely dares breathe.

On my way.

Some part of Draco can't believe it; the gamble could possibly pay off more than he ever imagined. And Potter will have no idea what's coming until it's too late.

Like a lamb to the fucking slaughter. A grin spreads across Draco's face as he tucks the coin away, draws his wand, and waits.

Things have been quiet. Too quiet.

When Hermione told Malfoy to leave her alone, she didn't expect him to actually listen. It's been over a week since she saved him from a death curse at their last skirmish, a rare instance when the resistance walked away on top. Since she demanded he make no further efforts to reach her.

The day they both admitted they weren't out to kill each other anymore. Hermione knows she ought to have taken the opportunity, even though she could read his wounded pride etched into every taut line of his body.

Implicitly, she knows it can't be that simple. Malfoy's up to something new, and the thought of that is more terrifying than his spells and curses ever were.

It's nearly sundown, and the safehouse has been quiet. A number of new mission task forces have recently been assembled, and Cassius and Kingsley have been away at one of the other safehouses through most of the afternoon and into the evening.

She slips to the room next to hers, tapping on Harry's door. The wooden door rattles slightly in its frame, but silence echoes back at her.

It isn't unusual for him to leave without telling her, much as the reverse is also true. He could have been sent out on a supply run with some of the other teams, and she contemplates slipping to the kitchens alone for dinner. But she turns the handle, pushing the door open.

"Harry, are you here?" she asks, peering into the small room. A cursory look informs her nothing is awry beyond the fact that his pack is gone. Which informs her only that he's left the safehouse.

Closing the door behind her, she makes her way to the kitchens, helps herself to a plate despite her lack of appetite, and takes a seat at their usual table.

No messages wait on her coin, and she settles in for a long evening alone.

Instinct and intuition have been her companions for as long as the war has gone on—even longer—and when Hermione wakes too early the following morning, she knows something is wrong.

Her communications coin is as blank as it was the night before—as empty of messages from her nemesis as it has been for more than a week.

But a quick check in Harry's room confirms he's still not back. It wouldn't be unusual but for the creeping suspicion that laces her spine. He wasn't scheduled to run any supply raids, and anything else he might have done for the resistance would have most likely seen him return to the safehouse for the night.

Hermione collects some sustenance from the kitchen, piling it into her pack with other essential supplies. The early light of dawn is just breaking when she slips out into the brisk air, already tapping a message to Harry into her coin. She'll make a quick search of his usual haunts, track a few of his meeting spots, and see if she can't spot something awry. It beats sitting around the safehouse waiting for his return.

Beats the nervous energy that already flows through her.

He hasn't responded to the message she sent his coin, and although Harry isn't the most punctual with his responses, it only solidifies the feeling hardening in her gut.

A cursory glance of her first stop from a nearby rooftop offers nothing, and Hermione checks her coin once more. Maybe she ought to have waited and spoken to Kingsley—maybe one of them sent Harry out on a mission he couldn't speak about. But the thought of sitting around and waiting to speak to him holds no appeal either. If nothing pans out, she'll return to the safehouse—but only the night watch crew were awake when she left.

By the time she's ready to give up on the third stop in her hunt, her coin heats in her pocket. A swell of relief surges through her as she digs it out.

And ice fills her veins instead.

Looking for someone?

A breath catches in her lungs, her head spinning as she watches the message fade. "No," she whispers, the word falling from her lips of its own accord, and terror spikes, sharp and sudden, through her. "No," she says again, louder, a mantra. "No nononono."

She doesn't need to check the magical signature of the message, as her worst fear plays out before her. As the sides of her instinct collide. Harry missing—Malfoy conspicuously quiet.

Before she can begin to come up with a response, another message slips through the coin.

Imagine my surprise to learn that my new prisoner isn't dead after all.

It was bad enough when he had Neville captive—the thought of Harry captured and tortured at Malfoy's hand turns her stomach. She fights back a sudden and violent urge to retch.

Hermione scrubs at her eyes, some pathetic and immature part of her hoping she might simply wake up.

Pride swirls with panic, and she quashes the former as she taps in another message. Don't hurt him.

The response comes through almost immediately, and she can sense the new turn in this sick, twisted game between them.

What happens to Potter now is up to you.

She releases a sigh, digging into every hard-fought instinct and bit of determination that lies within her from hard years in the war. Dredges through everything she knows and everything she's learned, and commits herself to keeping a level head.

This is another game. She knows Malfoy, and knows well enough how he ticks. Gritting her teeth, she sends him another message. Negotiation?

I thought you'd never ask.

Malfoy's already present at their usual meeting point when she arrives, as if he were prepared for everything to play out exactly as it has so far. Hermione steels herself as she approaches, and although she is ready to argue for proof of Harry's safety, she keeps her face blank when she spots him.

Leaning against the nearest tree, Malfoy is the picture of casual irreverence as ever, but slightly to the right stands Harry. Even from a distance, she can see the myriad of protective wards and spells that envelop him. It will be a fight to try and break him free, to escape with both of their lives intact.

It's likely the only reason Malfoy brought him along. And he knows her, too—knows she would demand to speak with Harry prior to any proper negotiations.

It's the look in Harry's eye that impacts her the most. The surprise—the careful consideration, the hidden alarm.

And beneath it—the disappointment. The sharp stab of betrayal.

"Hermione, what's going on?" Harry asks, low and hesitant. His voice is slightly muffled through the elaborate web of spells.

She can't handle it, and Hermione fixes her stare on Malfoy instead as she folds her arms, seeking to protect herself from what must come now. "What do you want?" she asks, nodding towards Harry. Her voice is soft. "In exchange."

"You know what I want," Malfoy drawls, eyes amused as they flick to Harry. As though he wants to draw this out, to goad her into admitting to things that would be considered treasonous on any plane of existence.

As if he wants Harry to know exactly how convoluted and enmeshed they've become.

"You want to get—"

"Foray, Granger." Malfoy lifts his chin, focusing his attention fully on her once more. "As you can see, Potter is unharmed. And as long as you follow my rules this time, that will remain the case. It's simple—give me the name, and Potter goes free."

Her eyes slide shut of their own volition, and she draws in several deep breaths. She didn't budge when he wanted to trade Neville for information on Foray—and Hermione ought to have known he had something else in the works.

She can't give up Harry—can't sacrifice him to Malfoy's will. Because she knows she'll never see him again.

But how does she give over Foray? It's the only bargaining chip she has in their twisted games, the name she overheard more than a week prior. She's clung to the detail, knowing that it could wreck Malfoy, that the undercover operative has access to information no one else from the resistance can dream of.

Knowing they need Foray if they ever want a chance to gain the upper hand.

But Harry is her oldest friend.

Malfoy planned this, just like anything else, to cause maximum pain.

"And if I give up Foray," she says through clenched teeth, ignoring Harry's noise of protest, "you'll get the other part of what you want."

Because Merlin knows, her guilt will eat her alive. She'll feel no other option but to insert herself into the Death Eaters' circle instead. Thus giving Malfoy the other thing he wants—her depth of wandless magic at his disposal.

By the soft, wicked curl of amusement on his mouth, she knows they're on the exact same page.

"Hermione, you can't—what are you doing? Just kill him." Harry's wide eyes are fixed on her, filled with confusion, filled with rage. "What are you talking about Foray for?"

Before Hermione can speak, before she can string together some semblance of an explanation, Malfoy speaks. "Clearly, Granger hasn't been as honest about all of this as she'd like you to believe." His grey eyes slide towards Harry, cruel amusement dancing in their cold depths. "Or have you never wondered why we're both alive after all this time?"

Harry's face is wide open, raw with hurt, with the betrayal she's so long fought to avoid. "You're... you're working with him? Hermione, how is this—"

At a casual wave of Malfoy's wand, Harry falls silent, his lips moving without sound.

Hermione feels tears sting at her eyes and she blinks them back furiously. Not a chance in hell will she allow Malfoy to see her cry—to see how he's slipped under her skin at last.

"I promise, Harry, I can explain all of this," she says, unable to look at him. Instead, she directs all of her fury at Malfoy and bites out, "I need time."

"You've had plenty of time," he drawls. "If you don't have the bloody name by now—"

"Time," she snaps. Rage quakes through her, a tremble in her hands as raw magic builds beneath the surface of her skin. Malfoy's eyes dart quickly to the movement and away again.

Hermione doesn't know how she can bring herself to sacrifice Foray. She tries to imagine telling Cassius the truth—that she gave up the resistance's greatest undercover mission to save her friend. The friend who wouldn't have been at risk if not for her idiotic manipulations in the first place.

Malfoy glances at his watch, the movement as casual as if he's waiting for a delayed metro car and slightly annoyed by the inconvenience. "Forty-eight hours and I cast the first spell." He lowers his voice, taking a step closer, and Hermione forces herself to stare him down.

She doesn't want to know what Harry makes of any of this.

"And I promise you, Granger," Malfoy says, his words a cool caress on her cheek, "if you get Potter back, it'll be as a mass of pulp."

The horrific image embeds itself in her mind's eye, and she finds herself shaking her head, pleading for something she knows will never happen. "Please don't do this." She presses her eyes shut, willing her pride to the back of a shelf in her mind. "Please—not Harry. Just... not Harry."

Malfoy's gaze locks on hers again, and to her astonishment, something falters in his stare. "You must know I don't want to do this, Granger," he says, his voice low enough that only she can hear. A slight furrow tugs at his brow. "None of us wants to do these things. The war has made awful bloody puppets of even the best of us." The way he fixes his gaze on her suggests that he might be referencing her, and her stomach turns at the thought. Then his upper lip curls with a sneer. "Give me the name and I won't touch a hair on his head. A life for a life."

It's an impossible decision, and even he knows that.

The conversation carries softly between them, giving life to her unease.

"And the other thing you wanted?" she asks, quelling the fear that threatens to rise within her, that threatens to stifle and asphyxiate and blind her beyond all sense and reason. To emphasise the point, she allows some of the raw power to break from her fingertips.

Her gaze flits to Harry, almost against her will, and to her horror, he's staring at her like he doesn't even recognise her. She thinks his eyes look glassy, and she forces her attention back to Malfoy.

His eyes narrow, calculating and precise. "You'd do that to protect Potter. You'd marry me."

She can't answer; not with the way panic grips her heart. She can't admit to it, either. Not without knowing his motivations. Because she can't put herself at his mercy with how much he knows about her.

"There are bonds, you know," he drawls, his tone oddly conversational. "Malfoy bonds, Black bonds; you could take your pick. That's why I suggested it. To prevent one of us from attempting to overtake the other."

It suddenly clicks at last—why he thinks they should marry at all. The ancient marriage bonds that govern his houses would ensure they don't turn on each other. He wouldn't be able to use her magic against her. "Then why?" she breathes. "Why, if you don't mean to enslave me?"

He flinches—actually flinches. "It was never like that, Granger." He shakes his head, slow and drawn out. "It's only ever been about power."

"But you won't tell me why."

Malfoy clenches his jaw, his silence reverberating between them. And for a moment, it all feels like too much. It burns through her, pushing in and threatening to overwhelm.

Hermione presses the heel of her palm to her temple, shaking her head. "I don't know. You need to let me think."

She can't give up Foray—and she can't give up Harry. Her eyes skim the containment field in which Harry's trapped, but Hermione doesn't even know where to begin. If she were to attack Malfoy—to attempt to break Harry free—she doesn't know what she might find. The wards could be charged to take her out—and Harry—if she tries to dismantle them.

Hermione can't meet Harry's gaze, though she feels his eyes searing through her as she finishes a brief assessment. From the keen spark in Malfoy's eye, she suspects she's right. That his wards around Harry contain some sort of failsafe.

She might be able to break them, but Malfoy would break her first.

He gestures with an idle hand. "Like I said, you have forty-eight hours. I will, of course, be keeping Potter in my custody while you make your decision."

At that, her eyes slide unbidden to Harry, fists clenched as he scowls between the two of them.

"I promise, Harry," she says, digging within herself for some sort of explanation and coming up short, "this isn't what it looks like. Malfoy thrives on coercion and manipulation." She fires the blond a scathing look. "And we're all pawns in his games."

"Not a pawn," Malfoy says, low enough for only her, and she's reminded of his words before. When he first brought up the idea of marriage.

A queen.

She thinks again of her informant and his sobering assessment. That Malfoy truly has the power inside Voldemort's inner circle. That he commands the forces and pulls all the strings. At the moment, she believes it.

For as long as they've been embroiled in this cruel, awful game, he's been pulling all the strings between them as well. He's always steps ahead of her, playing a game of which she isn't aware until she's in the middle of it.

"I'm going to get you free, Harry," Hermione says, then shoots Malfoy a look, jabbing a finger towards his chest. "Don't you dare fucking touch him."

Malfoy's cold stare simply holds hers, and he wraps his hand around her finger. The touch is surprisingly gentle, and a slow smirk curls his mouth when she tries to recoil on instinct. Heat rushes to her cheeks at the innocuous touch, at the fact that Harry bears witness to her shame.

"You have my word, Granger. In fact, I'll make a vow on these terms," he says as he slips her hand into his, the words scarcely more than a purr.

She sucks in a breath. The last thing she wants to do is make a vow with him, but she doesn't know if she can trust him to keep to his word otherwise. "Fine. You'll vow to let him go unharmed."

Ducking his head, he says, "I will. Provided you deliver on your end." She feels a shimmer of magic rush through her, pooling with instant regret in her stomach as she wrenches her hand away.

Then, as though engaging an old friend in a joke, he turns towards Harry, lifting both of his hands up in supplication. "I'm certain we can all come to a proper arrangement here. In the meantime, Potter and I have some catching up to do, don't we?"

A wave of his hand lifts the silencing spell on Harry, and instantly he bites out, "Hermione, I don't know what sort of trick he's playing or what he's got on you, but don't give him anything—"

"Shut," Malfoy drawls, "up." Affixing a look of bemusement on his face, he adds, "Granger and I understand each other—don't we?"

The glint in his eye is unsettling, and she fears all too much that he's right.

When she doesn't instantly respond, Hermione can see the flicker in Harry's face. Disappointment. Confusion. She only grits out, "I'm not going to let him do anything to you, Harry."

Harry's expression shifts to disbelief, and he shakes his head. "You know the first bloody rule."

She does. Of course she does. Every member of the resistance has it drilled into them. She senses the resignation in his voice when his green eyes land on her again.

The resistance as a whole is more important than any one life.

The rule clangs through the back of her mind, and her shame only deepens because she knows she can't follow it. Not this time—not when it comes to Harry. And Malfoy knows as much—maybe he understands her too well.

"I'm going to make this right," she responds. "I promise."

No matter the cost, no matter what she has to do in return. The only person left who means anything to her stands before her, trapped and at the mercy of her nemesis.

Panic prickling at her nerves, she checks her watch, mentally stabilising herself for the time she has to set things right with her oldest friend—and likely destroy her own conscience in the meantime.

If nothing else, she believes Malfoy will hold to this—that he will give her the time he's allotted.

As she leaves the clearing, a part of her fears that she's already made up her mind.

Chapter End Notes

Hello! Thank you as always for reading. I hope you liked (or are at least intrigued by) the events of this chapter! You've all left so many wonderful thoughts and theories and I love to read them.

Alpha and beta credits to the wonderful kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

PS if you need a smutty/fluffy break, my other mini-WIP, Incognito, just wrapped up this week <3

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

When she arrives at the safehouse, Hermione hears raised voices. Her heart leaps as she rounds the corner and finds a few people gathered inside the healers' room. Quietly, she slips into the group.

Neville, looking as though he's seen better days, is seated in bed, a firm press to his lips as Cassius debates with Penelope at his bedside.

"Neville," Hermione sighs, unable to contain herself as tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. His stare goes wide in surprise and relief when he sees her, and she sinks into the corner of his bed. "Thank Merlin you're alright."

He grimaces, then offers an effort at a grin. "Of course I am."

Reaching for his hand on instinct, she scans his face. Most of the superficial injuries have been healed, but she can see it in his eyes. The fatigue; the horrors of what he's faced at the hands of the Death Eaters. Despite the warmth in his expression and his easy reassurance, she doesn't believe it.

"I'm so glad." She blinks away the insistent press of tears. "What happened?"

The smile drops off and he shakes his head. "Captured. I'd given my capsule to one of the others when we hit a snag earlier in the mission, so I didn't have it to use." The thought darkens his gaze, and he forces another thin smile. "Warrington's already given me an earful over being taken alive."

Hermione frowns at the thought, idly rubbing her thumb along the back of Neville's hand. It's callous, but no more than she would expect from the man. She can only imagine how many resistance secrets might have been passed along by the others in Neville's team, all of whom were killed either during the altercation or in subsequent questioning.

"I, for one," she says, "am glad you were. Because you're strong enough to make it back to us."

A frown pulls at Neville's mouth. "Some days I didn't think I would hold out any longer. I still don't know how I managed it."

He's speaking quietly, soft enough that Cassius and Penelope can't hear, and tightness clenches her chest. "Who was your captor? Was it Malfoy?"

A part of her dreads the thought, even though she knows it's true.

"Malfoy, Nott, Pucey," Neville lists. "Flint some times, and others. They mostly kept their masks on but I recognised their voices. Some days..." he trails off, a shadow passing behind his eyes. "Some days it was worse than others."

Hermione frowns, a shudder travelling the length of her spine at the thought. She's been caught under the wand of a few of them—Malfoy, mostly—and she can't imagine what he's been through. "Did you hear anything? Or pick up anything from where they kept you?"

"Malfoy Manor," Neville says with a shrug. "But I recognised it because it wasn't the first time I've been held there. They were careful not to talk about anything of consequence in front of me—not sure why. I don't even know why they let me go in the first place, to be honest. Sounds like that's part of why Warrington's so upset—he doesn't know what it means that they let me leave." His eyes drift to hers, but his next words bely the idle glance. "Or why it was you who recovered me. I don't remember any of those last moments before I left the dungeons."

"Fortuitous timing," Hermione murmurs, unwilling to get any deeper into it with Cassius in the room. "I've been tracking Malfoy for a while now."

At that, a slow, crooked grin she recognises spreads across Neville's face, and it banishes some of the shadows. "Then I suppose I have you to thank for the fact that I'm still breathing. I won't question timing that works in our favour for once."

She forces a soft laugh at the words, though nausea churns her stomach. If it weren't for her crossing too many lines, a lot of things wouldn't have happened. Including the fact that Malfoy has now essentially traded Neville for Harry as his personal prisoner.

The recollection crashes down on her, and even Neville's temporary distraction isn't enough to hold her fear at bay.

The last thing she wants to do is to admit to Kingsley or Cassius that Harry's been captured by Death Eaters—just one Death Eater, really. Hermione can only imagine Malfoy will seek to keep this prize to himself, at least for now. It might allow her the time she needs to figure out a solution. Taking such a high profile prisoner to Malfoy Manor will open up the field to too many questions—especially if he holds to his word and doesn't harm Harry during their arranged time period.

Or if she caves—if he's forced to let Harry go.

No, she suspects Malfoy will hold him elsewhere. He enjoys his private games too much.

Neville's fallen silent in the wake of her introspection, and he gives her hand a squeeze. "And you? Are you hanging in there?"

"Yes." Offering a smile, she releases his hand. Her concern for Harry overshadows the safety of one of the only other people she still cares about. "I'm really glad to see you back and healthy, Neville."

"Of course," he mutters with a snicker. "Can't let you lot have all the fun here without me."

None of this is hardly what she would call fun, but Neville's brand of humour is enough for her smile to grow genuine. "I'll see you soon, Neville."

And she slips from the room before Cassius can pay her any mind.

"I can't help but notice that one of our highest profile prisoners is no longer with us," the Dark Lord murmurs, those glaring red eyes locked on Draco.

Pursing his lips, Draco nods, mulling over a response. Has he simply gone mad? Has he become so unhinged that he no longer considers the repercussions of his actions? "Indeed, My Lord," he purrs. Across the hall, a handful of Death Eaters stand in quiet discussion, and Draco can see Theo's shoulders tense. "Even when we broke Longbottom we didn't get anything from him, addled as he was. It was a tactical move—his mind has been infused with tracking and cognitive spells that will provide us with more information from within the resistance."

The answer is smooth, practised. Draco can't help but be grateful for the mask that obscures his features. After so many years of lying, sneering irreverence, it comes more naturally to him than the truth.

It would have been easier to simply say Longbottom succumbed to injuries sustained during the questioning, but that could come back to haunt Draco if the wrong person were to see the bloke.

Theo's eyes skim the room to land on his, only for a moment.

"That certainly is unfortunate," Voldemort returns, and Draco can't read the subtext beneath the words. "We learned nothing from him whatsoever?"

Draco thinks of Potter, securely warded away from society, and of his plans for the man. "We did not, My Lord. The time came where we were forced to cut our losses and move on."

He doesn't even know the last time the Dark Lord set foot in the dungeons, let alone lifted his wand to a prisoner, when so many of those duties have been relegated to land on Draco's shoulders. So he can't imagine what his master might have to say about the matter. Still, Draco ducks his chin in supplication.

Most days, his life is more valuable than his pride.

"Very well," Voldemort returns at last, folding his hands in his lap. His thin lips narrow with displeasure, and Draco's body braces instinctively in advance of the spell he's sure to fly his way. "You will report to me on whatever we learn from Longbottom's return to the resistance."

"Of course, My Lord."

Idly, he recalls that it was Longbottom who was responsible for the death of Nagini—one of the Dark Lord's Horcruxes—at the Battle of Hogwarts. Draco wonders if this is more personal than his master cares to let on.

To his surprise—and a small modicum of relief—the Dark Lord only barks out, "Yaxley!"

In the moments of his distraction, as Yaxley glances up from across the room, Draco slips from the dais and makes his way into the hallway before his absence can be deliberated. Theo slips up alongside him, shooting a furtive glance down the corridor as he casts a non-verbal Muffliato.

"You didn't curse Longbottom's mind," he says in a low voice.

"I did not," Draco clips, keeping a quick pace.

Clicking his tongue, Theo shakes his head. "Seems unlike you to... fabricate."

"And it's unlike you to question me," Draco drawls in return. He doesn't want to argue with Theo—doesn't care to spar with his friend at all—but he has more important things on his mind. Like the fact that Granger's forty-eight hour window is nearly complete. He's kept his resistance coin stowed in a pocket all day.

And he knows better than to imagine she has thought of anything else since their last meeting.

"Honestly, Theo," Draco says in a low voice, "I don't give a rat's arse about Longbottom."

He gave the man to Granger as a peace offering—an olive branch of sorts. Which was completely overridden by the fact that a better opportunity presented itself in the form of Harry Bloody Potter. In retrospect, the acts were contradictory, but Draco couldn't resist when Potter materialised in front of him, alive and well.

Theo only shrugs. "Fair enough."

Nerves prickle across his skin as Draco makes for the study, Theo at his side, and he wards the doors behind him before taking a seat at the desk. Despite knowing that Granger hasn't sent him anything, he checks the coin all the same. He hates fidgeting—he views it at a sign of weakness—but he can't help himself as he waits for her answer.

If she doesn't give him a response within the forty-eight hours, at least Draco will be able to take out some of his frustrations with the situation on her closest friend.

"You seem distracted," Theo muses, eyeing Draco from the sofa. "What's with the Galleon?"

Figuring it makes no difference, Draco shrugs and sets it on the desk. "Swiped it from a resistance grunt. It's how they communicate. I've been trying to figure out how the magic of it functions to pass messages back and forth."

It skirts enough of the truth that he doesn't need to bring up his private communications with Granger—but it's also true in its own right. He did have to figure out how the coins connect, and how they utilise private magical signatures.

"Interesting." Theo plucks the coin from the desk before Draco can stop him, and he bristles as Theo twists it in his fingers to peer at both faces. "Looks just like the real thing."

Keeping his face blank as Theo returns the coin, Draco nods. "It's a clever bit of magic. I'm trying to see if I can break into their networks—intercept private messages and that sort of thing." At Theo's questioning stare, he adds, "I haven't figured out that much yet."

"Fascinating." Theo pours himself a finger of whisky from the decanter on a cart near the sofa, and brandishes the bottle in question. "Drink? You still seem anxious as hell."

"No, thank you." Draco scowls, sliding the coin back beneath his palm. Never mind that Theo is offering him his own whisky. "I'm not anxious. I'm simply waiting on some news."

"Anxiously."

At that, Draco huffs a sigh and sinks a little deeper into his seat, allowing some of the tension from his shoulders. Maybe a glass would help to soothe his nerves. But if Granger reaches out, he wants to be prepared. Needs his mind sharp.

His gaze skirts sidelong to the grandfather clock along the wall, watching the swing of the large pendulum.

Granger has one hour left, and he can only imagine he will hear from her as the seconds tick down to the wire.

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, Hermione gnaws on her lower lip. She knows Malfoy well enough to realise that if she doesn't give up the name, he won't hold back on his promises against Harry.

Merlin, this is the sort of thing she would long, desperately, to talk to Harry about. But she doesn't know where Malfoy has him hidden away. Hermione roved most of the areas she knows Malfoy to frequent, including the warded warehouse where he held her captive in order to test her grasp on wandless magic.

If Harry's there, he's hidden beyond anything she was able to discern or detect.

The moral dilemma has weighed on her more heavily than she even anticipated.

By giving up the name of the Foray operative, she'll doom the mission to failure—and after Neville's mission failed, the resistance needs a win. Morale is low enough that the loss of something so significant as Foray...

She sighs, scowling at the coin. As though he knew it would be worse for her to bear, Malfoy hasn't reached out since he set the terms of this latest convoluted game.

Harry for the name. A life for a life, he'd said. Which means in no uncertain terms that Malfoy plans to kill the Foray operative.

If she sends the message, she'll be condemning him to death. If she doesn't, it will be Harry whose gallows she prepares.

Nausea roils within her, to the point where she hasn't been able to eat or sleep.

Releasing a low groan, she drops her face into one hand. She's almost out of time, and there's no other way out of the situation.

But she already knows. She's known all along. She holds the coin in one palm, squeezing her eyes shut as she taps her wand.

I have the name for you.

The returning message comes back moments later, as though he's been waiting. Who is it?

Hermione blows out a breath, steels herself for the fallout that will inevitably come of this decision, and responds.

Ensuring Theo is distracted across the room, Draco glances down at the coin where it sits on his desk.

His veins run cold.

For several long, earth-shattering moments, he stares at the face. Until the message begins to fade, and a smooth gold face stares up at him once more, innocuous and quiet as though his heart isn't racing out of his chest.

The message sears his brain, even gone.

Theodore Nott.

For years, Draco has operated three steps ahead of everyone and everything else. And now he can't think over the roar of his pulse in his ears.

Slowly, carefully, his gaze slides to Theo across the room where he's flipping through the books on a shelf along the far wall. Swallowing a thick lump in his throat, Draco's hand twitches towards his wand.

But he freezes. Surely, Granger must be mistaken. There's no way Theo is working for the resistance.

A pit forms in his stomach, so heavy and obtrusive that nausea twists within him, and Draco draws another breath. For a long time now, his friendship with Theo hasn't been like it once was. They've felt estranged, even though Draco wishes otherwise.

Yet, even when he felt them begin to slip, Draco didn't have the time. He wasn't willing to put in the effort to ensure everything was alright.

But Theodore Nott has been his best friend since they were old enough to walk. Draco simply can't—

His next exhale falls sharply from his lungs, and his fingers tremble hard enough he clasps his hands together in his lap.

Startled, Theo drops his hand from the bookshelf and glances towards Draco. He lifts a wry brow. "Everything alright? You look like you've seen a bloody ghost, mate."

How many times has Draco sat with Theo—told Theo things—not knowing he's been reporting on Draco's movements? How many inner circle secrets might he have unwittingly revealed?

"Fine," Draco chokes out, a little belated, and averts his stare down to the coin again. He can feel Theo's stare linger on him, though now it's tinged with something beyond concern. Something like assessment, shrewd and icy cold as it settles across Draco's skin.

If Theo's with the resistance—if he's a traitor inside the Death Eaters—Draco knows what he needs to do.

Before Theo can suspect he knows the truth.

Merlin, the way he prattled on about the resistance coin. The way he let his fucking guard down.

At length, Theo glances away. Now, every move feels calculated, every moment borrowed, like Draco's operating on time he doesn't have. He can't think fast enough.

Into his coin, Draco sends a message.

How sure are you?

The response comes back moments later. Positive.

Meet me ASAP. He stows his wand after sending the message, hoping against everything that Granger will actually accept the request for once.

Draco's eyes slide shut, unbidden, his heart sinking in his chest. Abruptly, he rises from his seat, tucking the coin in his pocket before Theo can notice. "I have to go." The words are laced with his best unaffected drawl, and Draco focuses on fixing his mask into place, his hands as steady as he can manage.

Finishing the last of his drink, Theo follows suit, his expression still odd as he roves Draco.

For good measure, Draco adds, "Inner circle business." He adjusts his tie, squaring his jaw. "I'm certain you can find your way from the study without drinking all my best whisky."

Theo chuckles, sliding his hands into his pockets. "I'll find my way."

It's cowardly, but Draco doesn't know how to deal with this right now, and he doesn't know how—he can't kill Theo. Until Theo knows that Draco realises the truth, he has time to think this through. To come up with the best course of action.

"Thanks for the drink," Theo quips, slipping past Draco into the corridor beyond, and he makes a casual path towards the hall.

Although he's afraid he might toss the contents of his stomach, Draco crosses the manor wards, sucking in greedy gulps of fresh air before he Apparates to the meeting place with Granger.

This is a hitch in the plan he didn't see coming. And Draco hates it.

Hermione glances around the clearing, wand already drawn as she waits for Malfoy to arrive. She felt the magic of the vow flow through her when she sent the name—when she condemned a man to death to save her friend.

Maybe she deserves to die. Adrenaline roars through her, nausea twisting her stomach and forcing bile up her throat as she thinks of Nott. Of the efforts and sacrifices he has most assuredly made for the resistance to keep undercover.

She doesn't know the details. Doesn't even know how Nott ended up with the resistance in the first place.

Hermione never spoke to him, even at Hogwarts. They were always at odds—Slytherin and Gryffindor. Order of the Phoenix and the son of a notable Death Eater.

Now, she supposes, she never will. The thought of allowing Harry to die instead is unacceptable; maybe she is just as cold-hearted as all the rest of them. Because when she really thinks of it, it was never a decision she had to make. There was no way she could allow Harry to die. Resistance be damned—first rule be damned.

She knows she'll have to face Harry—to see the disappointment and condemnation in his eyes, knowing she's betrayed him by saving him.

The blood of so many already stains her hands. But this feels different. This is methodical, calculated, cold-blooded.

Theodore Nott will die because of her.

The resistance will lose their man inside the Death Eaters. Because of her.

Self-loathing roils, thick and repulsive in her veins, and it takes long moments to realise her wand hand is shaking just as Malfoy Apparates into the clearing. He's wearing his robes, but the mask is propped atop his head, setting his blond fringe askew.

He looks, if possible, worse than she feels.

"Tell me you're lying," he bites out, his jaw clenched in so hard a line she wonders if he might crack his teeth. "There's no possible way—this is a fucking joke."

"It isn't," she manages, clenching her wand tighter in an effort to stem the quake. She can only hope he doesn't see it.

But Malfoy doesn't even draw his own wand as he paces closer, his grey eyes searing hot on her. "Theodore Nott is not with the fucking resistance."

"Did you or did you not feel the magic of the vow? If I'd lied, the magic wouldn't have recognised my side of our bargain as fulfilled."

His eyes narrow, and she can almost see the thoughts swirling about his brain. Hermione wonders whether he's ever been thrown off guard like this. A part of her wants to smile at the thought that his closest, oldest friend was the one to betray him.

For so long, Malfoy has been cold and irreverent, lacking in any consideration for the lives of others.

Maybe now that it's the life of his friend he might hesitate, even for a moment. She wishes she could see it.

"How."

He bites the word out, and if looks could kill, Hermione would be ash. "I don't know," she returns, standing her ground as best she can manage in the face of his ire. His wariness. And beneath it, so well hidden she almost can't see it... fear. "I don't know any of the details."

"Then how did you—"

"I heard his name, Malfoy. He's the operative." Some part of her wants to bear witness to his dissolution in the face of this, but she's disconcerted by it all the same. His reaction has thrown her off in a way she didn't anticipate, even knowing the name would impact him beyond most others. "You don't have to believe me; you don't have to do anything with this information. But you swore if I gave you the name that Harry would go free."

At the sharp reminder of their business together, Malfoy straightens, any shred of emotion he might possess deep down vanishing from his eyes.

"I did," he muses with a stern nod. "And he will."

Malfoy loops a hand around her arm, and before she can react, before she can say anything in protest, she feels the sudden pull of side-along Apparition beneath her navel. She lands, yanking her arm from his hand and wheeling on him. They're in another empty clearing, much like the other one, but in the distance she can see fields. Jabbing a finger into his chest, Hermione scowls.

"You fucking dare to—"

"Shush, Granger," he drawls, rolling his eyes. "I wasn't giving up the location. Dear precious Potter is safe and sound as I promised."

Her upper lip curls with distaste as she stares at him, unwilling to back down. "And you get to kill your best friend. At least, I thought that was your plan once you learned the truth of Foray." Malfoy's jaw clenches hard once more, and she can't help but to dig the knife in just a little deeper. "Or are you suddenly confronted with the fact that not everyone needs to be a casualty of your ambition?"

"You know nothing," Malfoy breathes, "of my ambition." Disgust flickers across his face. "Of course Theo has to die. What am I going to do with a resistance spy in my home?"

Folding her arms, Hermione allows a hint of amusement to play about her lips. "That's up to you. I'm sure this is all just killing you—knowing he's been under your nose all this time. Knowing your friend betrayed you."

Fury flashes in his grey eyes, and it only spurs her on. Malfoy's always stoic, impenetrable, and she rarely draws anything from him. She wants him to hurt for everything he's done.

"Are you going to enjoy putting the curse through his heart?" she seethes, holding his stare. "The only bloody person who can stand you and—"

"And you betrayed your own fucking order to give his name up," Malfoy growls in return, his chest heaving a little. "If only I'd known your allegiance was so easily swayed years ago." The words are barbed, and she feels the sting in her chest, but keeps her face blank. "And now that I know Harry Potter is alive, this is far from the last—"

"Don't you fucking dare!" she snaps, the words falling from her lips in a rush. "You vowed Harry would go free. Your word isn't worth a damn thing, but that's magically binding."

Malfoy looks as though he regrets the vow entirely, raw, searing hatred burning in his stare. He towers over her, but her blood rushes through her veins, pulsing a roar behind her ears, and she's scarcely aware of the scant inches between them.

"And," he says at last, "are you going to ensure nothing befalls Potter for the rest of his life? Some hero, isn't he? Hiding out? The resistance pretending he isn't even alive—and for what?"

The words carry enough of a threat that she sees red, and she's fumbling for her wand before she can think it through—before she can consider the fact that she hasn't even seen Harry. That whatever wards Malfoy has in place are likely ones she won't be able to dismantle easily, if at all. He might have used blood wards.

Long, cold fingers close around her hand as she grasps her wand, her own hand shaking, and she looks up, startled by the contact.

Malfoy's staring down at her, his expression mostly blank but for the hardness of his jaw. "Look, Granger," he murmurs, yanking his other hand through his hair. He hasn't even gone for his own wand; he blows out a breath to steady himself. Maybe he's trying to steady them both. To prevent the situation from escalating further. "If I was going to kill Potter, I wouldn't have made an arrangement with you to free him. I haven't told anyone else he's still alive."

Hermione holds still, painfully aware of the touch of his hand on hers. Breaths fall from her lips in thin, shallow streams at his quiet words.

Malfoy carries on, his hand tightening a little around hers, as though to ensure she doesn't fire on him. "You gave me Nott's name, and I appreciate that."

All at once, her frustration deflates at the raw sincerity in his voice.

He ducks in, his breath warm on the shell of her ear, and she's so surprised she forgets to recoil. "You and I don't have to be enemies, Granger."

The words are so soft they're more an exhalation of breath than a vocalisation of syllables, and for a moment, Malfoy doesn't withdraw. The pad of his thumb grazes the back of her knuckles where he grips her fingers. And despite herself, paralysed by every idiotic thought racing through her, Hermione doesn't move.

"What do you want from me?" she asks at last, unable to believe she's even indulging him. Indulging this—when she doesn't even know what this is.

Grey eyes flicker to hers, heavy with intent. "I've told you. I want you on my side."

"I will never be a Death Eater, no matter how much you threaten me and the people I care about, " she huffs, though she isn't entirely certain whether they're saying the same thing. "And I've told you—I'm not doing anything unless I know why."

"You want to know why I'm doing this?" Something like mirth dances in his eyes although it's frigid. A shiver darts down her spine at the thought, and despite the sun overhead, she's cold to the bone. Hermione's viscerally aware of the fact that he hasn't released her hand. Even more so of the fact that she hasn't pushed him away. "Do you think I want the war to carry on, Granger? Both sides trading blows until there's nothing and no one left? Because that's how this is going to turn out if we keep going like this."

Hermione bites her tongue on a range of retorts, and scowls at him instead. "You could leave Foray alone. Let them do whatever it is they're doing."

"I could." His response is as surprising as anything, and even more so, the lightness that comes into his voice. "The problem with the resistance winning, Granger, is that I'll be dead."

"And you'd rather me dead?"

As though she's said something infinitely amusing, Malfoy barks a laugh. Something that resembles a wry grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, and she finds herself oddly intrigued. If she's seen him smile, it was with cruelty. This almost feels genuine.

"I've made it abundantly clear I don't want you dead."

"And you think having me on your side—if we were to go through with this absolutely stupid idea of yours—you think that would keep us both alive."

She makes the mistake of meeting his eye again. His gaze is dark, heady, laden with intrigue, and his eyes latch onto hers, unapologetic. It's wholly seductive in more ways than she can comprehend, and she can't help her body's traitorous reaction.

He nods once. "Yes."

A breath catches in her throat and she curses it. Curses him for the way doubt flits through her. "Tell me," she says. "Tell me what you're planning, and what you want me to do. Then, and only then, will I even consider it."

At that, Malfoy straightens, steps back, releases her hand. He gestures vaguely to the empty field beyond, and an old warehouse materialises, released from the wards under which he'd hidden it. "Your friend."

And Hermione understands the implications. She's thrown back to the present, to the situation at hand where Harry's life hangs in the balance.

"Release him," she says, hating the way her voice doesn't carry the note of authority she intends. Nerves riot in her stomach from Malfoy's closeness, his words. Despite herself, curiosity bubbles in her chest, threatening to constrict. "I gave you your name."

"Potter will go free as promised. And if I tell you what it is you want to know," Malfoy says, his voice a low, irreverent drawl once more, "you can't go back to the resistance. I can't allow that information to fall into the wrong hands. If you want to know my plans, you're leaving here with me."

"Not a chance," she snaps.

Something flits across his face that she can't place, but she almost suspects it might be disappointment. But then he nods, lifting his chin, and with a snap of his fingers, the entire warehouse vanishes. Hermione blinks, startled to find it was all an illusion, and across the now empty field she spies Harry, seated and unharmed. A heavy breath of relief falls from her lips.

Malfoy brushes an invisible speck of lint from his shirt, and says, "If that's your decision, I'll not dispute it. Apparently, I have a traitor I need to decide what to do with."

She hesitates. For some reason she can't understand, can't even fathom, she only stares at him. At some point during all of this, she must have lost her mind.

Out in the field, she can see Harry, relaxed and observing the world before him as though he still thinks himself confined. By the way he hasn't even turned towards her, Hermione assumes he can't see her. Her eyes track back to Malfoy.

"Fine," she says at last, forcing the words through clenched teeth. Damn her insatiable curiosity—she should have cursed him out at the first mention of it. But now she can't help the way his words have niggled into her mind. "I'm taking Harry."

"Take him." Malfoy waves a hand. "Once I leave, the last of the wards will lift. He's all yours."

Hermione isn't certain she cares for the lascivious note in his words, and she only levels him a scowl. She softens her voice and says, "Then leave."

Please. She doesn't add it—can't admit to the weakness that courses through her. Leave please.

She needs him to make the decision for her, to close the tantalising door that leads to whatever it is he offers. His plans and schemes—of which she knows there are many—the future he paints. An end to the war.

Hermione knows better. She knows any plan of his likely involves incalculable death and struggle, and all for the sake of his own survival. She's seen as much in the months she's studied him, watched him put countless spells through countless individuals.

But she's done the same, and her blood runs cold at the thought.

When Malfoy lingers a moment longer, his face empty but for a slight knit between his brows, as though he intends to say something else, she can think only of the warmth of his hand on hers. The way he clasped her hand to stay her attack, but then didn't let go even when they both knew she wasn't going to lift her wand against him.

It's more than she can handle. The volume of her heartbeat is almost deafening as she holds his stare, and the air between them grows rancorous with tension.

The heat in his stare burns through her.

"What are the bonds?"

The words fall, blurted and rushed, from her lips.

Malfoy stares at her, his eyes narrowing, and then he purses his lips.

When he doesn't respond, she says again, "You said there are... bonds."

"There are." As though he can't quite discern whether she's truly asking, he waits another long moment before responding. "The Malfoy line has different ones than the Black line, though they're similar. It isn't... It's not magic to undertake without due consideration. But it's powerful, ancient. A means of protection and enhancement."

She needs to leave. She can't imagine indulging this conversation any longer.

Malfoy looks wary, like a caged animal, like he thought she would never ask.

"You said you have a way to end the war."

The tip of his tongue glides over the front of his teeth as he assesses her. "It isn't guaranteed, and it won't be easy."

Then the words slide from her lips with a thrill of terror. They're calculating and damning, and a shudder rises within her. "I want to hear about them."

And for the second time in one day, Malfoy looks speechless. As though he can't make sense of any of this, of the way the conversation has turned. She would give countless galleons to slip into his mind and discover his thoughts.

"Then I shall see to it," he says at last, formal and clipped. And despite that this is what he's wanted, he looks far from pleased. "Await my word." His eyes slide shut, and he shakes his head once. She wonders whether it's exasperation, or maybe disbelief.

Maybe this is all a trick; just another mockery in his schemes.

Then a smirk slides across his face, and with a cold, "Later, Granger," he's gone.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading! You're all so wonderful to me <3 I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Alpha and beta love to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows, respectively.

Come hang on twitter for snippets, updates, and random glimpses of my houseplants.

Chapter 14

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione can't meet Harry's eyes. He paces the short length of her room and the cramped quarters make a mockery of his aggravation. But she can feel his desperation as surely as she knows her own.

After Malfoy Disapparated, as he assured her, the last of the wards lifted and Harry was released. In the instant their eyes met, she could see the cold dread echoed back at her.

For several painfully stilted moments, they only stared at each other, before Harry choked out, "Don't tell me you told him."

"I didn't have a choice," she breathed, the resolution she'd made hours before—earlier, if she was honest—still raw in her heart. "I wasn't going to let him kill you."

"You should have," Harry snapped. "Or you should have killed him—like you promised you would do."

Then without waiting for her, Harry Disapparated. Shame and guilt churned in her stomach, bile sour on her tongue as she stared at the space where he'd stood moments before. Her oldest friend—the only one who has been there for her unconditionally through everything.

A part of her understands his reaction. But she couldn't let him die, and she won't apologise for that.

Hours later, he slipped into her room in a state. She's been lectured, yelled at, and as he sinks into the foot of the bed, she can't handle the disappointment in his bright eyes.

"How could this happen, Hermione?" he asks, dropping his face into his hands. "You told me—told everyone—you had the Malfoy situation under control."

"I did," she whispers, tears stinging at her eyes. "Until I didn't."

The words hang, resonating between them in a way that coils her stomach into knots. She doesn't dare bring up the rest—that Malfoy's spoken to her about more. That she requested to look at the marital bonds from his lineage.

When Harry still doesn't respond, she wraps her arms around her knees, squeezing her eyes shut. "Damnit," she huffs, "he's always three bloody steps ahead, Harry."

"Do you want me to take care of him?" Harry asks, his voice filled with a cold resolution. "I'll take care of him."

She's tempted enough by his offer that she doesn't respond right away. It's the rational choice. Obviously, she's too affected by the situation now to think this through clearly, and she ought to have handed the assignment over weeks ago. By carrying on, knowing she's been compromised...

She's already condemned at least one resistance member to death, and possibly more if she's honest.

"Your informant," Harry chokes, as though he's been too distracted by the day's events to remember until now. "When you said you had an informant with access to the inner circle. It was Draco bleeding Malfoy."

Although she can't respond, can't force the words from her lips, she can see her own confirmation in Harry's face. "How long?" His gaze lifts to land on hers, hard and steady. "How long has this been going on? What did you give him for that information?"

Shame curdles the contents of her stomach, and Hermione is wracked with a sudden fear she might toss. "Longer than it should have been." She can't force herself to meet his eye. "He... he wanted to know about Foray."

"Hermione..." Harry's disappointment stings more than she could have imagined, and she hates the way moisture spikes at the corners of her eyes. Frustrated, she swipes it away. "And now he knows who's undercover."

"Yes."

Harry's eyes slide shut but he doesn't respond. Eventually he rises with a grimace, exhaustion plain on his face. "I know why you didn't, and I'm not going to bring it up again because we both know I'm right... but you should have let him kill me instead."

His weighted silence makes her feel worse than if he had yelled at her.

Before she can respond—before she can even begin to gather a feeble defence—he slips from the room.

For the first time in as long as Hermione can remember, her head is buried in a book.

Despite Harry's chastisement and the alarm bells blaring in her own mind, Hermione retrieved the draft marital bonds from Malfoy—under the condition that she decide after viewing them.

The safehouse has only a small, cramped bookshelf, but under as many wards as she knows, she slipped into Grimmauld Place.

Harry kept ownership of the house, but never saw fit to offer its use to the resistance—maybe because of its notoriety or simply because of the bad memories it evokes.

But for instances such as this, the townhouse is ideal.

For hours, Hermione has been lost in ancient pureblood texts.

Not for a moment does she trust Malfoy to offer the truth, and if she wants to know about the bonds it's up to her.

Even so, as per his word, he gave her the copied pages from both the Malfoy and Black grimoires.

The bonds are similar from what she can tell, namely in several key aspects.

Protection—the marital bonds imbue a certain level of protection between the pair through the bonding of core magic in its basest form.

Permanence—the bonds, once performed, are for life.

She nearly threw the drafts away at the thought alone. Gritting her teeth, she carried on.

Thirdly—enhancement.

It's at this point that she's been stuck, picking apart the wording line by line so she doesn't miss anything.

To this end, the Black lineage bonds are stronger.

It's both terrifying and intriguing at once.

In essence, the bonds allow the pair to strengthen one another, to draw from a mutual pool of magic.

It's strong.

Stronger than she even suspected at first.

The thought of it shoots a frisson of nerves along her spine.

The idea of imbuing Malfoy with any measure of her own magic—even if it's extraneous from that which she presently possesses—is unnerving.

But the idea that her own magic could be enhanced in this same way…

More than once, Hermione has had to steady the racing of her heart. For years, she's cultivated her magic in as many ways as she can find; Malfoy discovered a facet of it when he forced her to draw her wandless power to the surface.

When he tricked her.

And she can't help but wonder whether this is all another trick.

Still, she can't look away.

In peering through other ancient lineage spells in Grimmauld's library, she can't find anything quite like it. Not even the Malfoy bonds offer the same level of magical enhancement.

If she had any sense to her at all, she wouldn't even be considering this. But yet, she can't help herself.

Malfoy never offered warmth or happiness or romance.

He offered a way out of this war.

A permanent way. One which would leave her very much connected to him for the rest of her life.

But if she can figure this out, if she can find a way to swing this in her favour or trick him. To draw from the pool of raw, unfettered magic the spell could provide…

It could change the war.

She's certain Malfoy sees it the same way. That these bonds could give one side the edge over the other.

The problem with that is an obvious one—they're on opposing sides.

Even if she were to indulge this idea, to go along with it—the war between the two of them would escalate to the point where they would destroy each other.

Despite her best efforts and the smallest shred of optimism that threatens at the edge of her mind, she knows better than to think Malfoy wouldn't find some way to turn this against her. To treat her as little more than another tool in his arsenal, another means to serve the ends he desires.

And she still doesn't know exactly what that end entails. If he's been honest with her, if he truly does want to end the war, she can accept that. Merlin, who doesn't at this point? For years, war and the fallout of it has destroyed her life and her home. She's lost friends and comrades and seen too many lives lost to the harsh realities of the world in which she exists.

It's the reason the thought keeps drawing at her mind.

Even so, guilt gnaws at her, churning a stormy pit in her stomach. Harry would never understand. The resistance would view her as a traitor; her own friends would turn their wands on her.

If Malfoy's right—and she has no alternative knowledge of the situation—the Dark Lord himself has turned his attention to the fact that she's evaded Malfoy this long. So not only would the matter need to remain between them strategically, she would need to make it believable.

Convince the Dark Lord that she's been well and truly broken to Malfoy's side.

The very thought makes her nauseous.

And though more reasons stack up as to why it's a terrible idea, that glimmer within her gut refuses to diminish. The thought that she might yet play a role in ending this war. That she could do more to save her friends by a means of espionage from the inside than from within the resistance.

Before she can even consider the situation any further, Hermione needs to talk to the one man she hates—and the only one who's offered her a way out.

As Theo approaches, Draco keeps his posture as loose as possible, his face a careful mask of stoicism.

"Theo," he says with a crisp nod. "What can I do for you?"

A slow, casual grin pulls at Theo's mouth, and all Draco can do is wonder at the truth of it. At how much Theo has done, how deeply his friend has betrayed him and for how long. "That depends," Theo drawls, "on how charitable you're feeling."

Not at all, Draco wants to say. His fingers twitch of their own accord towards his wand, and it's a valiant effort, he thinks, that he doesn't draw. He's certain he can play this situation to his advantage, but he hasn't worked out the details yet. After finding out it was Theo who's been betraying him, it took several days before he could even trust himself to see him.

The only good side of the situation is that Granger was willing to look at the marital bonds.

If she agrees, he can set the next phase of his plan into motion.

And maybe Foray won't matter so much—after all, he knows inviting Granger into his home and life will give her a means to feed information to the resistance from the inside. Even if it's only information he willingly allows.

Still, the thought of Theo's treason incites a deep well of rage within him.

"I am not in a good mood," Draco allows at last. "So perhaps you ought to simply spit it out."

Theo claps him on the shoulder, and against his own volition, Draco tenses. He catches the slight flash in Theo's eye; the hardness to his jaw. Glancing away, Draco tries to play it off as nothing.

He's always known better than to underestimate Theo. But now the game runs deeper than ever.

"I have to go away for a few days," Theo says, and though Draco waits for him to elaborate, he doesn't.

"Where," Draco bites out, though a part of him wants to deny the request instantly. Draco doesn't own any of the Death Eaters, and he has no say in what they do or where they go, but everyone knows they will have the Dark Lord to answer to.

And most of them prefer to treat Draco as a conduit.

Theo only waves a dismissive hand, as though he can't read the tension that's come into Draco's stance as he debates the merits of imbuing Theo with numerous undetectable tracking spells. "To the continent. Nothing exciting, but it's important."

"I'll bet it is," Draco drawls before he can stop himself. He offers a thin, sardonic smile. "No."

Eyes tightening, Theo stares at him for a moment. "Why not?"

"Because I need you here," Draco says, rolling his eyes. "We've got big things coming up and I need everyone to be present and ready to fight."

"You could just..." Theo trails off, lifting his brows suggestively, "not mention to anyone that I'm gone. It's not as if anyone's going to notice."

Even though he speaks true, Draco isn't keen to indulge his mate. Not when he can only guess at the extent of the betrayal Theo has performed—and Draco has no doubt his request to leave has something to do with the resistance.

But despite his own petulance, Draco can recognise the situation for the boon it could be.

Head spinning through a number of spells he can utilise, he lets out a heavy sigh. "Fine. Go, do whatever it is you need to do. I probably don't want to know the details anyway." Then he lifts a finger, heavy with accusation as he points it at Theo's face. "You're bloody lucky you're my best friend, you know."

The lie tastes bitter on his tongue.

But Theo flashes him a cocky grin. "I know I am. Thanks, mate. I appreciate it. I'll bring you a fucking souvenir."

Draco bites his tongue on a rude response and nods instead. "Get me details before you leave, because I'll be covering for your arse if the Dark Lord notes your absence."

The contents of his stomach curdle when Theo claps him on the shoulder. "Will do."

Hermione paces the space where they typically meet, the boundary of a destroyed warehouse and the forest beyond, wringing her hands and wracking her brain.

She knows Harry will never forgive her for even allowing this to go so far.

Hell, the resistance will never allow her back through their doors. No matter that every consideration leads back to the same thing: ending the war.

For too long, she's been afraid of Malfoy, wary of the way he's always ahead of her. She holds more cards in the situation than she's allowed herself to believe, and if Malfoy genuinely wants this—of which he's made no secret—he'll have to accept her terms.

At this point, they both know they aren't going to go back to a reality where they spend every spare minute trying to kill each other. For a moment, she thinks back, almost wistful. Everything had been so much simpler then.

Now, a tremour of anxiety darts through her at the mere thought of the conversation they need to have.

The terms she needs to present.

Because there isn't a chance Hermione will proceed any further into the situation without laying the groundwork. And she can handle the resistance labelling her a traitor if it means the war can play out in their favour.

Malfoy arrives moments later, instantly cocking a brow when he sees her pacing. "You called?" he drawls.

It astounds Hermione that he always sounds bored.

Irritation prickles at his nonchalance, and she steps forward, pressing the copies of the marital bonds he gave her into his chest. Malfoy's fingers curl around the parchment, nudging her own, and his grey eyes snag on hers.

"We need to discuss this," she clips, squaring her jaw and keeping her head high.

"Indeed," he murmurs, at last withdrawing his fingers from hers. He rolls the parchment into a scroll and slips it into his pocket. "But we're not doing it here."

"Don't even think about—"

His hand curls around her elbow before she can tear away, dragging her into side-along Apparition.

They land on an unfamiliar street, Hermione fuming as she wrenches her arm from his grip and looks around. By the style of the buildings nearby, she can tell they're not in London, but at the moment she's so frustrated he caught her by surprise and Apparated her again. She's lowered her guard altogether around him and it makes her uneasy.

"Where are we?" she asks, quashing a host of insults that linger on the tip of her tongue.

Malfoy begins down the street without her, and when she rushes to catch up his longer stride, he replies tersely, "Warsaw."

Fixing her features into a tight frown, she grits out, "You just Apparated us internationally? You could have splinched us both."

"And yet," he says, "I didn't." Before she can snap any further, he rolls her eyes and stops short on the street to face her. "This is going to go a lot easier if you aren't on my case over every fucking thing."

Hermione folds her arms, refusing to back down. "Or I can simply leave and you can find someone else."

A muscle feathers in his jaw, the only indication that her words even registered. His grey eyes sear into her own, and she finds herself momentarily caught on the flecks of silver trapped within. The bizarre stand off carries on, drawn out to the point of discomfort, and Hermione shifts on the spot.

At last Malfoy says, the words so quiet she has to strain to hear, "There isn't anyone else. But I'm not forcing your hand."

Something about his words—about the honesty behind them—causes her to falter more than anything else. She releases a breath, forcing the tension from her shoulders. After so long at each other's throats, she instinctively lashes out at everything he does, but the reason she's met with him today is because she's genuinely curious for more information.

"I read through the bonds," she allows, watching him for any signs of a reaction. He remains still.

"And?"

"And," she says quietly, "I wouldn't have reached out if I wasn't considering it—but I have questions."

"Of course you do." The words don't hold any derision, not like she might have expected, but a simple recognition of fact. "And that's why we're here—because we're not having this conversation somewhere anyone will recognise us." Malfoy straightens the cuffs of his shirt and cocks a brow before making back down the road again.

Hermione follows along, her steps a little stiff, but before she can say anything else he stops outside of a small restaurant and holds the door. She casts him a sceptical look but slips through, a shudder roiling through her as she exposes her back to him.

After months of tracking each other, she can't help the way a part of her still suspects him to draw his wand on her.

To her utter surprise, the establishment is Muggle. It's the last place she might have expected to see Voldemort's highest ranked lieutenant—which, she realises, makes it the ideal place for him to remain concealed. Even so, he casts a number of charms and spells to keep their conversation private before relaxing.

Without a word to her, Malfoy skims a laminated menu and Hermione follows suit. A strange mixture of discomfort and irritation prickles along her skin and she glances, surreptitious, at her watch. She can't linger long, when doing so would only invite unwelcome questions, but he shows no sense of the same urgency.

If she didn't know better, they might have simply been there for a cup of tea.

At last, Malfoy orders two drinks and sinks back into his seat once the server delivers them, eyeing her for long enough that she scowls. "You said you had questions."

"Of course, I do," she huffs under her breath, glancing around. The list is long and convoluted, but she begins with one that weighs the most heavily. "You hate me. What do you gain from a permanent arrangement? The bonds leave no room for interpretation: there would be no way out of the situation after the fact. Surely there are other ways to put this war to rest."

"If you have a list of alternatives," he drawls, "I'm open to hearing them."

"You would marry me."

Malfoy's jaw clenches, and Hermione finds her own interest prickling beneath the surface of her skin. "I understand why you would doubt the validity of that sentiment." He hesitates a long moment, gesturing once between them, as though to encompass the complicated relationship between them. "Here's the thing, Granger: I've always known I would marry for some form of influence."

Hermione recognises the underlying insinuation. That she wouldn't see it the same way.

And if she's honest, she doesn't. Or she wouldn't have, before spending half of her life embroiled in a war. Before watching so many friends and comrades murdered in cold blood.

"If I were to agree to this." She waves vaguely, unable to articulate in any more detail. "You would need to demonstrate to your master how proficiently you've broken me to your cause."

His eyes lift to find hers. "Yes." He takes a sip of his drink, sets it down carefully on his coaster, then adds, "Like I said, the Dark Lord would see you dead whether at my hand or anyone else's. If you want his gaze to land on someone else, you can't be an issue. And the best way to do that is to hide under his nose."

His lips twitch as though he's told a joke.

She drinks from her own glass for no reason other than to busy her hands. "So if I pass information to the resistance."

Malfoy eyes her through a narrowed gaze. "I would presume you've been doing this long enough to practise caution."

"I have."

Something about the fact that he trusts well enough to expect that she wouldn't blow their cover twists her stomach.

"Then," he says, leaning in across the table, his voice dangerously low, "I don't give a fuck who you talk to in private. But to be clear, Granger, if you do anything to get us both in trouble, I'll kill you myself."

"The bonds don't allow—"

"There are ways around the bonds."

That he's willing to admit such a thing is jarring, and cold crawls along her spine.

For a long moment, Hermione doesn't speak, tracing a fingertip along the line of condensation on the lacquered wood from her drink. She releases a careful breath. "And you expect me to simply trust you not to utilise these loopholes."

"Yes."

The word is simple, his face honest, and indecision roils within her stomach. She can hardly believe how much this decision has weighed on her, and confronting him for more information hasn't helped matters at all.

"The enhancement," she hedges.

Malfoy nods, takes a sip of his drink, and echoes, "The enhancement."

"It's the crux of the whole thing, isn't it?"

"You've got it."

"And how am I to know you won't simply drain me of magic?" Nerves tremble within her at the thought of voicing the concern out loud. "Leaving me with nothing left to defend myself."

"Because it doesn't work that way." When she warily catches his eye, he elaborates. "The bonds draw on the magical power of both parties, but the enhancement pool is extraneous. It's related but entirely separate from the magic you and I already possess. But it is exponential. Because you have such a deep well of magic—particularly wandless magic—that would factor in."

Hermione contemplates his words as he speaks, and there's something oddly amiable in the situation. She knows he wants her to agree to this, though his reasons are still too opaque for her liking, but he doesn't strike her at all as the man who spent months trying to kill her.

In fact, he's oddly conversational.

"And we would both have access to it."

"Yes." Releasing a sigh, Malfoy leans back in his seat. "The marital bonds I showed you... they aren't exactly modern. We can draw on them, of course, but it isn't common practice anymore. My parents weren't bonded in this way, and neither were my grandparents. But centuries ago, it was unheard of not to utilise a marital bond rite in pureblood marriages."

The word stirs something within her, and she suspects it's one of the key reasons why she's doubted his intentions all along.

"I'm not pureblood." Malfoy only rolls his eyes—but she isn't letting go of the matter that easily. "You would forfeit the chance at a pureblood heir. It would be a little hypocritical of your master to approve of this marriage, wouldn't it? For one of his highest ranked?"

Amusement that she doesn't understand glints in his eye, leaving her feeling on the wrong end of a joke.

"Don't you know by now that none of this is about blood anymore?" he drawls, the words low and chilling. Unease darts along her spine. "This war is all about power."

Hermione scowls at him but she can't deny it. For too long, the situation has become increasingly blurred. But Malfoy has always been a blood supremacist, and she can only imagine how much pride he's biting back to even make this offer.

She hates the way he's looking at her, as though he knows she's going to give in. She doesn't even know what she's going to do, but the fact that she's indulged him to this point gnaws at her.

"You still haven't told me your ultimate purpose for all of this," she says, ducking in to lower her voice. "And until you tell me that, I'm not going ahead with anything."

Malfoy rakes a hand through his pale hair, grumbling under his breath, and something about it is so strangely casual that a flash of incredulity chases through the back of her mind. She's so used to the cold, consummate Death Eater lieutenant that seeing him like this—like an actual human—leaves her more disarmed than she ought to be.

The thought alone is enough to stiffen her spine. She can't allow her guard down in his presence, not even now.

"And if I don't tell you?" He lifts a half-hearted brow.

"Then you can shove your marital bonds up your arse."

To her surprise, he snorts. They stare at each other for a long moment, both refusing to budge, and Hermione fixes her expression into stoicism. She can't afford a scrap of weakness in the face of these negotiations.

"If I told you," he murmurs at last, "you wouldn't believe me."

"Try me."

As he eyes her, weighing her mentally with that searing gaze, her resistance coin warms against her leg. And in the split second when she glances down, she knows it's a fatal error. Sliding her eyes back to Malfoy as though nothing happened, she knows it's too late.

He straightens, jaw square and eyes hard. "What's the message?"

"I don't know," she clips, folding her arms, "and it isn't your business."

"Tell me, Granger."

"Why would I tell you?" Derision fuses with the words and she shakes her head.

Something malicious curls his mouth, and she doesn't like it. "Because I have so much I can use against you. And you don't want me to do that."

"I have just as much on you."

"And my master knows I keep machinations that are my own. Shall we see whose leader trusts them more?"

Hermione scowls in return, shoulders slumping in her seat, and Malfoy stares back unflinchingly. It's one thing to pursue a common goal to suit their needs and to skirt the edges of morality with the good of others in mind; it's another entirely to give up information he doesn't need and wouldn't have otherwise.

To her surprise, Malfoy lays his wand on the table between them, despite their history of violence and threats. The wards he's established ensure no one will see what they're doing, but she's alarmed when he rolls it across the surface towards her.

She understands the message instantly.

That if they're to work together—if they're willing to submit to the fact that they'll need to rely on each other to end the war—they'll need some measure of trust.

The problem is that she still doesn't trust him or his motives—and she can't help but think this is simply another scheme.

Without removing her stare from his, unwilling to allow him under her skin, she reaches into her pocket to withdraw the coin. Clutching it tightly in one hand, she drops her gaze to its face for just a moment.

The message causes her heart to jolt, pulse ringing in her ears.

Foray operative knows they are compromised. Warrington suspects it was you and he's out for your blood. Not safe to come back here.

Mind whirring, Hermione reads the message several more times, almost entirely distracted from the conversation at hand with Malfoy. She's so surprised, so rattled by the message that she doesn't even fight when Malfoy plucks the galleon from her fingers.

"Fuck," he huffs under his breath, grappling for his wand where it still rests on the table between them. "We've got to go."

So caught up in the message, Hermione scarcely notices the way he includes her in the matter until he's throwing a few Muggle notes on the table and tugging her up by her arm.

"Where are we—"

"I have to get to Theo before he goes underground," he grits out. "And if you've got nowhere else to go, you're coming."

Snapping well enough to her senses, she yanks her arm free and glowers at him. "Surprised you haven't killed Nott already."

"Not that bloody easy, is it?" His tone brooks little room for argument, but even so, Hermione cocks a brow. Malfoy huffs a string of expletives under his breath as they break into the street again. "He's my oldest friend, Granger."

The simplicity of the explanation—as well as the obvious truth of it—is just another complex layer of the sides of Draco Malfoy she's seen today. And if she's honest, she doesn't know what to make of any of it.

So when he turns towards her, offering his hand, she stares for a long moment.

If Harry's message is right, and if Warrington knows she gave up Foray to the Death Eaters, she'll be seen as nothing more than a traitor. Moisture threatens to spike at the corners of her eyes but she can't indulge the fear and panic. Even as her world crashes down on her, everything she knows crumbling beneath her feet like sand at high tide, she has no room for emotion.

Action is her ingrained response to any situation, and despite herself, despite the fact that she doesn't trust Malfoy and still doesn't know what to make of his offer, she finds herself slipping her hand into his.

His fingers are surprisingly warm, something oddly reassuring in his grip, and she releases a breath.

For months, he's been her sworn enemy.

And now, she has no choice but to rely on him. Because for now, at least, he's the only one on her side.

Chapter End Notes

Hi everyone. Thank you for all your wonderful support on this fic! I've spent the week knocked out with covid but all your lovely comments have made me smile. I hope you liked the progression in this chapter!

In other news, agohs is getting close to being fully drafted, and I think it will be around 50-52 chapters total.

So much love for my team on this fic, my alpha kyonomiko and beta sweetestsorrows. Be sure to give their stories some love please <3

Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Mere minutes pass after Draco spies the message on Granger's coin. As adrenaline floods his veins and his focus narrows down to the immediacy of the situation, he can think of little else.

He can't allow Theo to leave the manor.

And the only way he can prevent that is to reach his friend before the resistance does—before they act to extract him.

Attuned into the manor wards, Draco knows he isn't too late—yet.

The matter of Granger and the inadvisability of her return to the resistance plays about the back of his mind, set aside momentarily for the more pressing issue—but it doesn't stop him from Apparating her onto the manor grounds with him.

Despite the blatant mixture of panic and disdain that crosses her face, she doesn't argue. Perhaps she realises that she has nowhere else to go. Not if the resistance believes her a traitor.

Draco certainly doesn't think she's stupid enough to believe they'll allow her to carry on as before.

For now, he can't let himself dwell on the way this will change things. How it might expedite or influence her decision.

As the current head of the manor grounds, Draco has unmitigated access through the Apparition wards, and he's never been more thankful for the fact as he arrives directly in his personal quarters.

In an instant, he raises anti-Disapparition wards on the manor and grounds so no one else can come and go. It won't prevent Theo from escaping by other means if he's set on it, but it'll buy Draco time.

Before Granger can so much as open her mouth, he speaks, low and urgent—and still, she's strangely quiet and amenable.

"If you want to stay alive while I attempt to figure this out, you'll stay put," he hisses, reinforcing the wards on his quarters. "There are a lot of Death Eaters in the manor at any given time, and I can promise you none of them will hesitate to kill you if they see you. Not to mention if you leave this room the wards will likely slice you in two."

The blood drains from her face, even as her expression tightens.

"I'm not staying here," she snaps, folding her arms. "We still have to finish our conversation."

If Draco isn't mistaken, he thought she had been considering his offer. But she's Granger, and he knows she'll never take this easily or without a fuss. Even if she does want to proceed with the marital bonds, they'll still need to discuss the terms of the agreement.

"Your decisions are still your own," he returns quietly, searching within the magic of the manor to locate Theo. "But right now I have more important things to take care of. I'll be back shortly, and if you want to leave and take your chances with the resistance, it's your funeral and I won't stop you." He locks eyes with her, keeping his face blank. "As of right now, my offer will keep you alive."

He sees the understanding in her eyes; that she realises the very same.

"The rest," he bites out, "we'll discuss after I track down the traitor in my own camp."

Granger leans against the wall, eyeing him with appraisal on her face. "You'll get more from him alive."

"Thank you," Draco clips, his upper lip curling on instinct, "I know what I'm doing." As he makes for the door, he hesitates. "I wasn't lying about the wards—but they'll also keep people out. Don't fucking trash the place."

Then he slips from the room, cold fury mingling with the blind panic threatening to flood his veins. But he's been doing this a long time, and it takes a lot to throw him off. Schooling his emotions into something useful, Draco performs a methodical sweep of every magical signature in the manor and on the grounds.

He grinds his jaw when he tracks Theo's movements as he navigates the grounds, and within moments, Draco appears with a loud crack in his path. Theo stumbles over his feet, eyes shooting wide with terror, and Draco grabs hold of his arm.

And for the first time since Draco learned the truth, he stares his friend in the eye.

"Where the fuck," he growls, "do you think you're going?"

A myriad of emotions flickers across Theo's face in a matter of seconds, but he doesn't insult Draco's intelligence by lying. "Leaving."

"To the resistance," Draco snaps, unable to keep the uneasy twist within his gut from roiling. "To fucking Foray."

Silence hangs, taut and tense, between them, and when Theo's throat bobs with a thick swallow, Draco can detect the moment his terror gives way to recognition. "How long have you known?"

"Fuck you," Draco says, his grip tightening on Theo's arm. Neither of them draw their wands. "Fuck you for putting me in this position."

If his facade cracks—if his voice falters—Theo doesn't acknowledge it.

Theo's eyelids fall shut, only for a moment, and he tries to shrug off Draco's grip. "It was never about you, Draco."

"But it is now." Grinding his jaw hard, he keeps his face as blank as he can manage. Too many emotions roil within him, and Draco hates it all. Hates the war, this situation, the way he's been forced to make so many hard decisions for so long. "I don't want to kill you, Theo."

Pursing his lips, Theo nods. "But you have to. I know how it is."

Draco flinches.

Theo goes on, and there's a dull sheen to his hazel eyes. "Does the Dark Lord know?" The fight deflates from his shoulders, and he gives up on wrenching free of Draco's iron grip.

"Not yet." Raking a hand through his hair, Draco ducks his chin, and a rattling exhale breaks free. "I've been trying to think of a way to use this. I've known about Foray for ages, but I just recently learned it was you." He looks up again, meeting his friend's stare. "Tell me why."

They've been friends their entire lives, and Draco knows Theo's brand of cunning as well as his own. He spies the instant Theo recognises he might talk his way out of the situation, and Draco would hate him for it if not for the fact that he would try to do the same.

"Because it's bullshit, Draco," Theo grinds out, his voice low. "It's always been bullshit."

"Both sides are bullshit," Draco snaps in return. "That isn't good enough."

Something flickers through the back of his mind, bringing with it a startling clarity that chills him to the bone. Something Theo said one evening near the dungeons. We've all had to make hard decisions in order to survive.

And another night, another conversation: The better question would be: what wouldn't I be willing to do?

He wonders how many hints he missed. How many times he allowed Theo's machinations under his own bloody nose, turning a blind eye because they're friends.

"I can't explain it to you," Theo says at last, expression honest, and he shakes his head sadly. "You're so entrenched in all of this, I wouldn't expect you to understand."

Draco wants to scream at him, to grab hold of him and shake him, to force him to understand. But even out here on the grounds, away from prying eyes and ears, Draco doesn't dare lay his plans bare. He's worked too long and too hard to watch everything unravel before he has a chance to move forward.

"You'd better try," he says instead, fingers playing about the holster of his wand, "because I haven't yet decided how charitable I feel."

For a long moment, Theo only stares at him, and Draco wonders whether he might not even bother. Maybe Theo is as tired of all this as he feels most of the time. Maybe he's ready to be done.

The thought is more lonely than any other Draco's indulged.

At last Theo drops his voice. "I never wanted to be involved in any of this. You know that."

He does—even back at Hogwarts, Theo didn't want any part in the war. Especially when Nott Senior grew more insistent about Theo joining the Death Eater cause. Even after Draco took the Mark, Theo resisted.

"Theo," Draco deadpans, his pain a deep agonising well within him. "You need to give me something."

"It just bloody happened, alright?" Theo exclaims, a sudden burst of energy as he drags an aggravated hand through his hair. "It just fucking—I never wanted to be a murderer, Draco. I thought—when they were still the Order and my father was being so fucking awful about it all. He was... he was there."

Draco's heart stutters as the pieces swim through his mind, refusing to slot into place and make sense. "Who?"

His friend's misery is palpable. "Neville."

A breath falls from Draco's lungs, torn ragged and visceral. "Fuck, Theo."

And he's drawn back into his memories, countless nights where Theo took on extra shifts in the dungeons. Despite the fact that he despises it more than anything, hates lifting his wand in torture…

"Longbottom, Theo? Really?" All at once, it clicks, and Draco thinks he might be sick. "You did all this for—"

"For love?" Theo gives a low, humourless chuckle, as though he can't quite believe it. "I know. Trust me." Despair suddenly gives way, and he shakes his head slowly. "I begged him not to take the capsule. I told him he could resist if he were ever captured, that I'd do my best to ease his pain."

Quiet falls again, and Draco's painfully aware of the way his heart slams in his chest. "I don't know what to do about any of this, Theo. You know I can't simply let you walk away."

"I know you can't." At that, Theo's resignation returns, and he lifts his chin. "But I need you to know I don't regret it. I'd do it again."

He can tell Theo means it, and some part of him feels emptier than ever. His eyes sting, and Draco doesn't even bother hiding the pain in his eyes as he gazes upon his oldest friend, the man who's been by his side through so much. The friend he thought he knew. He grapples for his wand, releasing a long, stuttering breath, and says, "I'm sorry, Theo."

In a startling—and terrifying—turn of events, Hermione's found herself not only within Malfoy Manor, but trapped inside Draco Malfoy's personal quarters. She isn't certain what she expected, but she thought it would all be more green.

Even so, her surroundings barely register as her mind spins with all that's transpired.

From the fact that Harry's message warned her off of returning to the safehouse—where she would have most certainly faced the wands of her superiors—to the idea that now she has to rely on Malfoy. The situation grows more convoluted by the moment, and she can't wrap her head around the side of Malfoy she's seen in recent days.

She had been certain he would have taken her information and ended Nott's life, friendship be damned.

But to learn he didn't kill him after all, and that he's hesitated...

Hermione doesn't know what to make of him. A bitter voice within suggests she doesn't have many options at this point—and his offer is the best one. The only one. But still, she can't imagine forging a lifelong commitment with the man simply in the hopes that they might be able to put an end to the war.

She still doesn't know how he intends to do that, or why.

Numbness overtakes her as she gazes at her blank, unresponsive coin, the implications of the afternoon overwhelming.

She can't help but wonder how everything transpired. If Nott learned he'd been given up. Or if Warrington learned somewhere else, and pieced together that it might have been her who gave over Nott's name. If this is all based on suspicion.

If it is, she knows her failure to return will be as incriminating as anything else.

Skimming the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that spans one full wall of Malfoy's private sitting quarters, she selects a book at random and sinks into the plush, slate-grey sofa. Her mind is too active to focus on reading, but the thought of simply waiting for him to return is its own form of torture.

Hermione loathes the prospect of relying on an enemy for anything, let alone to keep her alive.

It's with this thought in mind, heart racing as she stares blankly at the first page of the book, that she decides to leave as soon as he returns. Even if she gives the situation more consideration, she simply isn't ready to make a decision without all the facts.

Close to half an hour passes, according to the ornate clock on one wall, when the crack of Apparition alerts her to Malfoy's return.

She opens her mouth to speak—only to see he isn't alone.

Theodore Nott stares at her, face frozen and eyes wide with shock. "This is an interesting turn of events," he croaks, then offers an uneasy grin.

Malfoy releases a sigh and scrubs at his eyes, and drawls, "Yes, it turns out I'm harbouring all sorts of grey hat war criminals in my quarters today."

The statement is so unexpectedly derisive, Malfoy's dry humour so startling, that a high pitched burst of mirth falls from her lips. When he only scowls at her, she closes the book and sets it aside. Some deeply rooted instinct forces her to her feet, unwilling to allow Malfoy any advantage.

Hermione folds her arms, dragging her gaze between the pair, and clips, "I see Nott's still alive."

"Nott is still alive," Malfoy says, collapsing gracefully into a lounge chair by the hearth. He massages his temples, looking as though he longs for a flask of whisky. "And still on manor grounds. Fuck if I know what to do about any of you right now."

"I hear you were the one who gave me up," Nott drawls, drawing a galleon from one pocket and peering idly at the surface.

Swallowing, Hermione glances away. "At his insistence."

The dynamic is odd, when given the context that Nott has technically been working for the resistance for some untold length of time. Hermione can't wrap her head around any of it—least of all the fact that Malfoy hasn't rampaged through the room and killed them both yet.

But she doesn't understand the way he's been acting either.

She hates a version of him that she can't read.

Malfoy wrenches a hand through his already dishevelled pale hair, irritation raw on his face. "Don't respond to Potter."

"I'll respond to him if I want to," Hermione retorts hotly, the situation edging under her skin. "He won't guess where I am."

With a sound of aggravation, Malfoy rises to his feet again. "And I promise you Warrington's reading all of Potter's incoming messages. It's best to keep silent, at least for now." Hermione can almost see the cogs whirring in his head, and some part of her is fascinated to see this side of him—the strategist who's thwarted her for months. "We need to figure things out and fast, before any of this reaches beyond this room."

Nott clicks his tongue, peering around the room, and when he spies a crystal decanter on the sideboard, he pours himself a measure. Malfoy huffs a loud exhale but doesn't say anything.

"I'm going to leave," Hermione clips. "Just because I can't return to the resistance, there's no need for me to hole up here, of all places."

"There is if you want to stay alive," Malfoy grunts. "Because if you think for one minute Warrington won't send a party out after you, you're stupider than I always thought. He'll want to know how much, exactly, you've given up." After a moment's hesitation, he adds, "It's what I would do."

As his words settle uneasily within her, Hermione frowns. For too long, the resistance has kept her in the dark on matters of strategic importance, and at the moment she hates that Malfoy's had a more active role for the Death Eaters.

It makes her feel impotent—useless.

"You act like I'm going to get myself caught," she snaps, the whole situation bubbling up within her as a shade of rage.

Malfoy drops into his seat again, though his gaze flits towards the whisky as though he wishes he could drown himself. "And is that coin of yours imbued with a tracking spell? Because if it is, you'll have no way to reach anyone."

"Since when do you care?" she grits out.

Malfoy growls, "Since I bloody well hedged my bets on you!"

The room descends into silence, her nerves prickling as his deadened gaze sears through her. Nott sips his drink, eyes sliding back and forth between them, and Hermione hates that he's there to bear witness to her shame. To Malfoy's admission that they've been in contact for longer than she cares for anyone to know.

And she can't handle it.

"Find another horse to back." Hermione rises, making towards the door when his dire warning about the wards echoes through her once more. "Let down the wards."

"No."

She throws him a scowl. "Let me go. You can't hold me in a place where everyone wants me dead."

"I don't," Nott adds unhelpfully.

"I can't," Malfoy snaps. "If you leave this room, you're dead. If the Dark Lord senses you, you're worse than dead."

Folding her arms, Hermione gapes at him. "Wasn't that your grand plan all along? To break me to your will?"

"Which you, very obviously, have not done," he drawls, scrubbing at his eyes. "Look, can you just shut up and let me think? I don't know what to do about either of you right now."

Nott remains silent but tops up his glass, and when he offers Hermione the bottle, she nearly caves.

"Fine," Hermione says, lifting placating hands. "We'll revise your plan. Surely that's possible." Baleful grey eyes lift to land on her, and if they were caught in a duel to the death she might have feared him. But she only rolls her eyes, hardly able to comprehend why she's even trying to help him. "If you won't let me leave, we'll figure something else out. You aren't the only one in the room with half a brain."

At that, Malfoy concedes some of his frustration but rises once more to pace the sitting room. Hermione eyes him, unused to seeing him lost of his ubiquitous composure. It's an interesting study of the man when he isn't in control of a situation.

"You might as well fill me in on this plan," Nott says, waving one idle hand, "if you aren't going to kill me."

"You can at least return to the resistance," Hermione grumbles.

Nott considers the thought for a moment, and when he meets Malfoy's gaze, she can sense something pass between them. Something beyond a traitor and the betrayed—something more akin to what she shares with Harry. Years of friendship overlaid with too many harrowing experiences.

"I could," Nott allows at last, quietly, "but I'm not going to." He speaks to Malfoy alone but makes no effort to prevent her from listening. "It was never about betraying you, Draco. I've only been working with the resistance for six months."

A furrow of confusion knits Malfoy's brow. "But I thought—"

Nott shrugs. "That was when Neville reached back out to me. I hadn't seen him in years."

Hermione frowns, recognising that she's missed some vital bit of the conversation, but she can piece it together well enough as details click into place. The way the Death Eaters allowed Neville to go free, when he ought to have died or been irreparably harmed.

Malfoy presses his fingers against his temples again, shaking his head. "We'll discuss that later. If you're staying—if you're both staying... we're coming up with a plan." His face grows grim, eyes darkening. "And it simply means we're moving forward with certain things sooner than I meant to."

At last, he's cool and in control like she knows him to be, and for some reason she can't fathom, this version of Malfoy suffuses her with confidence she didn't feel before.

"A plan," she returns quietly, "sounds good."

They lock eyes for a moment—long enough that warmth creeps into her cheeks at the consideration in his stare—before he nods. "Fine." He releases a breath, as though collecting himself, and says again, "Fine. Theo, you need to go." Although Nott opens his mouth to retort, he's silenced by a sharp look. "And don't even think about leaving the manor because you know I'll find you."

Nott clenches his jaw but he doesn't say another word as he swigs the last of his drink and leaves the room.

"You just trust him to stay?" Hermione asks, curiosity getting the better of her despite everything else. Despite the way despair and adrenaline still mingle, slick in her veins.

"He lives here. And even if he leaves, I'll track him down." The words are clipped and hard, and Malfoy's gaze lingers on the door for a breath. He taps the inside sleeve of his forearm with two fingers; comprehension dawns just before he says, "The Dark Mark can be used to track, and unless the resistance knows how to extract the magic, he won't get far."

It's more than she expected him to tell her, and a part of her is disconcerted by his honesty. But he only reaches into his pocket and draws out the copy of the marital bonds she'd given back to him earlier that afternoon. It feels like it's been so much longer.

Alone with him now, nerves awaken and encompass everything else that's rioted within her since Harry's last message came through on her coin.

Malfoy tosses the scrolls onto a coffee table in front of him, and Hermione drops cautiously into the sofa, clasping her hands to keep from fidgeting.

"Did Nott tell you what happened?" she asks stiffly.

"He suspected he'd been given up—maybe I clued him in during our last interaction, I don't know." He hesitates for a moment, glancing away. "And he told his handlers. Warrington must have already had his suspicions about you. That's all I know."

Hermione blows out a breath and nods. She can't deny Warrington has been suspicious of her. Between her tip about the raid gone wrong, and then delivering Neville back from the Death Eaters still alive. All she can think is that the dust has settled as poorly as she can imagine.

"The resistance likely wants you dead now," Malfoy carries on, "and in a bizarre turn of events, I'm the only one who wants you alive." His cold summary of the situation does little to bolster her mood, but she fights to keep her mind calm. "Which means..."

Following his train of thought, she tenses. "Which means I have no choice."

"You still have a choice." His voice is soft, almost apologetic, and she can't wrap her head around this version of him whose wand isn't drawn and whose words don't drip with vitriol. "But you know if you leave London your chances of survival are low."

Hermione bites her tongue lest she point out the fact that her chances of survival in Malfoy Manor are next to nothing, when some deep-seated intrigue wants desperately to hear the rest of his plan.

"And you need my help," she hedges.

His upper lip curls with a hint of the distaste that she knows he's working to conceal. "Unfortunately so."

"Why?"

He's been dancing around a proper answer for weeks, and if he wants her to stay, he needs to give her something.

Malfoy curses under his breath as he leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "If I tell you this, Granger, there's no going back. If you don't agree to join me, I'll have no choice but to wipe your memory of this conversation."

She wants to argue the point, to deny him such a gross violation of her rights, but she can't. Cold creeps through her, freezing the blood in her veins as she recalls the way she did the same to her parents before she left during the war. For their protection. Even now, she doesn't dare visit them to try and undo the spell. Not when the war has only grown worse and spilled violently into the Muggle world.

She doubts this is for anyone's protection but Malfoy's.

"That isn't the only way," she says at last, in as diplomatic a manner as she can.

"Then I need you to swear a vow to keep this in confidence between us," he says.

The intensity of the situation swirls around her, heavy with the pulse of her heart, but she swallows. "I vow it."

Magic skims a breeze across her skin and a shudder dances along her spine.

Malfoy releases a heavy exhale, the only indication he felt the magic as well. "Fine, then, here's the plan." He unfurls one of the scrolls, idly skimming it as he speaks. "I'm going to tear apart the resistance, right up to that fucking tosser, Warrington. He's as corrupt as any Death Eater I know."

Hermione can't dispute the fact, even as her heart begins to race as the cold dispassion in his voice.

Malfoy trails his fingertips across the glass surface of the table, reaching for the second scroll. "When the resistance is weak, its leadership falling apart, the Death Eaters will lower their guard."

She sucks in a sharp breath, suddenly wishing she left when he gave her the opportunity. She would prefer to take her chances overseas than find herself dragged into some cold, murderous scheme he's crafted.

But he only props one elbow on his knee, holding up his head, and carries on. "If you lop off a head from a hydra, Granger, it only regrows more."

As he speaks, his words low and soft, her head spins. The words refuse to settle, refuse to make sense, and she isn't certain whether she's still breathing at the implication in his words.

"So I'm going to dismantle the inner circle from within until the rest scatter." He drags the tip of one long finger along the glass, drawing one 'x', then another, and another, in a circular formation.

Malfoy presses the second scroll into her hand—the Black bonds with the extensive magical enhancement pool.

"And then..." The words fall from his lips as little more than a breath. A ghost of a smirk crosses his face that she knows will haunt her dreams. "I'm going to kill the Dark Lord myself." His eyes lift to hers at last, searing hatred burning cold within their depths. "And I'm going to need your help."

Chapter End Notes

Hello! Thank you for reading - and for all the well wishes! I am feeling mostly better <3 I hope you enjoyed the revelations in this chapter! I always love to hear your thoughts and theories on what's to come.

Alpha love to Kyonomiko, and beta hugs to sweetestsorrows!

Chapter 16

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Silence stretches on, tense and anticipatory, and grows oppressive as Draco forces himself to draw breath. Granger stares blankly at him for too long until eventually he cocks a brow.

"You..." she begins, swallowing thickly, "plan to kill the Dark Lord."

"Yes."

"You."

Already, he regrets telling her anything. Draco rolls his eyes. "Look, Granger, if you're just going to be an idiot—"

"You're the highest ranked lieutenant in his bloody circle," she huffs, and he carefully schools his expression when he spies the fury in her stare. "And you expect me to believe your great, elaborate plan is to kill him. I don't know what you're playing at, Malfoy, but this isn't a joke. My life is on the line here, too."

Draco scowls at her, holding tight to his composure as it threatens to unravel. "Do I look like I'm laughing?"

As if the deep, underlying truth of the matter clicks in, Granger deflates, sinking into the sofa. Her wide eyes swivel to land on him with a quiet, "Oh."

"Do you realise," he drawls softly, "how long it's taken for me to get this far? To work my way up through the ranks to the point where he trusts me enough to allow me free rein? What all of this has cost me?"

Granger's only response is the quiet hitch of breath in her throat.

Draco presses on. "And if you think for one second about doing something that's going to blow all of this for me, I swear to Merlin, Granger, I'll stop hesitating. Because this is all I care about—and this is why I haven't wanted to kill you."

Her voice is dry. "What do you need from me?"

For a long moment, he assesses her, attempting to gauge her willingness. He can understand her surprise, when he's laid bare the most ambitious and admittedly insane plan he's ever crafted. If he's honest, he needs her brain if he wants to pull off half of it.

But he only reaches down and unbuttons his cuff, rolling the sleeve of his shirt to his elbow. Her gaze tracks the movement, skimming his forearm where the Dark Mark rests.

Only to a handful of people has he willingly shown his Mark, and he knows Granger has never seen it in person. But she simply keeps her hands folded in her lap, that same cautious look in her eye, as though she's a caged beast ready to attack if provoked.

A part of him longs to provoke her—just to see what she'll do.

Draco smooths the pad of his thumb along the black snake and skull that adorns his forearm. "The magic of the Dark Mark ensures I can't turn my wand on the Dark Lord. Although he lost the last of his Horcruxes at the battle of Hogwarts, he has other means of protecting himself. Deep, obscure sources of power he's enacted since then that even I don't know about. I can't even attack the other Death Eaters without drawing his notice. I physically cannot kill him—his paranoia ensured that."

The blood drains from her face. "You want me to kill him."

"No." His gaze snaps to hers, eyes narrowing. "No. I'm going to kill him. I simply can't use my own magic to do so."

The moment comprehension dawns, her eyes alight. "The enhancement in the marital bonds. You can use the extraneous pool of magic?"

"Yes." He nods once, then amends, "At least, I think I can. I don't know all of the details, but at the very least, I should be able to use it to modify the magic imbued in the Mark."

Granger blows out a breath; shakes her head. Folds her feet beneath her on the sofa and fixes him with a stare. "When you said you had a plan to end the war... this is not what I imagined."

Despite the severity of the situation, a dull chuckle falls from his lips. "I'm not surprised."

"I have conditions," she says, lifting her chin in defiance.

"Of course you do," Draco drawls, then waves a hand to indicate she proceed.

She eyes him for several beats, as though sorting through her thoughts. "You said you're going after the resistance." Before he can argue the matter, she holds up a hand. "I'm not going to ask you not to. But there are certain people you must leave alone."

"Let me guess." He purses his lips. "Potter, Longbottom—"

"Yes." She ponders for a moment, then carefully adds, "I will provide you with a list."

"It's not a bleeding charity, Granger."

Chocolate eyes flash with poorly concealed rage. "And my assistance isn't for nothing."

"We're talking about the end of this war," Draco growls, his voice rising in return. "That is not nothing."

She ignores him, squaring her stance again. "You won't kill Nott."

Draco releases a breath, determined to keep this meeting cordial. There are too many issues at hand, and if Granger's willing to negotiate, this can't be one of them. "I don't want to kill Theo. If he can prove his loyalty to this—to me—he can be of use."

As they continue to scowl at one another, the moment grows surreal.

Clearly, there's no love lost between the two of them, and Draco would be crazy to think otherwise. For months they sought to kill each other, and he halted only when a more appealing alternative presented itself. He can't speak to Granger's motivations for keeping him alive.

He does not want to marry her. He doesn't want to spend the rest of his days tied to her through an unbreakable bond.

And while he can admit that objectively, Granger is attractive, he has little interest in her looks—and it certainly doesn't make up for the animosity between them.

But if his only other option is being chained to the Dark Lord for some indeterminate length of time, he would take the witch every time.

"For the record," he drawls, thoughts leading him to an uncomfortable domain, "the bonds don't include a fidelity clause." Colour claws its way into his face as he adds, "Unless you want one."

Slowly, Granger cocks a brow. "And why would I want a fidelity clause?"

Draco waves a dismissive hand, instantly wishing he hadn't brought it up. "I don't know. In case it offends your delicate sensibilities."

He leaves the bulk of the sentiment unspoken.

That the rest of their lives—short though they may end up being, if the plan goes wrong—is a long time to remain celibate whilst married to an enemy.

By the colour that crests her cheeks, he suspects they're equally thrown by the subject matter.

Good.

"I can't say it's at the top of my priorities during a war," she says, her syllables crisp and careful, "but it is a consideration in the long term to be sure."

She remains silent before a wry, humourless chuckle falls from her lips. "I should have expected you would have a loophole. A way to get out of the matter of a halfblood heir. You'll find some pureblood witch who wants to provide you with a child—for what, discretion? Do you think your Dark Lord won't notice if I'm not the one to carry your child? Do you think that will force him to believe you've broken me?"

Her eyes blaze once more with frustration, with indignance.

Draco sneers at her. "It won't be a consideration. I have no intentions of siring an heir while the war still rages. It will never be his concern."

"And if this doesn't all work out according to your vague and nebulous plans?" She folds her arms, fixing him with a searching stare. "If the war continues on for years yet? Then what?"

Draco rolls his eyes, hating the turn in the conversation but unable to deny the validity of the concern. Most pureblood marriages move fast between the point of marriage to the proliferation of the line.

"Then we'll figure it out," he grouses. "Look, Granger, what I'm offering you is a free pass." The words hang tense in sudden silence. "Because Merlin knows you'll have no interest in turning to me to fulfil your needs."

If possible, her flush deepens, and Draco wants to marvel at the sight.

This woman, who he's seen slaughter men without flinching, is blushing at the topic of sex with him.

"I'd sooner fulfil my own needs," she bites out at last, averting her gaze. "Though we both know this is about you."

Draco clears his throat. "I have no objection to it." When she lifts incredulous brows, he clarifies. "To you."

Suddenly, Draco remembers the way he once propositioned her. At the time, he'd been mostly trying to get a rise out of her. Back then, he hadn't foreseen this.

"So you're saying you want the fidelity clause?"

Somehow, Granger sounds more perturbed at the thought of that than anything else.

Draco presses his eyes shut, searching deep within himself for any remaining scraps of patience. "I'm saying I'd sooner a halfblood heir than an illegitimate one from a mistress." He rakes a hand through his hair, then shakes off the way this conversation has burrowed inside of him. "At any rate, surely this isn't the most important topic we need to discuss."

He can't deny sex would be important, if this weren't about something so much bigger.

He also can't deny the way his traitorous body responds to the idea of having sex with her.

If not for the fact that he knows she won't want him.

And maybe the fact that he's even considering it says something more about him than it should, after everything they've put each other through. Maybe he ought to be disinterested, turned off, even.

But there's something about the energy that flows between them, the way she's the one to parry his attacks, to block every spell. Duelling with her has always incited a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, even when his life is on the line.

"Fine," she clips, looking as uncomfortable as he feels. "We don't need to discuss this now."

"Thank Merlin," Draco mutters, hating the way she's thrown him off his guard. "What we do need to figure out is how to proceed from here." He walks to the door into his private quarters, gesturing with one hand, then to a door in the adjacent wall. "My bedroom is through here, and this door leads to the secondary suite."

Cautiously, Granger follows him into the suite, her face an emotionless mask as she appraises the room. It's smaller than the master quarters but only just, and still far more extravagant than he can imagine she's used to in a cramped resistance safehouse.

"And will I be imprisoned in this room?" she asks at last, peering at several items on the bookshelf.

"No," Draco drawls, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "I told you, you'd—"

"You told me the wards would slice me in half."

"And obviously, I'll adjust them." Shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, he leans one shoulder on the doorjamb as she makes a slow inspection of the room. "I just don't want you wandering around the manor until we know how we're going to proceed. More than rogue Death Eaters can kill you here."

Granger paces towards him, folding her arms across her chest again, and her feet almost nudge his own when she stops to peer up at him.

"And how are we proceeding?"

He holds her stare with a thick swallow. Their conversation on the matter of sex still feels a little too close, and his skin heats at her proximity. "Are you agreeing to the marital bonds?"

For a long moment, Granger doesn't respond. He knows she's scanned them, sorted through every last detail, and if she's still willing to discuss the matter, he can only assume she's come to the same conclusion as he has. That by working together, by drawing on the extraneous magic that they'll be able to access, they stand the best chance at putting an end to the madness that's ravaged their lives for too long.

"I still have terms to discuss," she says at last, lips parting as her eyes search his own. "I would appreciate it if we had the exact details of this arrangement in writing."

"Fair enough." Draco nods once, unable to tear his gaze from hers. "I'd prefer it that way as well, to be honest."

Because they both have a lot to gain under this agreement—and everything to lose.

The last thing Draco needs is for Granger to think she can turn this situation against him. "If we're in this..." he murmurs, selecting his words with care, "we're in it. The two of us together—not you against me."

Her eyes flash with something that might be vulnerability—something between despair and hesitation, and if he isn't wrong, a desperate flicker of hope.

"You and I have never agreed on anything in our entire lives," she says, the words so quiet he has to strain to hear, even though she's close enough that he can see the flecks of gold in her irises. "I don't know how this is going to work."

"We'll have no choice but to make it work," he returns, a wry smirk drawing at his mouth. "And maybe we're more alike than you realise."

He's seen it in her—flashes of the same things that drive him. Ambition, desire—a deep and implicit longing for something more than this broken, cobbled together existence.

"And you aren't going to try to kill me any more," she says with a note of resignation.

"It would go against all of my plans."

"Even if the Dark Lord decides he wants me dead after all."

He releases a steady exhale. "He won't command that. Not if you're my wife. Not if you play your role and he believes you're turned to my will."

The colour drains from her face, leaving her a sickly pale shade of grey, but she doesn't balk from the thought like she had the first time he brought it up. "I don't want some elaborate pureblood ceremony. I don't need Death Eaters watching and mocking me."

"That's acceptable." He ponders for a moment. "All we truly need beyond the magic of the bonds is a witness. Theo can do it."

"Fine." She sucks in a sharp breath, peering up at him for another moment, that same strange look on her face. It might be a precursor to trust—the sort of trust garnered through hard times, through people forced to put their faith in one another despite odds and circumstance. "Are we doing this, Malfoy?"

He almost doesn't know how to answer. The expression on her face nudges him, coaxing him into a response. "I think so."

She draws a fortifying breath, then releases it, shaking her head. "How in Merlin's name am I going to pretend I've fallen for you?"

Although Draco snickers, her words carry a bite. Because in no version of the world that exists between them would Granger ever care for him. He doesn't want that—and he doesn't deserve it.

"Does it help to know your life depends on it?" he asks, the mocking in his words slightly subdued.

"It'll have to."

She takes still another step closer, her fingers grazing the sleeve of his elbow, and Draco physically jolts at the voluntary contact. Then he stills, shoulders tensing, as he follows her train of thought. That if they're to be married—if they expect people to believe they've fallen for each other—he can't flinch away from her touch.

And the inverse, of course, must also be true.

So he doesn't withdraw, forcing himself to hold her stare as her fingers trail up the side of his arm towards his shoulder, as the warmth of her breath dances across his neck.

Granger's grip tightens around his arm, smoothing back so her palm rests on his shoulder blade, and her next exhale meets the shell of his ear.

"If you fuck this up for both of us," she breathes, the words a sensuous caress, "or if you don't follow through on your side of this agreement..." Her chest brushes against his, her other hand grazing his hip. "I'll figure out the loophole of the bonds myself and put you out of your bloody misery."

Determination and white-hot rage linger in her stare as she draws back to meet his gaze, and she shoves him back across the threshold. His body sings with awareness of her long after she slams the door to her quarters in his face.

Hours after she settled into her new room, Hermione sits on the plush linens of the bed, twisting her resistance galleon over in her hand. She indulged herself in a hot bath, something she was never allowed at the safehouse, and found fresh clothes from the closet magically sized to fit her.

Half an hour earlier, a simple message came through her coin from Harry, encoded in a way to alert her to the fact that his incoming messages are being tracked.

She sent a simple response, similarly coded so that only Harry would understand, but that Cassius or Kingsley or whoever read it wouldn't be able to make sense of it. She told him only that she was safe.

Because even if she's going to relay messages from inside the Death Eaters, she doesn't know where to begin at this point. She doesn't know how to tell Harry about this—or if she even wants to. Maybe the vow of confidence they'll imbue into the wards will prevent her from mentioning the illegitimacy of it, and Harry won't believe otherwise.

A quiet knock sounds on the door, startling her from her thoughts as she calls, "Come in."

When the door swings open, Malfoy stands on the threshold clad in dark robes. His shoulders are stiff, the deadened emptiness she knows so well in his eyes. He clutches his Death Eater mask in one hand.

It's strange to see him like this, now knowing the truth of what he really wants. That he means to kill Voldemort himself.

That, when he told her he wanted her on his side, he didn't mean the Death Eaters at all. He meant exactly what he said.

"I'm leaving," he drawls, face blank, and she wonders if it helps him to justify all he does in his master's name if he assumes this cold, unfeeling identity for himself. "I haven't changed the wards yet because I have several matters to attend to before we can proceed. Work on your terms for the contract and we can go through that tomorrow. You'll find writing materials in the sitting room, and I've left the Malfoy and Black grimoires out if you want to look into the ancient rites any further." He ducks his chin, and nods towards the sitting room behind him that connects their private quarters. "I had some dinner brought up."

Her stomach growls at the mere thought. After everything that happened earlier, she didn't have a chance to eat, and it feels so much later than it truly is.

"Thanks," she returns, recognising the peace offering for what it is. "I appreciate that."

He offers only a stiff nod and turns to go.

"Malfoy," Hermione says, narrowing her eyes when he turns back to face her. The coldness in his stare reminds her of all that this is—and isn't. That they aren't friends; they're scarcely allies, forced into this bizarre situation for the sake of so many others beyond themselves. But she doesn't really know him, and she doesn't know if she'll ever truly trust him. At the end of the day, she still has to watch her own back.

Only now that she's within the enemy camp, the stakes are infinitely more dangerous.

The thought stays her tongue on any form of encouragement she might have given. "Don't kill too many Muggles."

His face remains blank as he stares at her, then fixes the mask into place atop his features. When he sweeps his hood up over his hair, a shiver darts along her spine. Even now, with what she's learned today, he's the Death Eater lieutenant—murder and cruelty incarnate.

For a moment, she hates it for him. Wonders how much he hates it for himself.

So she says, "Goodbye, Malfoy."

She isn't certain whether she imagines the heavy breath that falls from his lips. "Granger."

Then he sweeps from the room, leaving her alone once more but with a plan for her evening.

In hindsight, having Granger around all the time will take some getting used to. Draco returns to his quarters well after midnight, his mind occupied with thoughts of the night, and flinches upon seeing her seated on the sofa in his sitting room, a large tome perched in her lap.

She glances up, eyes skimming him, but doesn't speak. If he didn't know better, he might try to slip into her mind, to dissect her thoughts on everything that's happened. Merlin knows Draco's exhausted, and he expected her to be asleep already.

Tossing his mask onto the desk, Draco shrugs out of his robes and peers closer at her. "What are you reading?"

"The Black grimoire," she returns as casually as if it were nothing. But her eyes flit up. "You said I could."

"I don't care," he returns, sinking into the armchair nearest the hearth, and leans forward on his knees. "It isn't magic you'll want to utilise without due consideration, though."

She flips the page, the majority of her attention fixed on the book in her lap. "So I'm seeing."

A part of him suspected she would simply recoil at the depth of the magic within—the blatant discussion of dark magic—but he shouldn't be surprised. This isn't the swotty girl he went to Hogwarts with. As a grown woman, Granger is a ruthless trained killer. He expects she's dabbled in dark magic herself.

"You know," she carries on, as casually as though they were discussing the weather, "I've been thinking about this a lot."

"Of course you have," he mutters under his breath.

Granger ignores him. "If we're going to go ahead with this situation between us, I'm going to need a way to keep my correspondence with the resistance undercover. The last thing either of us need is for the wrong person to learn of the deception we're planning and to acknowledge my position outside of the manor."

Draco hesitates, mulling over her words. "So what are you saying?"

She fixes him with her full attention, her face pale as discomfort tugs at her lips. "That if we want to pull this off and survive, the resistance can't know it's fake."

"One of your conditions was to pass information to the resistance," he reasons. He can't say he particularly cares what she does with the information she'll learn living in the manor—which isn't any more than Theo would have passed on, as neither of them are in the inner circle—but he doesn't want to give her a reason to turn on him.

"Right." She gives a single, clipped nod. "Which is why we need Nott to recover and maintain his role as the internal operative with Foray. If he's still in contact with Neville—who presumably passes his messages along to one of the resistance leaders—that may be our best way. But Neville will need to believe the information is coming from Nott."

Draco considers her for a moment, eyes narrowed. "Fine," he says at last. "Whatever you want to do on that front. And you're probably right—there are too many variables that could give us up if people in the resistance know that this marriage isn't genuine. But that means you aren't going to be able to tell Potter the truth."

Even as he speaks the words, he eyes her for a reaction. But she simply keeps her head up and replies quietly, "I know."

His eyes burn with exhaustion, and he longs to sink into the armchair and pass out—but despite everything, he still doesn't trust Granger well enough to show a side of himself that isn't fully in control. He's already given up too much weakness, and he needs to know he has her faith in him to pull this off.

"I spoke with Theo this evening," he says instead, keeping his shoulders rigid. "He isn't leaving the manor, but unfortunately the resistance now knows he's been compromised. We'll have to arrange a scenario for him to alert his handlers to a false alarm—keep feeding information to the resistance without their knowledge that we know he's the operative—but no one else will know the truth."

A slow smile drags across her face when her eyes lock on his, and he catches a spark of something akin to mischief. "If we control all the cards without anyone's knowledge," she says softly, "no one will suspect it when we play the winning hand."

It feels strange, keeping secrets with Granger—the biggest secrets of his life—and it's infinitely more enticing to have her on his side than against him. A grin tugs unbidden at the corner of his mouth as he eyes her, slowly shaking his head. "Merlin willing," he murmurs at last, "so long as we stack the deck in our favour."

Silence hangs between them for a moment, long enough for it to stretch and mutate into something he can't force to make sense.

At last, when she speaks again, hesitation flits across her expression. "I want to explore the manor. If I'm going to be here—I want to know what I'm facing."

"It isn't safe."

Least of all for her—for her blood. For her role.

She releases a breath, and though he expects her to argue, she nods. "I imagined that would be the case. There's no sense in getting myself killed before we do anything else. So I will ask you to come with me."

The request is oddly formal, more respectful than he's used to from her, and he suspects it only conveys the desperation behind her words. But it makes sense for her to understand her surroundings—especially if he's going to keep her in a house surrounded by people who would sooner shoot a curse through her than allow her anything else.

"Fine," Draco mutters. "That's fine. But wait until after the bonds are completed. The additional magic will allow you a measure of protection against some ancient spells. I don't... I can't even say exactly what you'll be up against."

He doesn't know the extent of the anti-Muggle wards that imbue certain dark corridors. He's never had cause to learn them all.

And her Muggle blood might be enough to trigger something.

As though making her best effort at diplomacy, at compromise, she only nods again. "That is... acceptable."

"Good."

The silence carries on, some of the tension resolved.

"We can do it, you know." She closes the grimoire in her lap, her face tentative. "You and I. If we're careful."

Draco wants to dispute her words, wants to sort through the variables and measure too many outcomes, too many possibilities. But a part of him doesn't want to look away from the brightness in her gaze—it isn't happiness, or hope, but something determined and far more dangerous.

And fuck him but he believes her.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading! I don't always have time to respond to comments individually, but every one of them means so much to me. I'm so happy to have you all along for this ride.

Alpha and beta love to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows, respectively.

Chapter 17

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco walks into his quarters the following afternoon, eyes roving the room. Granger sits on the sofa beside Nott, parchment spread on the coffee table before them.

He lifts a brow, propping his shoulder against the doorway. "Was there a meeting no one informed me of?"

When Granger's eyes snap up to meet his, she almost looks guilty. "Nott sent a message to my coin."

"Relax," Theo drawls, leaning back in his seat and propping his feet on the table. "Granger hasn't told me anything about what you two are plotting, and I've been around these parts long enough to know how to keep my head down if I want it to stay on my neck. It isn't hard to miss the fact that she's moved in here, clearly alive and unharmed, when only weeks ago you told me you were going to kill her… but that isn't my business."

Draco scowls through him, hating the blatant and sudden power imbalance in the room; he refuses to give Theo another inch, especially after the way he betrayed him for the resistance. "What are you doing here?"

Granger sighs, closing a book and sliding it away from her. "If we want to keep Nott as an inside link to the resistance, we need to smooth the situation over so they believe his information is still valid. We've been trying to figure out a way to address this."

"Oh." Folding his arms, Draco peers between them. "That's fine, then. It's necessary they believe Theo hasn't been compromised or he'll either be salvaged or cut loose." The words hang in the air as the three of them shift. If the resistance believes him of no value, they might seek to cut their losses and eliminate him altogether. "What's the plan?"

When Granger's brows lift, as though surprised at his acquiescence, he walks farther into the room and takes a seat on the sofa next to her. "Well," she says, a little flustered, "we thought if Nott were to pass along a strong, valid tip—one that gives up something valuable, or an important time, or something like that—the resistance will have no choice but to believe him. If they think you've got him figured out, you'd never give up such information in front of him. And obviously, they have no reason to suspect you'd simply allow such a tip to go out."

"It's true," Draco clips, pursing his lips. "I'd sooner kill the informant."

Theo snickers.

"That's really all we talked about," Granger concludes, and he has no reason to suspect her of lying. Draco doesn't suppose it would go over well if he were to attempt to slip into her mind now that they're allies of a sort, even if forced.

The silence grows tense as her gaze lingers on him, and Draco clears his throat, leafing through the parchment in an effort to keep from staring at her. "I spoke with the Dark Lord. About you." Carefully choosing his next words, he adds, "It's in both of our best interests if I address the matter head on, direct the narrative, lest he find out from someone else. He has ways of tracking our actions, even beyond the manor wards, and it wouldn't be the first time he uses Legilimency on an unsuspecting house elf."

He can sense Granger's unease with the topic, even as she remains stock still beside him. "And?"

Draco casts a glance towards Theo with a gruff, "Please leave. I'll come up with a tip you can pass to the resistance this afternoon."

Without waiting to be told twice, Theo leaps up from his seat and exits the room; Draco watches for a moment until the door clicks shut behind him and waits until he can feel the privacy warding slide back into place. He turns back to Granger. "I told him we're to be wed under the Black lineage marital rites."

The only indication she even heard him is a quiet intake of breath, and slowly, her eyes slide towards him. "How did that go?"

"Well enough." He offers only a noncommittal shrug to bely the complexity of the matter, or the way his body is still wracked with the after-effects of the Cruciatus. "The Dark Lord doesn't care to be left in the dark. But he approved the matter all the same." Draco hesitates for a moment, before adding, "He won't be pleased when he learns we aren't having an extravagant ceremony. He's offered to hold a ball... for the new lady of the manor."

"Let me guess," Granger says, "this isn't optional." His silence is response enough, and she offers a fortifying nod.

"It's the highest of honours," Draco returns quietly after a long pause. "To be welcomed into the fold."

He wonders whether she can detect the derision coating his words, or if he's well enough versed in keeping his thoughts on the matter concealed.

"You never said anything about my needing to become a Death Eater," she bites out, stiffening in her seat. "That was never a part of the deal."

"You won't," he drawls easily. "The Dark Lord doesn't know you, let alone trust you. The only reason he's agreed to this is because I've been building towards it for a while now. He believes we can utilise you for information about the resistance. If I guess correctly... he has machinations of his own that he thinks I'm not aware of."

"Well..." Granger trails off, turning to face him. "All the more reason to proceed with the plans."

Draco gazes at her, searching the tight lines of her face for any of the doubt that he knows still lingers below the surface, but he can't see it. It's as though their discussions of the last few days have been enough to persuade her to the merits of his plan. "Have you sorted out your terms? The sooner we enact the rites, the better—and the less chance the Dark Lord will make plans of his own for the wedding."

"Mostly," she allows, rummaging through one pile of parchment until she finds the sheet she’s looking for. Draco skims the parchment, his shoulder brushing hers as he moves.

It's about what he expected—terms to protect each of them, a list of people in the resistance she wishes to provide protection, though less than he thought.

"I'm surprised," Draco comments, "that you didn't put up more of a fuss over taking down the resistance as well."

Her expression darkens, and she sinks back into the sofa. Her shoulder remains against his own, and he wonders whether she's even aware. "I recognise that the bigger matter at hand here is dismantling the leadership on both sides or this will simply carry on indefinitely. And at a certain point..." She drops off with a flippant shrug that he sees clean through.

"It's obvious they never valued you," Draco muses, catching her eye. "Not like they should have."

Granger fails to keep the surprise from her face, and he realises all too late it's probably the nicest thing he's ever said to her. "No," she says, "I suppose they didn't."

"And now they're going to regret it, Granger."

She shifts, uncomfortable, but doesn't glance away. "I don't want everyone to die."

He ducks in closer, feeling the heat emanating from her, and murmurs, "We aren't making all of those decisions, if it helps you sleep at night. We're ending a war—the casualties will come, or they won’t, of their own accord."

"And is that what you tell yourself?" she asks, her gaze penetrating into his own. "That every time you lift your wand to claim a life, it's just another step towards the end of a war that's gone on longer than anyone ever thought it would? That this is all necessary if we want to make it out alive?"

Draco doesn't flinch. "Do you tell yourself anything else?"

Because they've both stolen lives. They all have. The Battle of Hogwarts was more than five years ago, and their lives have been encompassed by war ever since, without a single bloody day of reprieve.

And he's seen her kill, time and again.

She only whispers, "No."

"This is just one more step, Granger," he says, and the two of them sit so close on the sofa he can feel the press of her thigh against his own. On a whim, he indulges himself with a lingering gaze, tracing the lines of her face with his eyes. "Only now we have a way out."

"You need to tell me you have more plans than this," she says, and there's something akin to desperation in her words. "More than these vague, all-encompassing sentiments of who you think needs to die. Tell me you have an actual plan."

"And if I do? Are you in? There are no back doors here, Granger."

Her gaze lands on his. Darts down, only for a flicker of a moment, to his mouth. His heart begins to race at the heat in her stare. "I don't have anywhere else to go, Malfoy." Her voice drops to a whisper. "You already know I'm in."

Merlin, he wants to kiss her. The thought seizes him with an intensity he didn't anticipate. But with her beside him, the intoxicating blaze of revenge, of ambition and desperation and something that might resemble passion swirling in her eyes—as she gazes at him like she might simply set him alight—it's the only thought to which he can grasp.

Heat floods him, desire and longing, and he realises in a moment that he never allowed himself to acknowledge it before. That it's been building below the surface for months.

Draco swallows, his mouth bone dry in an instant, and returns, "Yes, Granger. I have a plan."

=

A sharp rap sounds on the door, startling Hermione from her thoughts. "Come in," she calls, perching upright on the quilted bedding.

Malfoy slips through the door, already clothed in his Death Eater robes. His jaw is clenched in a hard line that makes her tense. "Get dressed," he snaps, throwing something at her. "The Dark Lord has requested your presence."

She scarcely manages to catch the mass of fabric—some sort of dark robes—through the sudden swirling of shock and nausea in her stomach. Her pulse begins an insistent thrum behind her ears.

"Now?" she asks, meeting his eyes; his expression betrays nothing.

"Now," he returns, his stare making a lazy perusal of her form, and her less than presentable appearance. "As soon as you can manage." He announces out loud into the room, "Patroclus, help Miss Granger get ready."

Before she can dispute him, a house elf appears—one she's only seen in passing in the sitting room—all large ears and wide eyes.

Malfoy turns to leave the room, then wheels back to face her, and something in his expression softens ever so slightly. "You don't need to look at me like that. He isn't going to harm you—not while I'm there. But I hope you've been practising your acting skills."

Hermione gulps as he slips from the room, and she's so caught up in her thoughts that she allows the elf to drag her into the adjoining loo, tugging her curls into submission as she slips on the dark robes.

She knows the role she is to play. Coerced to the cause of the Death Eaters at Malfoy's side. Appropriately smitten but not broken of spirit; not to the point where she would prove of little use. The Dark Lord will expect a certain measure of dark magic to have been utilised, and if she wants to stay alive, she needs to demonstrate her loyalty to Malfoy over anyone else.

But her magic and wit need to remain sharp.

"Thank you, Patroclus," she murmurs as the elf dusts her cheeks and eyes with makeup, finding little strength within herself to do anything other than watch in the mirror. Her reflection stares back, eyes more dull than she expected.

"Of course, Miss!" the elf exclaims with a toothy grin. "Patroclus is happy to help Master's betrothed."

The word is as jarring as anything else at the moment. Despite that the marriage is something within her control; even though she has as much say in the matter as he does.

And even though they've discussed and agreed upon their terms.

There is little sense in delaying longer than necessary, and in a matter of days, she will be, both legally and magically, a Malfoy. The thought is as absurd as it might once have been comical, and Hermione can only hope this is the right course.

After Nott re-established his connection with his Foray handlers, Hermione slipped him a couple of small details. Nothing to give up the game, but enough to gradually begin building trust again. She knows Cassius and the other leaders well enough to know that they're likely still sceptical as to whether or not Malfoy found him out.

Her heart clamours anxiously in her chest when she meets Malfoy in the sitting room fifteen minutes after his startling entrance into her quarters.

He's fully clad in his Death Eater regalia, down to the silver mask upon his face, and she longs for the neutrality such a mask would provide. He doesn't need to worry about giving something away in his expression, when the wrong reaction on her part could mean her life.

"No going back now. Are you ready?" he asks in a low voice, offering his arm.

Hermione releases a breath, steeling herself for what is to come, and reaches deep within herself for the inner strength she's honed and cultivated into a weapon. Something tells her she'll need every ounce of it to get through the days, weeks, and months to come. She slips her hand into the crook of his elbow, squares her shoulders, and offers a beguiling smile. "Ready."

And as if a shade has been drawn over his eyes, she watches them grow cold, deadened, cruel. The side of him she knows all too well. Used to know.

It's the only part of him visible through the mask, but the change is remarkable. It's enough to send a shudder down her spine.

He only drawls, "Good," and leads her from the room.

=

All she knows is the rapid pulse of her heart. The click of her heels on the marble floors, echoing off the walls. The heavy, disapproving stares of the portraits that adorn the walls.

And Malfoy's hand, flat and possessive, as it rests on the small of her back.

His presence at her side might be reassuring if not for the fact that she doesn't recognise any part of the man she's coming to know, and instead sees only the Death Eater who haunted her steps for months.

The section of the manor where they are—where she's lived for days, trapped within his quarters—isn't familiar to her. There’s nothing to trigger sudden, vicious recollections at the back of her mind or remind her of the last time she was in Malfoy Manor.

But this shift is entirely different. Her reasons for being here now revolve around control and the power she possesses over the situation.

She isn't a prisoner, despite the gilded cage in which she now exists.

Every step she takes now is calculated, discussed in detail with the man at her side, and it's almost surreal to consider. Once, he would have happily seen her dead, and the reverse is true—but now he's the only one she can depend on, though the idea in itself offers little by way of solace.

If she's honest, trusting Malfoy terrifies her.

It's only in the raw truth that they both need each other to survive this that gives her any strength at all.

As though he can feel her tension, he casts her a brief glance. "Breathe," he says, scarcely a whisper, "or you'll never make it through the door."

At the gentle admonition—as well as the reminder that he is still with her—she draws another deep breath, pulling her courage to the surface. She lifts her chin with a subtle nod, gratified when he redirects his focus ahead once more.

She can do this—she's dealt with so much worse.

And it's only by focusing on the feel of his hand through the dress robes she wears that she doesn't succumb to the panic and rage that crest as one within her when he leads her into the hall and she catches sight of the Dark Lord seated upon an elaborate dais.

Up close, he's so much more terrifying. And it occurs to her that she hasn't seen him this close since the Battle of Hogwarts, when Harry nearly died and they fled for their lives.

It aligns with what Malfoy's inferred—that the Dark Lord scarcely deigns to get his own hands dirty anymore.

The situation makes more sense, given the fact that he has so much free reign as the Dark Lord's favoured lieutenant. He's in control of so much because he's sought that control, worked for it and snatched it up. And now...

Their plans run so much deeper than anything she had originally guessed at.

As they approach, Malfoy ducks in, his warm breath a caress on her ear. His hand rounds the curve of her hip, and she knows every move he makes is calculated. It's a warning to anyone that might seek to harm her—that she is under his protection. "You don't need to look like someone's died."

At that, she allows a small smile to curl her lips, blinking up at him with as much warmth as she can manage. She's meant to be an appropriate mixture of indoctrination and adoration, and she isn't entirely certain whether she manages it.

But when she wipes her expression moments later and turns back to the Dark Lord, she finds his penetrating red eyes on her.

Following Malfoy's lead, she ducks her head into a bow, perhaps deeper than necessary, and murmurs, "My Lord."

"Rise," Voldemort speaks, steepling his fingers in front of him. His unblinking gaze is penetrating, searching, but not unpleasant. "Hermione Granger—it is indeed a wonder to see you here."

She might miss the undertones if not for the glance he casts Malfoy.

Although Malfoy's face is obscured by his mask, she can hear the derisive drawl in his words, coloured by a hint of wry amusement. "Indeed, My Lord. As I promised, Miss Granger's presence with us will be of greater value than her death."

"I certainly hope so." Voldemort's attention turns back to her, and as his eyes narrow with contemplation, she understands his scrutiny. For most of her life, she's been Harry Potter's best friend—and publicly at that. Perhaps Voldemort isn't certain what Malfoy's done to persuade her to the dark side and away from everything she knows. "You are, of course, welcome."

She's never felt less welcome in her life.

Several other Death Eaters linger in the room, a safe distance from the dais, and she can feel their stares even as she keeps her full focus on the monster before her.

A little at a time, she feels her courage seep away into the stone beneath her feet. A small, cowardly part of her is relieved Malfoy’s taken the lead on this meeting.

"Hermione and I will be wed in the coming days with little fanfare, under the ancient marriage rites of the House of Black," Malfoy announces, his tone flat and clinical. "We will not require anything of you, My Lord."

"On the contrary," Voldemort drawls, his voice high and dismissive, "it seems a celebration may be just the thing we need to keep spirits high."

She manages to stifle a laugh by tightening her jaw. Hermione can't imagine Death Eaters seeking to uplift their spirits.

"I appreciate the offer, My Lord, but it is unnecessary." Malfoy ducks his chin, and his hand tightens around her hip—whether in irritation or as a warning to keep silent, she isn't certain. "We simply mean to proceed with matters in an expedient manner and move on with married life."

She detects the slight mocking underneath the words, and by the snickers along the walls, she isn't the only one. Colour prickles her cheekbones at the insinuation, but she manages to offer Malfoy a doting smile all the same.

For all anyone knows, she's been emotionally manipulated—perhaps some of them even expect it. There's no harm in playing to those suspicions.

He only casts her a brief glance in return.

"Very well then," Voldemort returns, and his searing red gaze lands on her once more. "I do hope you find our accommodations to your liking, Miss Granger. And that you... integrate well into our methods here."

She understands that all too well, too. That he will expect information and assistance from her. Surely Malfoy's made promises, and she'll have no choice but to offer information about the resistance in exchange for the fact that she continues to breathe.

That Voldemort has allowed Malfoy to take her as a wife instead of kill her.

Finally, she feels the nudge of his magic against the hard walls that protect her mind. But she feels no remorse in firmly locking the man out, knowing he would expect as much. Moments later, the invasive suggestion vanishes, but Voldemort's face betrays nothing.

"I'm certain I will," she purrs with her most banal smile. "I already find it infinitely more gratifying here than I ever did there."

She can see Malfoy's smirk in his eyes as they snag on hers through the mask. Heat flares within the grey of his irises, warming her skin, and without looking back to his master, he drawls, "I ask your leave, My Lord?"

The Death Eaters in the room laugh again, not kindly, and Hermione just manages not to bristle.

"Very well," Voldemort says, and cruelty draws at his mouth. "I expect this will not interfere with your duties as my lieutenant."

"Not in the least," Malfoy purrs, already tugging her from the room.

And though she recognises the ploy to extract her from the situation, so she doesn't need to spend more time with the madman before her than necessary and potentially give anything up, humiliation gnaws at her at the blatant suggestion of exactly why Malfoy is taking her away.

All of it connects back to the lie they’re spinning—that she’s appropriately turned to his side.

Once they're back in the corridor she's able to breathe a little easier, though she doesn't dare speak until they're a good distance from the hall. A shudder finally trawls, belatedly, down the length of her spine.

She casts Malfoy a sidelong glance, opening her mouth to speak, when he suddenly tugs her by the arm into a small, dimly lit alcove behind a tapestry off the main corridor. Surprise darts through her, but the space is scarcely large enough for the two of them, and her surprise is eclipsed by something else.

Something she longs to suppress.

Malfoy's body is firm against hers, his gaze burning into her, and he sweeps his mask atop his head. But even as her heart races, he remains still, and his eyes drift back to the main corridor.

His hand brushes against her hip, and he ducks in, his words soft against her ear. "We're being followed. Never speak openly outside of my quarters. Someone is always listening."

Suddenly following his intent, she releases a titter and stage whispers, "Anyone could come across us here."

A smirk drifts across his lips in her periphery, and when she focuses she can sense another person nearby. "And?" Malfoy purrs, close enough that his breath skirts the shell of her ear.  "We're in my house."

The situation might be embarrassing if not for the fact that he's simply perpetuating the suggestion that originated in the hall, and she knows it's only to solidify the story that she left the resistance for him . A certain amount of this will be necessary to carry out the facade, and that realisation isn't new.

Besides, she knows Malfoy only acts in the interest of his plans. If her blood flares a little at his touch, at his closeness, at the way his breath warms her skin, it's simply an unfortunate side effect upon which she knows neither of them intend to act.

Even if some small part of her wants to sink into him, to relinquish the forces that drive her every minute of every day and enjoy herself just a little.

It's all part of an act.

And so she says, a little louder, "Fine, but it isn't my fault if we get caught."

Malfoy's eyes linger on her own; his throat bobs with a swallow, and his tongue dips out to moisten his lips. He hasn't shifted away, every line of him hard against her, and he's tall enough that she has to peer up to hold his stare even with her heels. If she isn't mistaken, his next breath falls a little heavier.

Amusement curls one side of his mouth, and he drawls, "It is absolutely your fault."

His gaze flits once more towards the corridor, where someone most assuredly seeks to report on their movements. Hermione suffers no delusions that all of the Death Eaters will trust her defection from the resistance. She shifts on the spot as nerves dart through her, her robes rustling as she brushes against Malfoy, and a flush deepens in her cheeks.

She can only hope the dim lighting is enough to conceal it.

But despite their banter, she knows it isn't believable. They're too stiff, too quiet, and as Malfoy's breath ghosts her throat, she squeezes her eyes shut. Drops her head to the side, a harsh breath falling from her lips. She cracks her eyes back open to find him staring.

A silent whirl of communication passes between them, and she bites down on her lower lip to keep from saying anything. Instead, she only affords him a slow, jerky nod.

For all of this, for an end to the war, there are few things she wouldn't do.

Malfoy doesn't need to be told twice, and she knows he understands the sentiment exactly as she does. The first press of his lips against her throat is hesitant but searing, and his mouth is softer than she expected. His tongue dips out, lips closing against her skin, and heat lances through her.

A groan slips from her mouth that she doesn't bother to stifle, and she angles her head still further to give him better access. His hand rounds her hip to the centre of her back, and he sucks the sensitive skin into his mouth, breath warm against her neck between kisses.

Desire swells, shameful in its insistence, deep within her belly, and without consideration, she slides a hand up his chest to grasp his collar. The movement draws them closer together, and now she can feel every part of him flush against her.

It only spurs him on.

His mouth drifts upward to the curve of her jaw, teeth grazing the slender line, his lips and tongue teasing against her skin, and the sensation he elicits draws another moan from her mouth, something needy and prolonged that doesn't even sound familiar to her own ears.

She grapples at him, pressing herself against him in the wake of the all-encompassing heat that threatens to overtake her.

Jarring awareness rattles through her when her fingers slide into his hair, only to snag on the cold metal of his mask, and her eyes jolt open to find his. Breaths race from her lips, heavy and ragged, mingling with his, but he reaches up to remove the mask and jams it into his pocket.

Something flits through his eyes that she can't place, but he leans in again, slides his hand up her spine to the back of her neck, and brushes his mouth against her cheek, just below her ear. He nips at the lobe, drawing the flesh between his teeth, and her back arches from the wall with a cry.

Hermione's heart plays a rhythm she's long forgotten, desire and arousal coiling within her as she drags a hand down his back, pliant under his touch in a way that ought to disgust her.

She only wants more.

He's careful not to kiss her, not to meet her mouth with his, but when he sucks again at the tender skin below her jaw, her head spins. She can feel him pressed against her hip, and she knows she isn't the only one caught up in the moment, forced though it began.

She curls her hand into a fist to refrain from reaching for him. Plants her feet so she doesn't grind against him, encouraging anything more than this—because already this is more than she can handle, more than she bargained for. She never expected to feel like this under his hands and mouth.

A quiet voice in the back of her mind wants more.

She wants to know what else he can do, how his touch would feel on her bare skin, how he might worship her in his bed.

He murmurs something against her skin, a low rumble that sets her core alight, and his hands are on her, smoothing along the outside of her chest. When he grazes her breast she arches into him, lost to the way she feels. His hand stills, squeezes her once; his thumb flicks out to graze the hard peak of her nipple through the thin fabric of her robes.

A cry falls from her lips at the stimulation, mingling with her heavy breaths, and when he tweaks the sensitive peak between two fingers, moisture pools between her legs.

He speaks against her neck again, his thumb playing absent circles against her nipple, and though she wants nothing more than for him to continue in his exquisite torture, the words register distantly.

"They're gone."

Like she's been doused with a bucket of cold water, she wrenches back, plastering herself against the wall.

Malfoy drops his hands, shifting away from her, and though his breathing is steadier than her own, his eyes are darkened by lust. Hermione suspects she looks at him in much the same way.

For a long moment, while her heart continues to race, they only stare.

Her eyes trace the shape of his mouth, the sharp lines of his face, the way his eyes narrow just slightly. But she can't find any words.

In light of what just happened—in the way she lost all semblance of control under his ministrations—she doesn't know what to say. Her body still sings with awareness of him, blood racing with the same arousal that lingers, hot and slick, between her legs.

If she thought she wasn't attracted to him—if she thought she didn't want him—there is no denying it any longer. Not to herself. Because all she wants is his mouth on her skin, his capable hands exploring her body.

She dips her tongue out to moisten her lips, and his eyes drop instantly to the motion.

But as the moments pass, as the molten grey in his eyes cools to its usual shade and his expression drops to stoicism, a chill creeps along her spine.

"We should go," he says, reaching into his pocket to draw out his mask. Before she can say anything, he slips it on, obscuring his face entirely, and when his hand lands on her back once more, she feels none of the same heat that raced between them only moments earlier.

He leads her back to his quarters in relative silence, and luckily they come across no one.

If nothing else, their show was surely convincing.

Perhaps a little too convincing, if she believed it herself. Heat still lingers beneath her skin, but when he drops her off at her door and vanishes into his own room without a word, the last of the fire is replaced by ice.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks so much for reading everyone! I hope you liked this chapter <3

So much love to my alpha, kyonomiko, and my beta, sweetestsorrows, for all their hours spent helping with this fic.

PS. You may have noticed this story now has a final chapter count - because I finished writing the first draft on the weekend! It ended at 51 chapters, around 261k words, so we still have a long way to go before we reach the end! I hope you're as excited as I am :D

Chapter 18

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

She doesn't glamour the love bites.

Malfoy's so calculated, so controlled, that she knows even this is strategic. It's simply another way of demonstrating a claim over her, of showing that she is with him—and if she's honest, whilst in a manor full of people who would seek to kill her, it's more reassuring than she cares to admit.

She can still picture the way his mouth quirked, cruel and teasing, before he continued his merciless assault on her skin and senses.

Something awoke between them, but she doesn't dare give it a name.

Doesn't dare allow it power over her, when at the heart of the matter, it's what he wants. Even though they're technically on the same team now, she would be crazy to think Malfoy doesn't still have his own agenda with all of this. And most of them don't involve her.

Still, he's crawled under her skin. Even thinking about it the next morning, she can still feel lingering traces of the heat that radiated between them, the tight coil of arousal in her belly, the tender manipulations he bore into her skin with his teeth and tongue.

She refuses to dwell on the way he made her feel. When her fingers itched towards her centre the night before, desperate to relieve the ache he sowed, she held firm. Because if she gives into that, if she allows such a distraction, her life could be at risk.

Malfoy's an unreliable ally at best—her somewhat willing husband-to-be and a sudden, unexpected comrade in arms. He isn't meant to be an object of desire, and she needs to survive what comes next more than she needs anything sexual from him.

Hermione can't even think extensively on the matter, when they have to make the final arrangements in advance of the ritual. The ceremony itself sounds straightforward enough, and they've invited only Nott to act as their witness.

In just days, they'll be married—and they can enact the next phase of their plans. A part of her longs to discover the depths of the magical pool that will build between them, and from her research, she knows they can nurture it into something stronger.

From there, everything will begin.

Despite that it was Malfoy's rough plan to begin with, Hermione has no intention of letting him fully take the reins, and he's been surprisingly amenable to the idea of the two of them working together to tweak and adjust the course of actions they'll follow.

The hardest pit that still sits in the bottom of her stomach is Harry.

She hasn't reached out to his coin since he informed her that any of her incoming messages will be monitored, and Nott has acted instead as her inside feed to the resistance. For all Harry knows, she's left the continent.

The resistance always tracks Death Eater news. Large ceremony or not, she knows they will catch wind of her marriage to Malfoy—and she can only imagine the betrayal Harry will feel, left out of the loop as he is.

Because he doesn't know that Nott's the Foray operative—and that Neville is his inside feed to the higher ups in the resistance. Harry won't understand that she does all of this to protect him, that it's all an effort to brute force a way through to the end of this war at last.

And that he's on her list to be protected at all costs.

She dresses, taking a little extra care to tame her curls, and slips from her room into the sitting room that connects their quarters.

Malfoy's already seated on the sofa, and when she steps into the room he freezes, clenching a copy of that morning's Daily Prophet. She might miss the way his eyes track briefly to her throat if not for the fact that she's expecting it. When he simply resumes his reading, she knows she guessed right—that he meant to leave evidence on her neck.

The silence lingers, stretching into something that prickles along her skin and heats her insides. A muscle feathers in his jaw though he doesn't look at her again, and at length, Hermione serves herself a cup of tea from the service by the window.

"Would you care for a cuppa?" she asks, determined not to mention the situation between them if he isn't going to do so.

Malfoy clears his throat. "Please."

She pours him a cup, dropping one cube of sugar in perhaps more aggressively than she means to, and some of the hot tea splashes out onto his saucer. His gaze flits to the motion.

Merlin, she can still envision the searing heat in his eyes, blown wide with lust. The way his harsh, ragged breathing mingled with hers in the darkness.

The teacup clatters against the saucer as she hands it to him, her shoulders stiff, and finally he lifts his eyes to meet hers. "Thank you," he says, the words reluctant as if drawn from deep within him, and he takes a sip before setting it down on the end table. He takes his time in folding the Prophet, then crosses one ankle over the other knee. "If we finish our preparations today, we'll be able to proceed with the ritual tomorrow."

"Fine," Hermione says with a clipped nod as she takes a seat on the armchair, uncertain whether she prefers the distraction or if she wants to see something from him. Some small indication that he's been as thrown by the day before as she was. "That's fine. All the better to proceed quickly."

"Right."

They sip their tea in silence, the air growing thick with tension to the point where she longs to run, to escape. Maybe this was all a bad idea after all.

But she's been through more, and worse; she's watched friends die and taken lives at the tip of a blade. She can deal with Draco Malfoy, and a few heated touches aren't going to unravel everything she's fought for.

Malfoy sets his cup down, clears his throat, and laces his hands across his stomach. "Are we good?" he asks, staring at the bookshelf.

His only concession to what happened between them the day before, to the way heat sparked between them. She knows neither of them intended for it to get to that point.

"We're fine," she manages, straightening in her seat as she finishes the last of her tea. "I think we're both aware of what this is going to cost us. In order for people to believe it."

His eyes tighten, the slightest grimace betraying his thoughts, but his face remains otherwise stony. "Right," he drawls again, drawing out the syllable, and she senses that there's something more he wants to say. Her pulse clamours behind her ears. When he glances away, she catches a hint of colour in his cheeks. "You could have told me to stop."

The words pulse at the tip of her tongue: I didn't want you to stop.

"We're to be married," she says instead. "People aren't going to believe any of this if we don't act the part."

Malfoy's lips separate as though to speak again, then he clamps them shut. "Fine," he bites out. "Then we'll proceed as planned."

"As planned," she confirms. Cold, clinical, and borne of responsibility rather than anything emotional or implicit—the marriage and the life that awaits her. It's not a life she ever envisioned for herself growing up. But neither was any of this. "We have much to do."

And no room to allow anything else to get in the way. She doesn't add the last, but suspects she conveys it well enough.

His eyes linger on her mouth, on the column of her throat. "Indeed we do," he purrs at last, the low rumble of the words shooting straight to her core. Now that she knows what he's capable of, the way he can bring her body to life with a few simple touches, she doesn't know that she'll be able to ignore it.

She won't have a choice.

Unbidden, her mind darts back to the awkward conversation they'd shared regarding sex—and the idea of seeking it elsewhere through the lifetime of marriage that awaits them. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if they could use each other in that way.

As a release, and nothing more.

But she knows better. Emotions always find a way in, even despite the best of intentions, and she can't allow herself to think of Malfoy like that. Not when so much lies between them and the end of this situation, and they'll need their wits sharp.

Discomfort still plays at the corners of his eyes, drawing at his mouth, and he hedges, "So you aren't upset."

Upset isn't the word she would use—amongst a vast array of descriptors she could use, she isn't upset. If anything, the fact that they're having this conversation at all almost feels comical. As though it's a trivial concern they might have been able to indulge were the world different. "No."

"Okay." He nods once, rises stiffly to his feet, and makes towards the corridor entrance. "I have to lead a meeting. Once I return, we'll sort out these final details."

"That sounds fine," Hermione announces. She has nowhere to go even if she wants to leave. "I'll be here."

He slips through the door without another word, leaving her to stew in altogether too many things.

"The Dark Lord is going to throw a party in our honour—in your honour."

When Hermione glances up, unaware he'd even returned, his face is stony.

"A party."

His upper lip curls with a sneer. "I suspected as much, especially when I told him we weren't interested in a large ceremony. It's a celebration."

A celebration. She notes the derision in his voice; the Dark Lord needs the last word in the matter. And despite the fact that Malfoy is his best, he's still just another of Voldemort's soldiers.

"Understood," she returns. "And what will be expected of me? So I am adequately prepared."

The thought of attending such an event at all causes the taste of bile to emerge at the back of her throat.

Malfoy clears his throat and shrugs out of his robes, leaving him in a shirt and trousers, then rolls the strain from his shoulders. When she really looks at him, she can see the fatigue lining his face, the dark shadows forming beneath his eyes.

She wonders whether he sleeps at all. Or whether, like her, bad dreams and night terrors keep him from rest more often than not.

"You're to be the lady of the manor," he says at last, curt and clipped, and sinks into the sofa. He drops his head against the back of the cushion, staring at the ceiling. "You'll need to behave as such. And make no mistake—this is a test. It's all a test. The Dark Lord may trust me, but he has no reason to trust you."

Although the words are jarring, she isn't surprised. For as much as she doesn't want to admit any weakness, least of all to him—even though they're on each other's side now—she releases a sigh. "Will you help me prepare?" she asks, and the words fall so much smaller than she intends. "It's just... I don't know your world. I don't want to be the reason this all falls apart."

If it were years ago, if they were still at Hogwarts, she knows the admission would garner his criticism and cruelty.

But he only nods and says, softly, "We're in this together, Granger. Of course I will."

"Okay." His response is more reassuring than she imagined, and he rolls his head along the back of the sofa to face her.

To her surprise, a rueful smile draws at his mouth. A long moment passes, something charged hanging in the air between them, and for the first time all day she allows herself to reminisce on the feeling of him pressed against her. "What a mess we've landed in, eh?"

A soft laugh falls, unbidden, from her lips. "More or less of a mess than when we were trying to kill each other?"

Malfoy ponders the thought with pursed lips, then crinkles the bridge of his nose. "More. Way more." When she doesn't respond, he elaborates. "Killing you was black and white. I had my mission—one I've had many times before—and I knew what I needed to do. This... Merlin, this is all one big cock-up."

"It was your idea," she retorts, feeling petulant the moment the words leave her lips.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Next time I'll just do as my master asks and stop your heart."

"So much conceit," she muses, unable to fight the smile tugging at her mouth, "when you and I both know I could have been the one to end you." He only rolls his eyes, and she scoffs. "For the record, if I were a person without honour—"

"That's exactly your problem," he drawls. "Too much bloody honour. If you had a chance to shoot a spell into my back, you should have taken it. We're in the middle of a fucking war. Honour has no place here anymore."

"And yet you kept me alive more than once." He grinds his jaw, any shred of mirth between them gone cold. "You can deny it all you like, or claim you had ulterior motives, but I know you didn't that first time when all of this started."

She knows she doesn't need to elaborate, that he remembers the day to which she refers. When he had her, his magic choking the life out of her, but he left her stunned instead and walked away.

It might have been the moment when the lines between them began to blur.

At last Malfoy bites out, "I'm tired," and makes to rise from the sofa. She doesn't fight the matter when he crosses the room to his quarters, but he turns his head back to face her from the threshold. "Leaving you alive that day was a mistake—or it would have been if not for all of this. But I knew better—and I wished I'd killed you."

"Maybe," she whispers, "you have a little honour, after all."

Something flits across his face, irritation and conflict and defeat. "I'm not a good person, Granger. I'm not doing any of this because I wanted to save your life, and it's for the best that you remember that. You're about to marry one of the worst people you've ever known, and you should really think hard on that before you go through with it—because I manipulated you into this, too."

None of what he says is a surprise, but hearing him lay it out so blatantly before her embeds ice in her veins.

She wants to believe he isn't as bad as she always thought—that a part of him just wants this over with as badly as she does, that he wants peace and rest and resolution. But she knows everything he just said is the truth.

He's a liar and a murderer; he's coerced and blackmailed and tortured his way to this point.

But how is she any better?

Unsettled, she sinks deeper into the sofa and says softly, "Goodnight, Malfoy." She doesn't watch as he leaves the room.

She learns early on that Malfoy takes the vast majority of his meals alone in his quarters. Three times a day like clockwork, Patroclus appears and serves a meal in the small dining area off the sitting room.

It suits Hermione just fine, when she has no interest in seeing the Death Eaters that skulk about the manor any more than necessary.

A full meal sits before her as Malfoy comes into the room, scrubbing a towel through his damp hair.

She casts him a brief glance and says, "Can you quiz me with this?"

Although Malfoy looks as though he'd sooner be anywhere else, he releases a sigh and sinks into his seat across the small table from her. "Please tell me you know which silver to use for which course."

Hermione frowns at him. "I know certain pieces but not all of us grew up in a manor where we needed to know such things." When he presses his eyes shut in frustration, she adds hotly, "Malfoy, until recently I was fortunate if I was able to have a hot shower after a battle to clean the blood from my skin."

He only replies with an idle, "Draco."

Cocking a brow, she waits for him to elaborate, thrown by the awkward response.

"You'll need to start calling me Draco," he says, drawing the words out slowly as though she has a hearing problem. She scoffs, already growing annoyed with his attitude. "And I'll have to call you Hermione."

The slow roll of her name on his lips stays her ire, and she blinks at him. She'll never admit it, but she likes the way he draws out the syllables in his posh tones. "Fine," she huffs, "Draco."

His eyes flash with something she can't place. "Good girl."

She ignores the twist in her stomach.

"At any rate," she presses, leaning back in her seat and folding her arms. With a wave of his wand, a full service of cutlery appears on her place setting and she eyes the array of forks and spoons. "You said you would help me prepare for this nonsense."

Even despite their arrangement, Hermione despises that she has to ask him for anything. She doesn't care to express any shred of vulnerability.

Something softens in his face and he shakes his head. "I did, and I will—and thank Merlin you're a fast learner, because we won't have a lot of time. Please tell me you know how to dance."

In no realm of existence would she have ever imagined the two of them having a conversation about table etiquette and dancing abilities. The thought is enough to bring amusement to her lips, and for a long moment, he only stares at her as though she's gone mad.

Then he snorts.

"Bloody absurd, isn't it," he huffs under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. "The two of us going on about this shite."

A titter bursts from her lips. "In the middle of a war."

"A fucking war," he grumbles, and he looks so put off by all of it that a full laugh escapes. She can't remember him being funny—and she knows he isn't doing it on purpose—but maybe the strain has caught up with her because his disdain sets her off all over again. Malfoy only shakes his head, bemused, but his lips twitch with a hint of humour.

"Yes," she says at last, forcing her amusement down, "I know how to dance. I don't know any old pureblood ritual dances, mind you, but if you're referring to standard ballroom dances—I know those well enough."

"Good," he says with a grimace. "Because we'll be expected to dance—and no one will believe I would marry a woman who's going to step on my feet." Then he snickers and adds, "Most of the Death Eaters won't even know any of the old dances, so you should be safe on that front."

The thought is a relief, and there's something about the pair of them engaging in a light-hearted conversation for once that's enough to relieve some of the tension she's been carrying for days. Weeks. Years.

But it's also enough to remind her of the stakes. This may be just another game, but it's the most dangerous one yet.

Malfoy sobers as well, the pair of them staring across the table at each other for several long moments. Then he picks up a spoon, brandishing it towards her across the table with the bowl held aloft, and offers a pronounced, "Soup."

"I know that one," she offers, fiddling with a small fork. "And maybe I know most of this, but..."

The words freeze on her tongue and suddenly she doesn't want to say anything more. Doesn't want to admit to her doubts and vulnerabilities, the fears that have risen from the depths of her being since she's taken up residence at Malfoy Manor.

Fears she's quelled for years out of desperation and the primal urge to survive.

This is a different game, and it's one she doesn't know.

The rest of the pieces on the board—Malfoy included—know the rules all too well.

But Hermione's been playing something else all along, and she hates feeling so unsettled in her surroundings.

"If you don't go along with all of this, you don't need to face what comes next."

He can read her as though she spoke her thoughts out loud, and she shrinks a little under his stare.

"I know."

There's no judgement on his face.

"Look, Granger," he says cautiously, meeting her eye, "I don't want to do any of this either. I'm tired of having so much blood on my hands, tired of always needing to watch my back."

He hesitates, his gaze roving towards the window that overlooks the expansive grounds.

Hermione senses the impending but and waits.

"The only way out is through," he says at last. "I need the power I'm afforded here for any of this to work. And if we don't target the roots of the conflict—if we simply go after the leaders—more will only step in to take their place."

"We need to take out the legs," she whispers, understanding his intentions better now than she did at first. "Or this will only carry on."

"And more people will die," Malfoy says, his jaw hard. "Life will never have a chance to get back to normal—whatever that even looks like."

Hermione hasn't experienced a shred of normal life since she was seventeen. She hardly remembers how it was to sleep through the night without being afraid someone might kill her in her bed.

In the moment, as she gazes across the table at her unexpected partner in crime, a pang shoots through her heart.

She wants a chance at another life. She longs for it so deeply, so intensely, she almost can't take it. Even if they manage to escape the war, though, it'll still be bittersweet. Because she'll have shackled herself to the man across from her—the man who should still be her enemy if not for a common cause.

Will probably be her enemy again, once there's nothing left to unite them.

"Normal sounds overrated," she says at last, offering a wry smile as a peace offering.

Even if she has to spend the rest of her life with someone who makes her miserable, if she knows her friends have a chance at happiness, at peace and wholeness and a life without these chains that bind them, it'll be worth it.

Hermione would do that for the people who have given her everything.

"So when are we getting married?" she asks, idly moving the silverware aside to eat her meal, though she suddenly has little appetite.

Malfoy makes a face and shrugs. "Tomorrow night work for you?"

It's the least romantic proposition she's ever heard, and the marriage itself will be banal and clinical—unremarkable. She can hardly even think of it as a wedding. With only the two of them and a witness, and a host of magical spells to bind them together for life, she can't imagine anything less celebratory.

Malfoy hasn't mentioned if his parents wanted to come, not that she wants them there. He hasn't even suggested whether she might meet them at all, and she doesn't know how complicated the familial dynamic must be as he's claimed patronage of the Malfoy house.

But she still prefers the thought of their small ceremonial ritual to whatever ball the Dark Lord's decided to throw in honour of their marriage.

At least this is straightforward. And she can trust Malfoy—in this if nothing else.

"I'll clear my calendar," she says, unable to hold back a bit of a laugh. The only alternative is that she breaks down crying, and if she does that, she doesn't know whether she'll ever stop.

A smirk pulls at his mouth and a hint of warmth gleams in the grey of his eyes. "What an honour."

"Promise me we're doing this," she says, a sudden severity clutching at her heart as she draws a fortifying breath. "Promise me, Malfoy, that we're going to put an end to this chaos once and for all, if it's the last thing we do."

He sobers in an instant but doesn't look away. "If it's the only thing you and I do together, Granger. I vow it on my magic—we're doing this."

The conviction behind his words is enough for her to force a nod, to stay the nerves that threaten to rise.

She's memorised the rite, knows everything she needs to do to prepare, and now the anticipation is eating her raw. All her life, Hermione has found action to be the cure to most of her fears—and she's been sitting idle long enough.

"Tomorrow night, then," she says quietly, and feels a gentle shimmer of magic hover in the air between them.

Chapter End Notes

Hi friendos, thank you as always for reading and for all of your wonderful comments on the last chapter! A bit of a slower one, but I hope you enjoyed all the same. Lots of excitement on the horizon!

So much love to my alpha, kyonomiko, and my beta, sweetestsorrows, for working through this fic with me. If you haven't had a chance to check out some of their stories, please do at some point! They're both wonderful writers.

Chapter 19

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

In all of his brief and infrequent imaginings about how he might one day marry, this isn't what Draco ever envisioned for his life. One element holds true, however: that his marriage will be one of mutual benefit and not one of enduring love.

It's come down to this—a means to end a war that's ravaged and stolen too many years of his life and besieged all he once hoped for himself. Tonight, he will initiate a plan to undo the man who has been the cause of all of it.

He can't say he cares for the idea of a wedding, and the fact that Granger doesn't want a large ceremony suits him just fine. Particularly in light of the sort of ceremony this will be.

Draco doesn't want more people privy to the truth of their bonding than necessary.

Hell, he hasn't even told his own parents. Not that they would be able to stop him, as the appointed head of the Malfoy house.

Even so, the day is momentous in its own right, and he feels the significance swell within him as he rises and prepares for the day. He takes his time in showering and shaving, lays out his dress robes for the ritual which will take place late at night.

It isn't a conventional wedding in any way most people would recognise as such. Too many years have passed since marriage rites like the ones they will enact have been kept in favour. Most people don't require the additional powers such a rite would bestow. Not in exchange for the eternity they demand.

Tying himself to Granger for the rest of his life is a daunting thought—one he's willing to stomach and absorb as not only a responsibility but a right.

If it means he can bury a spell in his master's chest at long last, after years of toiling and debasing himself at the man's side, Draco thinks he might do just about anything.

He thinks, not for the first time, about their interlude a couple days prior behind the tapestry. Of the way she felt beneath his hands; the willingness with which she fell into their effort at deception.

Merlin, he can still hear her breathy moans.

His heart had raced with equal measures of desire and discontent, when the last thing he needs right now is a distraction. But he couldn't help it.

He lost himself in the moment, giving in to the feel of her skin beneath his lips, the press of her curves against his chest. It went so much further than he thought it would, but even now, he can't dredge forth a shred of shame or regret.

Not when he could tell she lost some part of herself in him, too.

And maybe all of this won't be quite so bad after all.

When he emerges into the sitting room they share in the late morning, he finds Granger already perched on the sofa near the window with tea and toast, a large book in her lap. "Good morning," she says, her voice idle and soft, and he wonders whether she's nervous.

He wonders, though he can't imagine, what she's thinking of the day ahead of them.

Whether she's experiencing doubts—especially in the way he dredged them forth on her behalf a couple of nights prior. He wonders whether she'll try and flee before the rite can be set into stone.

"Morning," Draco returns, belated in his distraction, and helps himself to a cup of tea as well.

A wry bit of humour tugs at Granger's lips. "Bad luck to see the bride the day of and all that."

Draco blinks at her. "Don't tell me you believe in—you know what, never mind. Maybe a bit of bad luck will only serve to make our circumstances better."

She laughs at that, surprising him, and he seats himself in the armchair. She doesn't look like a woman about to bolt from cold feet, but stranger things have happened.

"I'm aware, of course," she adds, tucking her feet beneath herself, "that this isn't a conventional wedding."

"Far from it."

"Right." She takes a sip of her tea, her eyes flitting towards him. "There's a part of me that's ready to move on... with the plan."

If they're to be sharing confessions with one another, he supposes there are worse times. "So am I," he offers, gazing out towards the grounds, basking in the warm sunshine overhead. If only the whole manor itself weren't encapsulated by the gloom of too much dark magic, the place might still be beautiful. It used to be, once. "And after tonight, we will."

The statement hits him more heavily than he expects, a surge of something akin to courage swelling in his chest. At long last, he'll take action.

He tenses before she can respond, the skin of his forearm heating white-hot with a summons.

Tracking his focus, Granger's eyes slide to where his Dark Mark lies concealed beneath his sleeve, as though she can read the slightest of his movements.

"I have to go," he clips, rising to his feet and slipping into his room to collect his robes and mask. Foreboding rises within him that this isn't any casual summoning—he can feel it in the heat the pulses through his veins even now. "My master requires something."

Granger cocks an unimpressed brow. "You're to be married tonight."

"I know," he returns, his fingers fumbling with the hood. "And he knows that, too."

"So why summon you?"

Draco turns to meet her gaze, the scepticism on her face. "Because he can." And because he knows that, no matter what he does, Draco will have no choice but to obey. Draco's suddenly aware of his master's intent, and his insides curdle. "Because he can make me do anything he wants—and this is a reminder."

He watches the blood drain from her face, as if she understands exactly what he means. Voldemort covets nothing more than power, even power over his highest ranked lieutenant. Especially that.

In light of Draco's defiance of his wishes to have a grand wedding, the Dark Lord has simply decided to exercise that power in a different way. He's glad he didn't have breakfast, because something tells him that the task he's to deal with today will be nothing less than punishment.

"Merlin forbid I exercise any free will," he mutters, and when Granger doesn't flinch, it's a sort of solidarity he both respects and appreciates.

"I'll see you when you're back," she murmurs.

He grinds his jaw, already dreading what lies before him. "Theo will be by this afternoon to finalise the preparations." He hesitates, releasing a breath. "I might be a while."

Granger only nods, opening her mouth as though she might say something, but she remains silent.

Digging deep within—and reminding himself that he's finally taking steps to act against this tyranny—he Apparates directly to his master's feet.

Every time Hermione finds herself alone in Malfoy's quarters, she grows increasingly on edge. Especially in light of the impending ritual, she finds herself vacillating between nerves and doubts.

She paces the sitting room. Drifts through the first few pages of a handful of different books from his shelf. Clears a space in one corner of the room for a brief magical training routine.

The last thing she needs is for her time in Malfoy Manor to dull her instincts.

At last, she settles back into the sofa, mentally preparing herself for the night to come. For the results of this decision to haunt the rest of her days.

Although she knows to expect Nott, Hermione still jolts at a sharp rap on the door. She hasn't left Malfoy's quarters since they were summoned before the Dark Lord—and if she's honest, she hasn't had any real interest in exploring the Manor, whether with or without her to-be-husband. Still, being cooped up in his rooms isn't exactly what she had in mind when she agreed to come here with him.

Malfoy didn't return after the summons from the Dark Lord in the mid-morning, and she isn't certain when to expect him back, but she still has to go through the final preparations with Nott for the ceremony that night.

She releases the wards Malfoy placed on the door and swings the door open—and freezes.

It isn't Nott.

Lucius Malfoy stands on the threshold, haughty and intimidating, and she tries to remember the last time she saw the man.

Malfoy hasn't mentioned his father, and she briefly wonders at his involvement in the Death Eaters. He's clad in embellished robes though his long blond hair is lank and dull, and her upper lip reaches towards a sneer on instinct before she schools her expression.

And then, a shiver of unease shoots through her.

"Yes?" she asks, unwilling to indulge the man before her—and something tells her this isn't a visit for tea.

Lucius eyes her with cold disdain, cocking one pale brow; he leans on his cane, a little heavier than if it were for purely aesthetic purposes. "I'm looking for my son," he drawls, every word crisp and somehow derogatory.

It makes her wonder at the nature of Malfoy's summons, when she thought Malfoy Senior was in the inner circle as well.

"He isn't in."

She owes this man nothing, much less cordiality, and as far as she's concerned, the sooner he leaves the better.

Pursing his lips, Lucius roves the room behind him with a cold stare, as though he doubts her words. "Very well then." He fixes her with another hard stare, and if he could burn her with his eyes she would be a pile of ash on the floor. "I hear you are to wed my son."

"That's right." Despite the casual clothes she wears, Hermione lifts her chin, unwilling to allow this man to belittle her.

And she isn't giving him anything more than necessary.

"Perhaps you would join me for a walk." The look on his face suggests he wants nothing less than a pleasant walk of the grounds, and Hermione thins her lips.

"I'm busy," she announces, making to close the door in his face.

The end of his cane stops the door before she can close it halfway, and his eyes narrow. "It wasn't a suggestion."

Once upon a time, a power-hungry bigot like Lucius Malfoy might have intimidated her. But she hasn't fought in a war for as long as she has to give up her ground. She's more likely to trust the man's son, who has informed her in no uncertain terms that there are spells on the manor that will seek to kill her unexpectedly.

"If you have something to say to me," she grinds out in a low tone, "you'd best say it here and now."

Anger flits briefly across Lucius' face, but he only huffs a breath and drawls, "Then I will inform you that I do not believe your intentions in marrying my son. You may have fooled the ignorant boy, but I promise you, Miss Granger, that if you do anything to endanger my son or bring trouble to this family, it will be my personal honour to remove you from the scenario."

Her eyes tighten at the implied threat.

Not for years has she thought of Draco Malfoy as a boy—and she knows well enough he isn't ignorant.

"It sounds to me, Mister Malfoy, as though you aren't aware of anything," she says quietly, keeping her face stony. "And that the ignorant one here is you."

Another ugly sneer draws across the man's face, skimming her as though she's less than dirt. "I don't know what sort of game you think you're trying to pull," he says, "but I believe you'll sorely regret it once my son catches on."

So many things hang on the tip of her tongue—rude, scathing remarks, painful curses—but she simply lifts her chin.

"Draco is as aware of the situation between us as I am," she offers, keeping her voice steady, "and that is that we are to be wed. With or without your approval."

She doesn't know how much Lucius knows about the matter, and she isn't going to be the one to inform him of anything if his own son hasn't. Of all the involved parties, she trusts Draco Malfoy the most, even though she doesn't fully understand all the cards at play here.

Malfoy has always had plans of his own, and she knows better than to ask. The plans that involve her are the only ones with which she can concern herself at the moment. And once they're bound to the marital rites, he won't be able to lift his wand against her.

Anything else, she'll deal with later.

When Lucius doesn't walk away, hatred burning in his icy eyes, she reaches for the door. "If you have further issues with the matter, you'll need to take them up with your son. He's the one who asked me to marry him."

It's a simple truth that encompasses so many deeply convoluted layers, but a truth nonetheless.

"Fine," Lucius snaps, grinding his jaw. "I will."

Without allowing the man room to say anything more, she closes the door in his face. It's only after she hears him walk away, her back pressed to the door, that she realises her hands are shaking.

When another knock sounds on the door an hour later, Hermione isn't certain she can handle another surprise visitor.

Gritting her teeth, she releases the wards and swings the door open.

"Where's Draco?" Nott asks.

He peers through the doorway, something stiff in his stance, and alarm bells flare in the back of her mind at the idea that Nott wasn't sent out with him.

She knows Malfoy still doesn't trust Nott—a part of her suspects he may never again after Nott's involvement with the resistance—but Hermione can't hold his actions against him in the same way. In fact, she's more inclined to trust the man than before. Even though she knows Malfoy hasn't shared the details of their plan with him.

She can't fault any of it.

"He was summoned," she murmurs, folding her arms as she steps back to allow him entrance. "Hours ago already."

The expression that crosses Nott's face is grim. "Inner circle business, then."

Hermione frowns, warding the door, still rattled by Luicus Malfoy's impromptu appearance—and his threats.

"Is that bad?"

"It isn't good."

Nott helps himself to a crystal tumbler from the decanter on the side board, and settles into an armchair, folding one ankle over his knee as though he hasn't a care in the world. She knows better—she recognises it already as one of the ways in which he copes.

In the back of her mind, she recalls the look on Malfoy's face when he'd received the summons that morning, his cold, sneering response.

"Will he be back for the ritual?" she asks, gnawing her lower lip with consternation. "Surely the Dark Lord knows it's tonight, and—"

"And that's exactly why he's done it," Nott drawls in return, taking a generous sip of his whisky. "The Dark Lord hates defiance—even from someone he views as loyal and close as Draco. Your wedding plans were already made in advance, and I can't imagine he was happy to learn of that. If anything... I imagine Draco isn't having a good time right now."

Hermione grinds her teeth, stemming the anger that threatens to swell within her on his behalf. "But why? Why punish his most loyal?"

Nott snorts, incredulous, and lifts his brows. "You're joking, right? I can't imagine any of us gets it worse than Draco does." Her jaw drops, but before she can question further, Nott shakes his head and leans forward in his seat. "Look at it this way—the rest of us can blend in to a certain extent. As his right hand, the Dark Lord expects everything from Draco. If a mission goes wrong, if a captive doesn't give up information, if a prominent Death Eater takes an Avada. Who do you think fields the heat?"

The words embed an icy cold fury in the pit of her stomach.

It's the opposite of what she expected—that Malfoy lives a life of untouchable luxury at his master's side. That he's in control and allowed free reign; it's certainly what he's implied.

"But he can make his own decisions," she returns, desperate to find some sort of reason in the chaos. "He's in charge of the Death Eater raids."

"Sure," Nott says with a shrug. "More so than the rest of us. But he takes responsibility for them, too. He decided he was going to marry you rather than kill you—then he decided he was going to have a small ceremony with only a single witness. If you think the Dark Lord's upcoming ball is a celebration, you're mistaken."

She frowns, the words sinking in but refusing to make sense. All at once, the hot rage that simmers below the surface of Malfoy's cool countenance makes sense. So much more sense.

"I wouldn't be surprised if he snaps," Nott says, lowering his voice as though suddenly realising someone could be listening in. "If he decides he's fed up with it all."

She knows it isn't possible in this room—that as patriarch of the manor, Malfoy's wards supersede anything else. But the words are just treasonous enough that a shudder darts along her spine.

And she isn't going to admit how close Nott truly is. That her presence there—and the reason they've both decided to go ahead with matters—is for that very reason. If Malfoy doesn't trust Nott with their plans, it certainly isn't her place to expose them. The closer she keeps their efforts to the chest, the better.

"I wouldn't either," she says quietly, and against her better judgement, pours herself a finger of whisky as well. She takes a swig, feeling the hot sting as the liquor sluices down her throat.

"And obviously," Nott presses on softly, "I know better than to dig into this." He gestures towards her presence. "I know you aren't here because you've fallen for Draco's charms and decided to forsake the resistance for some ill-contrived infatuation. I think most of the other Death Eaters believe you're potioned or Imperiused."

It's as much as she's suspected, and for the best. It's more believable that way, at any rate.

Nott shrugs again, as though this conversation doesn't have her heart racing. "I'm just hoping the two of you are relentless enough that something might finally change at last. But I'm keeping my nose out of it."

"For the best," she returns, relieved by his easy acceptance. But he isn't a man who's played both sides for as long as he has without picking up a few clues about survival. Finishing her measure of whisky, she adds, "I wonder if Malfoy is going to be back tonight at all."

Briefly, she debates telling Nott about Lucius, but decides better of it. She'll speak to Malfoy about it once he's back.

Nott offers a grim look. "Don't hold your breath."

When the crack of Apparition finally sounds, hours later, Hermione's concern gives way to something akin to relief—something she feels as a coil releasing in the pit of her stomach. Just as quickly, irritation flares within her. The sky is already dark through the windows.

But one look at Malfoy's face douses the simmer of annoyance as quickly as it arrived, and she only stares at him. For a moment, she thinks it must be raining, because his black Death Eater robes are damp.

Then cold realisation dawns, a harsh, shuddering breath catching in her throat. It isn't rain; it's blood. He is covered in blood.

"Malfoy," Hermione says, wrapping her arms across herself as she observes him. "Where did you go?"

He doesn't answer, wrenching the sodden robes from his form; he balls the robes up and drops them, but with a wave of his hand, the fabric vanishes before it touches the ground. It's an impressive bit of magic, and she might dwell on it if not for the circumstances.

Flecks of blood spot the collar of his shirt underneath, and he aggressively tugs loose the top few buttons even as he makes for his private quarters.

"Malfoy," she says again.

He only grinds his jaw, clenching his teeth together so tightly they might simply shatter, and she cringes at the thought. His grey eyes are dull, deadened, and she recognises the look all too well.

Cold spreads from the centre of her being outwards into her extremities, and a shiver darts through her.

None of this has been what she ever envisioned for her wedding, but this is even farther from it. For her betrothed to show up, irate and soaked in blood—it's a cruel nightmare.

"Why did he send you out?" she asks, some part of her begging, imploring him to speak. To rant, to vent his frustrations, anything other than the lifeless pit she sees in his eyes.

But still, he doesn't answer. Throws his mask onto the desk, a hint of a tremble in his fingers, and then swings open the door into his room. If he leaves, if he vanishes now…

She doesn't know what to do or say, whether there is even anything to do or say. She longs to know whose blood he wears; whose life she needs to mourn.

Deep, ferocious anger boils within her—at the war for taking so much from them. At the Dark Lord for sending him out on the night of their wedding, into a scenario where he's returned soaked in someone else's blood.

She hates every part of it, even as she despairs.

"Draco," she says, her voice dropped low and tinged with a pain that sounds raw and obvious to her own ears. Hearing herself say his given name feels like crossing a line.

At that, he halts on the threshold, planting one hand to either side of the frame, but doesn't look back. "What."

She forces a thick swallow, her throat suddenly dry, and says, "Are you alright?"

"Fine." The word is short, clipped, a crisp, bitter syllable. It isn't vulnerability, what she sees in him, but something akin. Something she can't name, but she understands it well enough.

He's fine because he doesn't have another option.

His shoulders heave with an arduous intake of breath, and Hermione stares at him for a long moment before she realises she's stopped breathing. Tension radiates from him, and she wonders whether he's going to speak.

She doesn't know what to say. Suspects nothing she does say will be of any use.

And she doesn't dare ask whether they're still to marry. The thought of bringing up his father's impromptu visit now feels laughable.

Malfoy's gaze slides towards hers, only for a moment, but her chest tightens at what she finds. It's cold and lost and lonely, filled with rage and longing and more than she can even decipher. But he squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head once, sharply, then vanishes through the door.

It closes behind him with a quiet snick.

For a long moment, Hermione remains standing in the sitting room, her heart clamouring in her throat as she stares at his closed door. They aren't friends; they're scarcely acquaintances, and she can't say she truly knows him, but they're in this together. They're on each other's side, and that's all she can say about any of it anymore.

She's not resistance, and she doesn't believe he's a Death Eater.

If he was once, he isn't truly anymore.

But he has no choice but to act a pawn in these games—games bigger than either of them. The games he's forced to play, just as surely as she's been forced into these, now, with him.

A tremble rises in her, discomfort pooling in her stomach and, cursing herself, she reaches for the door handle. At once, her hand is repelled with a slight sting, and she frowns at the ward. It would take some time but she could dismantle it—if she had the courage.

But she detects something else in the magic—a silencing spell.

Releasing a long, grim exhale, Hermione retreats to her own quarters. If nothing else, she can offer him time and space alone.

And when the moment comes, she'll gladly stand by as he puts the master that's abused him for so long in the ground.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading, everyone. I hope you still enjoyed the chapter even though we didn't get the ceremony. Next time, I promise xo

I've had a few comments about the posting schedule on this fic, and at this time, I don't intend to switch from Tuesday/weekly updates. I understand that some people might prefer quicker updates, but a lot of time and effort has gone into this story, and other people also assist in cleaning up each chapter to what I hope is a high level. Hopefully you can understand that I have a job and a life outside of fandom <3 Have a great week, everyone.

Thanks to my lovely team, kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows, for all of their help and support.

Chapter 20

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Some time later, Malfoy knocks on the door to her quarters, and when she opens the door, she finds him clad in dark robes. His face is stoic, any hint of the vulnerability she might have seen from him when he returned from his mission vanished entirely.

His pale hair is a little messy, still damp from the shower he must have taken to cleanse himself of the blood, of his actions. Hermione wonders whether it helps; if any amount of scrubbing is adequate.

She doesn't truly know Malfoy, but she's coming to understand him in a way she never imagined.

"Are you ready?" he asks, his stony grey eyes burning through her.

The rage is poorly concealed, but she only notices it now because she knows to look. He's wrapped himself in it, drawn it from within like poison from a wound, and now the walls he's constructed around him are impenetrable.

"Ready," she muses softly, hesitant as she holds his stare. "If you still want to—"

"We made plans."

As though he didn't arrive back from a mission, his Death Eater robes soaked through with someone else's blood, more haunted than she's ever seen him.

Than she ever imagined seeing him.

The steely determination speaks volumes more than anything else, and she simply nods. "Alright."

Everything's already been prepared, and she peers out into the sitting room as Malfoy retreats a step back from her room. "I've already summoned Theo."

He's coldly robotic, his words dry and without intonation, and she wonders whether whatever he was forced to do tonight only further solidified his resolve.

"Let me get my robes," she says softly, and Malfoy's gaze snags on hers for a moment.

"Good," he says, his voice lowering. Then he hesitates. "We could do it tomorrow, if you prefer."

But she can see it in him; the raw, anxious energy that he can't deal with alone. Something else, a shade off of desperation, and she knows it all too well. She's familiar with the drive that pushes her into action when she can't bear to dwell on her thoughts any longer.

"Tonight," she only replies, catching the relief in his eye. "Give me ten minutes."

There isn't anything soft or romantic about the bonds they're to undertake. For as much as the result will be a marriage, it's no wedding. It's cold and methodical, a permanent joining of their magic, and Hermione's as prepared as she imagines she can be with only limited information about how this will all play out.

Because for all of their preparation, the bonds are old. The literature is vague, faded words on a yellowed page. An ominous stain marks the page where they're written.

But to end the war—to save the friends she still has—Hermione will do this. Put herself at risk.

Bind herself to her enemy.

They meet Nott on the edge of a copse of trees deep within the grounds of Malfoy Manor. It's past midnight, and a nearly full moon hangs high in the sky, wispy bits of cloud drifting by and casting deep shadows on the ground.

A shiver trawls the length of her spine.

Malfoy hasn't spoken since they left the manor, as though steeling himself for what's to come. Hermione wonders whether she ought to be more afraid. Whether her doubts should run deeper than they do. But she's been embroiled in all of this for so long that her own life no longer feels as important as the good of the whole.

He turns to face her, eyes chips of ice amidst the handsome lines of his face, and at last, something softens in him. Not enough for it to be overt, but something that she's come to recognise within him eases.

"You can still back out." The words are crisp and stiff, and his gaze quickly darts to Nott, who stands far enough away that he can't overhear. Hermione appreciates it—for as much as Nott's a turncoat for the resistance, she doesn't know whether they can truly trust him with any of this.

And despite his terse words, Hermione understands Malfoy. That even though he wants this more than anything, he doesn't want to force her to bind herself to him.

She lifts her chin. "I'm not going to."

His expression doesn't shift. "Okay." He nods once, a breath huffing from his nostrils. "Good."

A night breeze whistles past, tearing through the thin fabric of the ceremonial robes she's donned for the occasion. Unadorned and pale, they hang from her as a simple gown. But it's the magic of the bonds that matters, and the rest of it is all supplemental.

The thought briefly flickers through her that she's about to bind herself to Draco Malfoy, and that this is the last time she'll truly be herself. By herself.

Because until one of them perishes, they'll remain bound. And even if he were to die, a part of her would go with him. She will never be the same as she is right now. The thought is almost enough for her to falter.

And if nothing else, she isn't in this alone.

Her companion might be a psychopath, but he will be trapped in this situation as much as her. He needs her to end the war, and she needs the war to end.

Period.

It's enough of a reason for her to do anything.

The wind picks up again, blowing a swath of curls across her face as she turns from Malfoy to approach Nott, who eyes the pair of them warily. He holds the large tome between tense knuckles, and when Malfoy only nods, Nott ducks his chin into a deep bow.

He opens the book, marked at the correct page with a black satin ribbon.

There are no promises, no sweeping declarations of intent. Only a series of Latin phrases and vows to seal them to one another, and a blood oath. Hermione doesn't know what comes after that aside from the joining of their magic. From the uncertainty in Malfoy's stare, she suspects she doesn't want to know.

All she knows is that the bonds don't require consummation to link their magic irrevocably.

With a wave of his wand, Nott transforms a stick from the ground into a lectern, and places the book atop. A harsh wind ripples through, blowing the pages, but they remain firm. A sheen of silver emanates from the page, brightening as he begins to read.

The words are all in Latin, but Hermione had little else to do in her quarters but to memorise the bonds. It's utilitarian and yet arcane, a vow of joining and interlocking, two souls melding into one.

It might be romantic if she didn't know the true intent. If it weren't such a corruption of the magic that lies natural within each of them. To strengthen the bonded pair, to imbue power and instil fear.

Soulmates exist, or so she's heard, but this is by choice and not chance. To join her magic to Malfoy's by force, ancient magical ritual or not, is against the natural order.

The wind picks up with a howl. For the first time, a frisson of fear darts along her spine.

Drawn back to the moment when Nott's gaze lands on her, Hermione lifts her chin and speaks the Latin she's practised. I bind myself to this.

Malfoy echoes the sentiment, the Latin sliding cool and natural from his tongue. As though fluent in the language and its intonations. Perhaps he is—there's more about the man she doesn't know than the short list of things she does.

When silence falls, a shimmer of silver magic hovers between them, a cold suggestion of brightness. She can feel the bonds take hold, a tightness seizing at her chest, at the heart of her where her magic lives.

Hermione struggles to draw her next breath, a true fluttering of fear grappling at her.

When Nott hesitates, concern drawing at his brow, she forces a nod. "Carry on," she whispers, the words stilted and low.

Malfoy's hand suddenly wraps around hers, his grip tight and oddly reassuring, and the surprise of it causes her to jolt. But without a word, she clasps his fingers in her own, drawing strength from the only source she has. She can only imagine he feels it as well, the iron grasp coiling around their magic like a snake set to consume its prey.

The rest is another series of Latin incantations that slip from Nott's tongue with ease, quicker and louder as the magic growls and swirls around them.

But it isn't a celebration; it's a condemnation.

Tears slide from her eyes and down her cheeks unbidden, and when she swipes them away with her free hand, her fingers come away black.

It's dark magic. She knew as much from the first. And still she agreed to it, agreed to the possibility that together, they could put an end to this. Stowing her fear, she attempts to blink back the moisture.

The wind whistles, howling around them, as Nott falls silent. The last words of the spell hover, dissipating into the air, into the earth, into the magical core that drives her. The grip only tightens, and she feels herself drawn to Malfoy's magic.

Her own magic is wrenched to the surface, so near and yet so unfamiliar, and she watches the black shimmers dance in the air between them.

From a holster at his waist, Malfoy draws a dagger, ancient and wicked sharp. Its hilt is embedded with runes, and she knows it's an artefact of the Black line, meant to invoke the bonds.

Malfoy releases her hand at last, and she clenches it into a fist. With only the briefest of hesitations wherein his gaze locks on hers, he draws the point of the dagger along his palm. Hermione watches as a line of red spreads along the centre of his palm, absorbed despite herself in the sparkle of black and silver that emerges with his blood.

In a deft movement, he flips the blade in his uninjured hand and holds the handle towards her.

Blowing out a sharp breath, Hermione takes the blade. This is where she might falter, where an idealistic version of herself that once lived might hesitate and search for another way. But that part of her is dead, lost long ago to the ravages of war. Her hand doesn't shake when she draws the blade, still wet with his blood, across her own palm.

Instantly, her blood seeps free, glistening with the same magic that saturates his.

Malfoy looks less certain of himself than she's ever seen him, but he only takes her bleeding palm into his other hand, face up. Clenching his jaw into a hard line, he brings their bleeding palms together in a concise, assertive motion.

All at once, the magic riots, a storm of chaos and might around them. Nott grimaces and steps back, closing the grimoire and holding it protectively to his chest.

The inky black tears break from her eyes again, and she can see the darkness around Malfoy's pale lashes as well. She couldn't let go of him if she tried, her palm melding to his as the magic grips them both in its power.

She weakens, feeling the insistent pull of the bonds, and her grip on Malfoy's hand goes slack as her eyelids flutter. Then all at once the magic ceases, the wind drops into only a whisper, and Hermione grows aware of her own laboured breathing. Malfoy clings to her hand, and she isn't certain whether it's still the magic at play or some ingrained form of comfort he thinks he should offer.

Her head spins, her chest so tight that each breath is shallow and ragged, like she can't find enough oxygen to fill her lungs.

The dagger falls from her grasp, the sharpened and bloody point landing crooked in the dirt beneath her. For a moment, her eyes linger on the sight until her vision begins to swim.

Pain wrenches through her, sudden and all-encompassing, and she grinds her teeth on a scream that threatens to burst forth. She feels as though her blood is boiling in her veins, agony searing through every part of her. It's enough to knock her out, and she squeezes Malfoy's hand in her own with the last of her strength.

Her knees falter, gasping breaths wrenched from ragged lungs, and she catches Malfoy's gaze as she relents to the fear within her. The last thing she knows is a knit of concern between his brows before everything goes black.

Draco's eyelids feel heavy and stiff when he tries to blink them open, like they've sealed over in his sleep. A dull throb pounds just beneath his temple, like he's been on a three day potions bender, and a low groan falls from his throat at the pale light from the early morning sun outside.

He forces his eyes open despite the pain raging through his head, exhaustion thick within every muscle. He hasn't felt so physically obliterated in months, since the last time the Dark Lord was truly angry at him.

Piece by piece, the night before returns to him, but it's all a little blurry and vague.

They completed the bond. Despite the rest of it, a thrill of triumph races through him.

He's still clad in his dark robes, sprawled out atop his covers as though hastily thrown there. He's certain he has Theo to thank for his current state of affairs, but even as the thought trawls through his mind, he's glad of it. He knows he didn't make it back to his quarters on his own, and if Theo had left them outside it would have raised too many questions that could unravel all of his carefully laid plans.

He remembers dark magic—darker than he'd even realised—and the compression of it as it swaddled his own magical core.

"Damnit," he hisses to himself, remembering the way Granger passed out upon completion of the bond. Mustering as much strength as he can, Draco hauls himself to his feet, cursing all the while, and drags himself to the door of his room. The walk to Granger's room feels insurmountable, but he has to ensure she's returned safely as well.

The last thing he needs is to finally put the cogs in motion only for the bonds to fail.

Even as the thought crosses his mind, Draco halts. He can feel something just beyond the edge of his consciousness. Like a connection.

Instinctively, he knows it's the lineage bonds. He can sense Granger's presence, just vaguely and only when he focuses on it, but some part of himself can tell she's alright.

It strikes him belatedly at that moment, that he's now married. It might be comical if it weren't so dire. That by invoking the House of Black marital rites, he took Hermione Granger as his wife.

He supposes he should give her a ring.

If for no reason other than to keep up appearances. A part of him is relieved that no one but Theo bore witness, when it certainly would have been the most unconventional wedding anyone would know in living memory. Although the bonds were often utilised in the past, they've long been out of favour.

It's the only reason he's been willing to take the chance.

Dragging himself to the sitting room that adjoins their quarters, Draco leans on the frame and draws in several wracking breaths. The bond has drained his magic and his strength, twisting it into something different. Something beyond his reckoning. Pressing his eyes shut, he grits his teeth on the sharp jolt of pain that lances through him, once more reminding him of how viciously the bonds turned on them the night before.

He forces himself to cross the sitting room and raps on Granger's door, leaning against the wall while he waits for a response. He inspects the thin line of torn tissue that bisects his palm.

After several moments of silence, he knocks again. Still nothing.

Draco curses under his breath, gritting his teeth as another rush of pain chases through him. Some sort of aftershock from the magic of the spell—and he hopes against everything the Dark Lord doesn't summon him before he can recover.

Darkly, he recalls the mission his master sent him to deal with the night before.

He can deal with a little pain now, if it means he can be the one to put Voldemort into his grave at long last.

When Granger still doesn't respond, he reaches for the knob, squinting his eyes in case she's indecent, and waves his hand to release the wards on the door. He swings it open and drags himself into her room.

Granger lies still atop her bed, a mass of pale robes and wild curls. The side of her face is buried in her pillow, her body curled in on itself after the ravages she faced the night before. Draco frowns, approaching the bed.

For so long, he considered her his enemy—the one he'd been tasked to dispose of before all others. Now, seeing her like this, she looks oddly peaceful. The lines of her face are soft, the tension that characterises her waking hours gone but for the small upwards tilt of her brows. Her lips tug into a gentle frown, her chest lifting with each quiet breath. The skin beneath her eyes is dark from the blackened tears that dried in tracks down her cheeks.

Her fingers curl tightly in the blankets, but if she's suffered nightmares they've gone silent now.

Draco releases a sigh, willing himself to leave the room. She's alive and safe and indoors, and with any luck they'll both feel restored later in the day. He isn't certain about the specifics, but every indication suggests the bond was successful.

His feet hold firm on the floor when he tries to retreat. The small recognition of her that now hovers in the back of his mind urges him forward, closer to her rather than further away. He's exhausted enough that he doesn't want to relent, and Draco perches on the edge of the bed.

His eyelids flutter with fatigue, pushing him back into rest. There's no immediate danger, and he ought to return to his own room.

But Granger's eyes slide open to land instinctively on him, as though some part of her was aware of his presence even in sleep, and though she sucks in a small breath, she offers no other indication to her surprise.

"I just wanted to be sure you made it back," Draco murmurs, his voice coming out hoarse.

She remains silent, blinking at him. Like the events of the night before have only just hit her. "I did," she whispers. "I must have—"

"Theo brought us back."

"Right." Squeezing her eyes shut, Granger presses her fingertips gingerly to her temple. "Merlin."

Draco grimaces, summoning the carafe from the windowsill, and pours two glasses. "Yeah. It's rough."

She accepts the glass, hesitation in her eyes and a tremble in her hand. But she draws a deep gulp, and Draco sips from his own glass in the silence that follows.

"It's done, then," Granger says at last, fumbling with her glass as she reaches to rest it on the nightstand.

He nods, casting a brief glance around her room. He hasn't been here since she moved in, and despite some minor changes, she's left the decor mostly as it was. "It's done."

Granger yawns widely, her eyes sliding shut as she settles back into the bedding. With some effort, she pulls the blanket out from beneath herself, and eyes him for a moment.

Then she holds out one corner of the blanket, like she expects him to take it. Like she's offering it to him.

Even though they're technically married now, there's nothing romantic about the arrangement, and he only stares blankly at her through heavy lids.

"You look tired," she says, the only thing he receives by way of explanation, and she lets the blanket drop.

And maybe it's the subtle pressure that drove him to find her. Maybe she feels it, too. Maybe it's that they've bound themselves to one another, irreversibly and unequivocally. But Draco stretches out next to her, careful to keep plenty of space between them on the large bed. He can't deny that he can hardly keep his eyes open, every fibre of him raging against being awake and active.

He doesn't take the proffered blanket, but rolls to face her. Just for a moment, her eyes slide back open to meet his; he can see the exhaustion and the despair she feels. So many things she keeps from him most of the time, laid bare in her gaze.

Despite himself, he reaches for her hand. A thin scar already slashes her palm where they committed the bonds. And he drifts to sleep at the feel of her smaller fingers in his.

Her mind is wrought with discordant dreams, and Hermione finally wrenches herself into consciousness. A dull throb hovers in her head but it's decreased since the early morning.

When her groggy eyes slip sideways, she finds the strangest of the dreams wasn't a dream at all. Malfoy lies in her bed, fast asleep, her hand clasped in his iron grip. Vaguely, she recalls her own silent offer for him to stay, but never in a million years would she have thought he would. Unless he was as discombobulated as she was when she saw him that morning, and he'd been unable to dredge up the strength to retreat to his own room.

The glass of water on her nightstand is tepid, but she takes a sip anyway. That was his doing, too.

Perhaps the spell from the night before simply turned the world on its axis instead. But even as she has the thought, she finds a stirring in the back of her mind that feels like Malfoy's magic. She recognises it as an after-effect of the bond, as much as it terrifies her to share any internal linkage with the man.

It's unavoidable now, and she knew what she was signing up for from the start.

Malfoy stirs, the sheets ruffling beneath him, but when his eyes slide open, they lock right on hers. His fingers tense but he doesn't release her hand, and with half of his face buried in the pillow, he looks less a murderous lieutenant of the Death Eaters and more a clean-cut young man.

The bed is more than large enough to keep space between them, but the moment feels both intimate and insular. He drags his free hand down his face, scrubbing at his eyes, and says, "How are you feeling?"

"Better," she returns. "You?"

"Functional." He stares down at their clasped hands, as if uncertain what to make of them.

"I'm surprised you fell asleep here," she muses, keeping her tone as conversational as possible. There isn't any pretence between them, and she knows he doesn't like her beyond a means to an end.

He snickers, cold and humourless, then extracts his hand from hers. "I was so out of it I didn't need much convincing."

And just like that, the spell breaks. Hermione rolls onto her back to face the ceiling. "All indications suggest the bond was complete, yes? I don't exactly remember the last moments."

"Yes." He nods once, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. "As far as I'm able to tell. But..." He reaches for his wand on the nightstand, and gestures towards her hand. Her eyes snag on the thin, partly healed cut drawn through her palm, but holds her hand out to him. He taps her palm with his wand, and they both watch as a thin shimmer of silvery-black magic coils around her fourth finger, twisting into an intricate vine, before darkening the skin like a tattoo.

"Oh," Hermione whispers, sitting up as well to closer observe. "It's beautiful."

Despite the dark magic of the spell and the way she still feels out of sorts from the ritual, the ring formed is stunning, and she resigns herself to the fact that it will likely remain. After several moments, Hermione locates her wand and follows suit, taking his larger hand into hers and tapping the fourth finger.

His band is thicker, a bit sturdier, but still a beautiful twist of black magic that settles beneath the surface of his skin.

Malfoy stares, silent, for several moments before releasing a sharp breath. "I guess that settles it, then."

Bonded. The word reverberates as a cruel echo in the back of her mind. To Draco Malfoy. The man who, until recently, wanted desperately to stop her heart.

The odd recognition seems to startle him as well, because for several minutes neither of them speak. Abruptly, he rises, dragging a hand through his pale hair and makes for the door. "I need a shower," he throws back towards her as an afterthought. Unease is plain on his face when his eyes skim her.

"You don't need to inform me of your whereabouts," Hermione says, tearing her focus back to the magical ring. "Just because we're bonded, I'm not going to turn into a clingy wife on you."

The effort at a grin he makes is uncomfortable, yet he hovers in the doorway a moment longer. "Maybe…" He purses his lips. "If you want, we can take a walk this afternoon."

Although the words startle her, she recognises the offer for what it is. When she first came to live here, she asked him to show her around. To get a grasp on the manor and the grounds, in order to understand her surroundings and learn how to better protect herself. But now the magic of the bonds will serve to protect her in ways her Muggle-born heritage would prove a vulnerability.

After days spent scarcely leaving their quarters, she longs for the chance to get out and stretch her legs.

She nods, awkward and stuttering. "I'd like that," she murmurs. Presses her lips into a thin smile. "Thanks."

The unspoken next steps hang between them. Now that the bond is complete, they're ready to advance to the next phase of the plan.

Without another word, Malfoy vanishes. Her heart races for long minutes after he's gone.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading, everyone. All of your wonderful comments make my day, and I hope you're enjoying reading this story as much as I am sharing it. <3

So much love to my alpha, kyonomiko, and beta, sweetestsorrows.

Chapter 21

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco raps on Granger's door as he shrugs on a thin coat. An unsettling thought darts through him that technically she's a Malfoy now too. The binding is a marriage in all the variables that matter—including the extensive well of power that they'll be able to build between them.

He's itching to begin.

The door swings open, and Granger steps through with all the class he might expect from the lady of a pureblood house. Gone is the grungry, wild-eyed assassin he's learned to recognise. Her attire is posh, curls smooth and orderly, though he privately prefers when she's a little more unkempt.

Lifting his chin, Draco offers an arm and Granger loops hers through his own as he guides her through the sitting room to the door beyond.

"I will let you know," he says under his breath, "when we are safe to speak freely."

She simply nods.

It's only their second excursion into the manor since she arrived, and Draco attempts to suppress a sudden recollection of what happened the last time they ventured out together. The way they'd been followed and subsequently forced to enact a convincing show.

Even now, his blood heats at the memory.

They make idle conversation as they walk—Draco knows better than to think people aren't watching—but it's little more than chatter. He names the portraits on the walls, directs her towards the various wings and amenities in the manor.

For her part, Granger's expression remains fixed with mild disinterest, though every so often he catches the glint of excitement buried within her. Or maybe it's a part of what he can feel from her now, when he really focuses.

"Down this corridor," he stops, offering her a cool but indulgent smile—as though she's his small pet and he wants to please her— "you'll find the manor's central library."

Her eyes track instantly along the corridor, tension seizing her shoulders only for a moment, before she nods. A demure smile curls her lips. "Might I see it? I should think I'd like to spend some time there."

"And you will."

The banal smile on her lips registers as fake as his own, because even if the Death Eaters aren't tracking them, the portraits are. And Draco doesn't know how many of them report to his master. He leads Granger down the hall, his boots clicking on the stone floor, and releases her arm as he reaches for the door.

Some part of him, deeply buried and immature, genuinely wants to see the look on her face. He remembers her intense love for books from their time at Hogwarts—and the school's library has nothing on his own. So he watches her face as he opens the door without preamble; his lips twitch at the quiet gasp she sucks in.

Folding his hands at his back, he follows her into the vast haven for the written word. Fixing his expression into something appropriately doting for his new wife—and menacing for anyone who might think to approach—he watches as she drifts between the stacks, trailing her fingers along the spines.

He walks up alongside her, grazing his fingers along her hip to catch her attention. He ducks in, lowering his voice. "You'll want to avoid going too far to my left."

Her eyes flit to his with comprehension, and she nods.

Then he allows a smirk to drag at his mouth and speaks louder. "I'd hate to see anything bad happen to you." The words might be teasing, mocking. But the only other beings they're likely to run into here are house elves, and they're all implicitly loyal to Draco. "You can utilise a searching spell if there's something specific you're looking to find."

"Very well," Granger purrs, but the delight in her expression is poorly concealed. "This is incredible."

A smile fights at his own lips. "It really is. I spent a lot of time in here growing up." He hesitates, drifting a little further down the aisle. "Why don't you select a few that catch your eye and I'll show you where you can read them in peace?"

She's well enough trained that he knows she catches the veiled meaning immediately, and with another indulgent smile his way, she takes her time in plucking a few volumes from the nearest row of shelves. Draco takes the stack from her hands and offers his elbow to her once more; she obliges, lowering her chin, and allows him to lead her to a small reading alcove.

The wash of his own wards shimmers along his skin, and he's certain she feels it as well when her gaze tracks briefly to the arch through which they've just passed.

The alcove contains a few soft armchairs, a stony hearth with a lowly simmering fire, and a small work table.

"You can work in here," Draco says, placing her books on the table and settling into one of the chairs. She drifts through the small room, peering closely at a piece of artwork on the wall, before offering a nod and sitting as well. "You can study whatever you like here."

The truth of his words is still carefully concealed, but he knows she follows. That whatever materials she borrows won't be tracked. That no one will spy on her here.

"And if you follow the path we took to get here, you'll be safe." He rests one ankle on the opposite knee, drawing a small measure of comfort from the warmth of the fireplace. His energy still isn't fully restored from the night before. "Most of the main corridors are safe—but you'll want to be cautious about venturing too far into the periphery of the manor. Certain rooms are warded against anything less than pure blood, and even I don't know all of the spells this place contains."

Her eyes are wary but her responding nod firm. "I appreciate that."

Granger draws one of the heavy texts into her lap, running her fingers along the embossed title. "This library really is something else."

"It is." They fall into silence for a moment, and it's as companionable as it has ever been. "If you'd like to spend some time here and get your bearings I can come back for you."

Although she hesitates for a moment, she shakes her head. "We ought to continue the tour. I'd like to know what I'm up against."

"Very well." They spend another fifteen minutes exploring the library, Draco informing her of each major section, before she allows him to guide her out with a wistful look in her eye. Beyond the boundaries of the library, they both drop into their cool facades once more. Nearby, Draco gestures into an expansive ballroom. "The Dark Lord will be hosting a party in our honour in one week."

Her voice is low, but the question is idle. "Is the Dark Lord aware we've wed?"

"He is." Draco ducks his chin, but doesn't care to elaborate. He doesn't want to know Voldemort's opinions on the matter, though Draco made perfectly clear their intent to go ahead with the marital rites the night before.

Voldemort simply didn't know the extent of it.

"The conservatory," Draco murmurs as they proceed onwards.

By the time they leave the manor for the grounds, Hermione longs for a deep breath of fresh air. The manor feels stifling, not least of all because Death Eaters roam the corridors and portraits scowl at her as though she's the scourge of their immobile existence.

She hates the cold facade she must maintain, batting her lashes at her new Death Eater husband and pretending to hang on every idle word he says. The only thing that makes it any easier is the fact that she can tell he hates it just as much.

They're in this together. It's never felt more clear than it does now.

And now they can begin the next stage of their plan to dismantle Lord Voldemort's reign from within.

Malfoy's hand slides to the small of her back as he leads her through an expansive set of garden doors to the crisply manicured lawns beyond.

"My mother's prized rose garden," he drawls, waving a flippant hand towards row after row of pristine rose bushes.

"And where is your mother?" Hermione muses, gazing around as though she might spot the woman. "I haven't had the chance to speak with her."

Of course, she knows his parents are scarcely around the manor. But the thought stirs a recollection from the day prior, and Hermione wonders whether they're safe to speak outdoors.

"My parents are vacationing at one of the Malfoy properties in Spain."

He makes the topic sound droll and inconsequential. But Hermione's gaze snaps to him. "Even your father?"

A knit forms between his brows as he searches her stare, and it registers that he isn't aware his father was in the manor the day before. He tugs her by the hand deeper into the rose gardens, drawing his wand to cast silencing wards as soon as they're enclosed within the bushes. Even so, he lowers his voice when he asks, "What about my father?"

"I forgot until now," she says, shaking her head. "While you were... out yesterday, your father came by your quarters. I thought it was Nott so I let him in, but he—'' Grimacing at the look on his face, she shrugs. "He wanted to talk to me. To warn me off of you."

His eyelids briefly flutter shut, as if he's searching for patience. With her or with his father, Hermione isn't certain.

"It completely slipped my mind when you returned covered in blood," she added, the words falling a little harsher than she intends.

But he waves her off. "That doesn't matter. It's the fact that my father approached you at all." His jaw hardens in a tight line. "I'll have words with him this evening."

"Why are your parents gone anyway?" she asks, brushing the large petals of a nearby rose. "Isn't your father still a Death Eater?"

Although she isn't certain whether he'll rebuke her or refuse to answer, he only snorts. "He is, technically, yes. But his usefulness is... not what it once was. My master keeps him among the ranks because we provide him with a base of operations." His upper lip curls with distaste. "But my father is not kept on a leash like most of the others. And my mother isn't fond of any of this, so she prefers to stay away."

Hermione can only guess what he refers to by any of this, but she can imagine.

The war ravaging England. Death Eaters living in her home. Her own son one of the cruellest and most powerful among them. For a fleeting instant, Hermione wonders how much this has all strained his relationship with his mother, who tried so hard to protect him years ago at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Before everything devolved to the point where it's at now.

She wonders whether Malfoy wishes his mother knew he isn't as bloodthirsty and heartless as he lets on. But she knows that anyone who sees through the cracks he keeps carefully concealed is just another liability. And Malfoy isn't willing to let anyone get in the way of his vengeance on the master who's kept him for so long.

"Okay," she says, casting a furtive glance around them. She drifts back towards the entrance of the gardens, but halts. "Should I expect to see your parents at the party next week?"

He stiffens and nods. "Most likely."

Falling back into step with a hand to her back, he leads her back to the grounds. Far off in the distance, Hermione can see the copse of trees where they met with Nott the night before. The magic of the bonding still thrums in her veins, and a shiver trawls through her at the reminder.

It's still surreal to think she's bound to him. That there's no way out of it other than death.

They have plenty to discuss, but she suspects most of that will be confined to the security of his quarters.

As they stroll deeper onto the grounds, a mild chill in the air, Malfoy releases her and slides his hands into the pockets of his trousers. A collection of white peacocks squawk at each other, and the sun overhead glistens along the surface of a small lake. Despite herself, a breath catches in her throat.

"This is lovely," Hermione murmurs, the words slipping free before she can consider her company.

"This," Malfoy says with a sigh, gazing upon the smooth water, "is the other place where I spent a lot of time as a boy."

She's surprised by the admission. Not for the first time, Hermione has to remind herself that Malfoy wasn't born a human embodiment of ice. Unlike the rest of the manor and grounds, the area around the lake is more natural, a little wild; it almost doesn't fit.

"My parents didn't come out here much," he adds, as if reading her thoughts. "They didn't care to invest the time to clean it up. Or maybe they simply knew I liked it as is."

Hermione takes a step closer, peering across the expanse of the water and breathing in the freshness of it.

Suddenly Malfoy slides up alongside her once more, one arm slipping casual around her waist; protective or possessive, she isn't certain. But he ducks in close and speaks quietly beside her ear.

"We have company."

Although Hermione tenses, she only smiles up at him, and murmurs, "Where?" The last thing she needs to do is alert any onlookers to the fact that she's anxious to be seen.

"Your three." His thumb moves along her hip in an easy movement, but any warmth she might have seen on his face moments ago is gone. His eyes drop into the pools of deadened grey with which she used to be so familiar. It's almost jarring, now, when she's come to see other facets of him.

Slowly, she allows her gaze to traverse the lake once more, lingering a little along her periphery where she sees two cloaked figures. She can't see their faces from this far away, but they appear to be deep in conversation.

Hermione tucks a little closer into him, fixing a quietly bemused look on her face. "Who is it?"

He squints for a moment. "Flint and Pucey. It's... uncommon for any of them to come out this far."

It could be just a passing comment, but by the way Malfoy's brow furrows with consternation, she takes it as a sign that something else is at play. Whether they've been followed, or if the pair are hoping for their conversation to be unobserved, she can't tell.

"Do we approach?" she hisses.

Although she can feel their presence now—and she can feel eyes on her—she maintains her facade as the new lady of the house, chin held high and an appraising stare as she takes in the grounds of her new home.

The Death Eaters still make her uneasy; she doesn't suspect that will ever change, after years of firing on sight.

"No," he grits out. "But I imagine they will."

Several minutes later, Flint and Pucey turn towards them and make their way along the edge of the lake. Malfoy's eyes slide towards their approach, but the only indication of tension in his stance is the way his hand tightens ever so slightly on her side. Most of the time, Hermione can't tell whether anything he does isn't an act.

"Lieutenant," the pair murmur in unison, ducking their heads in deep brows.

Malfoy surveys them with disdain, one brow lifting just slightly. The perfect image of the haughty heir. "What is it?"

Flint flashes a grin that doesn't meet his eyes. "Nice day. Just out for a walk."

"Indeed," Malfoy purrs, then releases a heavily put-upon sigh. "You both know my new wife, of course, Hermione Malfoy."

The name from his lips startles her—his usage of her given name, and the appended surname that is now her own. But Hermione keeps her face blank and tilts her head in acknowledgement.

"Of course," Pucey says, his tone infused with stiff politeness. "How do you do?"

Hermione stares at him; it's everything she can do not to reach for her wand. "Fine, thank you."

"Didn't know you'd already wed," Flint says, the words rough and unpleasant. His upper lip curls with the makings of a sneer. "That was fast."

At her side, Malfoy stiffens. Hermione braces herself for what she anticipates might come, infusing extra effort into keeping the amusement from her face.

"What my wife and I decide to do isn't anyone's business but our own," he drawls easily. His laser focus lands on Flint, the skin around his eyes tightening. "Or do you suppose you should have a say?"

The glint of violence in his eyes belies the casual words, and Hermione watches as Flint cringes back a step.

"Not at all, Lieutenant," Flint says. Hermione detects a hint of mocking in his tone, and her gaze swivels to Malfoy. By the way his jaw clenches, she's certain he heard it as well. "I simply thought... well, I imagine the decision to take on a Mudblood whore as a wife ought to take a little longer."

She doesn't flinch. She's heard so much worse. But Hermione can't deny that a part of her is eager to see Malfoy's response to the slight, aimed not only at her but at him as well.

His wand is in his hand before she can register the movement, and a moment later, Flint's knees give out as the powerful magic of Malfoy's Cruciatus wracks his form without mercy.

Hermione observes the man without pity, then slides her gaze to Pucey with a questioning lift of one brow. She wonders whether he has a little more sense than his friend. He doesn't say anything, simply watches the exchange with mild bemusement as though it were a sitcom on the telly.

But Malfoy's fury burns, the force of his spell drawn out longer than she expects. Eventually, she lays a hand on his arm and he relents, cold stoicism on his face.

Stumbling to his feet, drawing in heaving breaths, Flint scowls at all of them. But he doesn't say anything more.

Malfoy stares at the man, unblinking and not a hair out of place, until the tension grows awkward between the four of them. Then he stows his wand, flexing his fingers as he returns a hand to the small of Hermione's back.

"As I was saying," he drawls at last, "my new wife."

He doesn't say anything more; doesn't need to. Neither of them would dare raise a wand to their lieutenant. Colour infuses Flint's cheeks, though Hermione can't tell if it's anger or contrition. He ducks his chin at last, but his eyes remain dark on her.

She returns his disdain with a small, mocking smile.

Malfoy stares at the two of them a measure longer. He doesn't need to make threats or even speak at all, because the pair of them shift uncomfortably on the spot under the intensity of his gaze. For the first time, Hermione recognises the benefit to being on the man's side rather than opposing him.

Then he brushes a lingering kiss to her brow, and says, "Shall we be on our way?"

She smiles up at him, allowing true brightness into her eyes. "We shall."

And without another word, he turns to guide her away from the pair of them. He doesn't bother to ask whether she's alright once they're out of earshot; surely he knows such a question would be meaningless and futile.

Instead, he only murmurs, "He just shot up to the top of my list." And when his mouth twitches with a hint of humour, she grins.

Although Draco has been in a foul mood since running into Flint and Pucey by the lake earlier that afternoon, his mood is only exacerbated by the fact that his father's still in the manor.

He finds the man in his own study, and Draco sneers at his father as he closes the door behind him.

He itches to reach for his wand, but he stays the urge. "What are you doing here?" he asks by way of greeting.

Lucius' cool gaze settles on him, but the man doesn't possess half the presence he used to. The glint in his eye doesn't intimidate Draco any longer; it only serves to annoy him.

"I am told," Lucius begins at last, rising from his seat with the help of his cane, "that you've taken to making some truly atrocious decisions."

"If you're referring to my marriage," he says smoothly, "my reasons were plentiful and valid. And if the Dark Lord had no qualms with the union, surely your objections won't hold any merit."

Lucius blanches but stands his ground. "You did not even consult your mother or I before shackling yourself to a Mud—"

"Do not," Draco hisses, "finish that sentence." When Lucius falls silent, albeit begrudgingly, Draco continues. "As I said, I have many reasons and all of them are beyond your pay grade, Father. Rest assured, Mother and Hermione will get along just fine. And of any other reasons you may have for disliking this union, such as the matter of blood status or heirs, nothing supersedes my reasons for marrying her in the first place."

Although he can tell his father wants to argue, he doesn't. Despite the fact that Draco is his son, he's also the Dark Lord's highest lieutenant, and Lucius knows his place—most of the time.

"How is Mother?" he asks, after the beat grows stilted.

"Your mother is fine," Lucius returns in a growl. "She is doing well away from England."

"As I imagined she would." Draco strides for the desk his father just occupied—a subtle reminder that he has taken over as the head of the household—and takes a seat. He leans back, propping his boots on the edge of the smooth mahogany desk. "The Dark Lord is throwing a party next week in honour of my nuptials—I should expect both of you will attend?"

He phrases the demand as a question, but both of them know there's only one answer.

"Of course," Lucius purrs, tilting his head. "We would not miss it for the world—especially since our son did not even invite us to the wedding."

Briefly, Draco recalls how the ritual went the night before. How he awoke on top of his bed scarcely human with dark magic thrumming in his veins. He offers a thin, cold smile. "You didn't miss much." When Lucius continues to hover in the room, Draco cocks a brow. "Was there something else we needed to discuss?"

He doesn't hate his father—far from it—but all too often he has to wonder how his life might have turned out with different influences. And every time his parents observe his current station in life with disdain, he's reminded of the same. Furthermore, if he can keep his mother away from the Dark Lord through coldness and cruelty, he'll never regret his behaviour.

But Lucius bites out, "No, Lieutenant."

"Then if you'll excuse me," Draco drawls, glancing at his watch, "I do have another meeting shortly."

When Lucius sweeps from the room without another word, Draco eyes the door for a long moment. Idly, he reaches within him for the thread of magic that's hovered within him since the completion of the ritual the night before. Managing a tentative grip, he tests the thread, manoeuvring it to see if he can detect the pool of magic that will develop between himself and Granger.

It's the only way he'll be able to lift a wand to the Dark Lord. The only way to end this misery. But there is plenty of work to do before that point, and Draco can't let on.

Not when Voldemort keeps so many additional protections woven into the fibre of his very magic. Protections the likes of which even Draco doesn’t know.

There's something within him—just a hint of rumbling power—but it slips away before he can twist it into anything malleable. They'll have to practise and, he imagines, it will require both of them to focus.

All the more reason it was so vital that Granger be the one, with her brilliance and that intimidating depth of power she possesses. He could have persuaded any number of women to bind themselves to him, if he really wanted to—but he didn't. After seeing what Granger is capable of—and knowing her own reasons for ending the war are as strong and potent as his—she was always the only true choice.

A sharp knock lands on the door. Draco leans back in his seat and drawls, "Come in."

Theo slips into the office, closing the door behind him, and while Draco casts a series of silencing and locking spells, he pours himself a glass of whisky. "Good to see you," Theo says at last, "functional and alive, I mean."

"Right." Draco rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Suppose I should thank you for returning us safely last night."

"I won't say it was easy to get you through the manor unnoticed, unconscious as you both were." Theo's mouth curves with humour, but Draco stares hard at him.

Although it wasn't a difficult decision to keep Theo alive upon learning he was the traitor, Draco no longer knows what to make of his oldest friend. The man is playing both sides—that much he knows—and it's the reason Draco won't let him in on the whole truth of his plans. Until Theo can prove his worth, he won't earn any more trust than he currently holds.

Still, he drawls, "I appreciate your assistance with the bonding ritual."

Theo hesitates for a moment longer before taking a seat at the desk. "And did it work?"

With a flourish, Draco reveals his marked hand. His gaze snags with a hint of intrigue on the intricate black tattoo that encircles his fourth finger. "It did."

Blowing out a low whistle, Theo shakes his head. "Fascinating. Though it was bloody terrifying when the magic took over last night."

And it will be bloody terrifying when they unleash it at last, Draco wants to say. But he doesn't. For now, he'll keep the magic carefully within himself, coiling it tightly in a way he's learned from Granger. When the time comes... no one will expect it.

"What did you want to discuss?" Draco asks, disinterested in lingering on the subject.

Discomfort flickers across Theo's face. "I received a communication from the resistance this week."

"From Longbottom?"

The information snags Draco's attention immediately, when he'd expected Theo to say something more trivial.

But he shakes his head. "Not from Neville. From Warrington." He hesitates for a moment, then adds, "Neville won't be my primary contact any longer. I think Warrington may still be uncertain."

Draco wants to dwell on that a moment longer, to learn what the resistance is making Longbottom do and if it will put him out of range again—but anger sears through him at the mention of Warrington. Carefully, he drawls, "And what did he have to say?"

For a long, heavy minute, Theo doesn't respond. He draws the galleon from his pocket, flipping the coin between his fingers while he mulls over the question. "He wanted to meet up this morning. They know about Granger," he muses at last. "That she's here—not that you've married her. They think you've taken her prisoner."

"And did you correct them?"

"No."

Draco nods once, turning the information over in his head. "It's best if they think she isn't here of her own free will. The last thing I need is for one of them to take her down in public as a traitor."

"And are you taking her out in public?" Theo tosses the coin a bit higher.

Draco shrugs. "Maybe." If he does, it won't be Theo's business to know why. "What else?" Theo doesn't answer, rolling out his neck, and for a moment, he looks as though he might bolt. Draco grinds his jaw. "What else, Theo. I'm keeping you in my confidence despite your betrayal—don't make me fucking regret it."

The reminder flushes the blood from Theo's face. "They're testing my loyalty as well. After... everything that happened before."

Implicitly, Draco recognises the underlying sentiment. That whatever Theo's about to tell him will require the utmost of care. That if Draco acts on the tip, Theo's integrity as an operative with the resistance will be compromised permanently.

His heart rate spikes.

Resting his feet on the floor, he leans forward in his seat, attention piqued at last. "What did they tell you, Theo?"

"I am to have another meeting," Theo says, his words so quiet Draco has to strain to hear him. As though he expects someone might be listening in. "Next week, during the Dark Lord's party." His eyes flit up to snag on Draco's. "With the other Foray operative."

As the words clamour around Draco's brain and settle into slots that don't make sense, his heart drops into the pit of his stomach.

Chapter End Notes

Happy 100k day everyone! I hope you're enjoying the story so far because there's a lot still to come. <3 Thanks for sticking it out this far with me!

Alpha and beta love, as always, to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows respectively.

Lastly, as it's the first of November, today begins NaNoWriMo 2022 - and I'll be digging into a brand new fantasy novel. So lol wish me luck or something. See you next week!

Chapter 22

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Malfoy sits alongside her in their joint sitting room, though he might as well be absent. He's said scarcely a word in two days, and while Hermione's spent most of her time drifting between her quarters and the library, when she does see him he's even more distant than ever.

The Dark Lord's kept him busy with missions—drawn out punishment, she imagines, for their impromptu wedding—but he isn't silenced by the dread that she recognised the night of their bonding. It's something else that keeps his mind churning.

Finally tiring with the silence, she releases a sigh. "Are you going to tell me what this is about?" She waves a hand to indicate his tense, sullen presence.

Sometimes, it's easy to forget he's a lieutenant to the most evil wizard she's ever known to exist. The rest of the time she has to remind herself he's just a young man who wants better for the world in which he lives.

His grey eyes narrow to slits as they lift to meet hers across the coffee table. Although he scowls at her, she doesn't flinch. "The resistance believes I've kidnapped you," he drawls at last. He waves a dismissive hand and looks back to the file in his lap. "Which is fine. Let them think what they like—it'll take some of the heat off you. Unless I have to anticipate some sort of poorly contrived rescue attempt?"

Hermione swallows at the information, then shakes her head. As much as it pains her to admit, she knows Cassius and Kingsley would never risk fighters to infiltrate the manor for her. Even if Harry tried to put up a fight—and he's the only one who would—she knows he would be overruled.

Nausea churns her stomach when she remembers that Harry's doubt in her had already begun to manifest before she left the resistance. When he saw her conversing with Malfoy as anything but an enemy.

"No," she says quietly. "No, I don't imagine you'll have to deal with that."

His gaze lingers on her a moment longer. "We'll need to get you a dress for the party."

The words surprise her, when she expected the matter to be something more serious. She waves a hand behind her towards her room, where the closets have already been stocked with a variety of clothes to fit her. "Don't I have anything suitable?"

"You're the guest of honour," he muses. "So, no. You don't." He hesitates for a moment, pursing his lips, and adds, "I can either hire a tailor to come here or take you to Diagon Alley."

"You just said the resistance thinks I've been kidnapped," she deadpans. "Why would you take the risk of someone seeing me out with you?"

"Kidnapped could mean a range of things." The way his focus remains on his paperwork grows tedious, and Hermione draws in a careful breath to maintain her composure. "Maybe I forced you into it. Maybe you've been coerced and magically manipulated. It could be fun."

"Fun," she echoes in disbelief.

His lips curve with a smirk. "Yes, Granger. Forcing you to attend a party with me, against your will." The smirk grows into a grin that doesn't reach his eyes in the slightest. "Fun."

She frowns at him, irritation with the man swelling within her. But for as much as she wants to retort, to stir an argument, the thought of leaving the manor for a while is more enticing than she cares to admit. She's been holed up here, surrounded by the formidable glares of people who would sooner see her dead than acknowledge her as their leader's wife.

"Or you could be fitted for a dress here," he says, rolling his eyes. "I honestly don't care."

Still, Hermione suspects there's something more. He never engages her in witticisms, and most of the time she suspects his sense of humour is nonexistent. This is all a means to cover up something else—something more important.

"What is really bothering you?" she asks, lowering her voice. "Malfoy... we're in this together, remember? I don't care about dresses or Diagon Alley."

His face falls blank, utterly devoid of even the coldness he typically dons as a mask. He presses his lips into a thin line, and all at once, he visibly deflates. The tension falls from his shoulders, the stiffness in his back, and he sinks into the sofa.

"There is... another Foray operative."

For a long beat, his words fail to register. "Another," Hermione muses. "Aside from Nott?"

"Yes."

A variety of implications slam into her all at once. Someone else is still reporting to the resistance on their movements. But for some reason, the only thing that sticks is: "So they won't believe you kidnapped me."

Malfoy ponders the statement for a moment, then shrugs. "I suppose not. It isn't a secret on this side of the wall that we've married." He fixes her with a hard stare. "The better consideration is what we're going to do about this."

With a great sigh, he explains the relevant details. That the resistance has arranged a meeting between Nott and the other operative—both kept blind to each other's involvement—during the celebratory ball the following week. But if there's any hint of the Death Eaters learning of the second operative, they'll know it was Nott who spilled the leak.

"Clever," Hermione says after they've stewed in the issue for a moment. "Obviously, we need to maintain Nott's integrity as our inside contact with the resistance."

"That's a given," Malfoy agrees. "Which means if he does tell us—which I would absolutely prefer as a general matter of discretion—we can't act on it."

Hermione gnaws on her lower lip for a moment, then draws a sheet of parchment towards her and jots the discussion down in an effort to wrap her head around the options. "Of course. It's best if we know who to avoid."

His eyes slide to land on her, and he watches her write. Once she's lowered her quill, he murmurs, "The rest of the resistance doesn't know who the Foray operatives are. Only Theo's handlers even know of his involvement on both sides and we are the only two who know about him here."

"Right."

Something dances in his stare that she's come to recognise, and idly, Hermione wonders at how rapidly they've fallen into a greater understanding of each other. It's better than the alternative, she supposes, given she's permanently bound to the man.

It helps that their minds run on a similar wavelength—but where hers operates on intelligence and logic, Malfoy's is all underhandedness and cunning.

He rests his face in one palm, lips moving silently before he speaks. "The only reason we've kept Theo around is because we can use him to control the narrative the resistance receives—and it's a means for you to pass information back without them learning too much about us. We have to take the other operative out. We don't have a choice. "

"Then we lose Nott. The resistance won't tell him anything more—and that's if they don't stage a hit to take him out."

Malfoy grimaces. "Fuck."

It occurs to Hermione that the resistance does still have quite a few cards up their sleeve despite the show of weakness. But if anything, having the two sides more evenly matched will only contribute to drawing the war out even longer. Dismantling the powers that be from within, while unorthodox, still strikes her as the best course of action.

"Then it has to be an accident," he says, lifting his head. "Theo will tell us who it is after the party, and we'll stage something at a future skirmish. It'll be even better if someone from the resistance fires the killing shot."

Hermione swallows, unease creeping through her at the clinical manner in which he conspires at murder. But she knows the resistance isn't any better—and for too long she went along with everything they told her to do.

A part of her still revolts at the idea of taking out a resistance spy inside the Death Eaters.

As though reading her mind, Malfoy drawls, "Don't tell me you're backing out on me now." The thought that he's so adept at reading her rankles, even though they're on each other's side, so she doesn't respond. "Whoever it is will be reporting on you as well now."

At the reminder, she sits a little taller. The series of events that led to her being ejected from the resistance traverses the back of her mind, and she nods. "I'd like to go to Diagon Alley, I think."

"That's fine." He blinks at her, undeterred by the rapid change in subject. "Tomorrow. Provided I don't get called away."

Already, she's come to learn that the Dark Lord is both volatile and impatient, and when he summons Malfoy it isn't optional. Considering he's one of the highest ranked, she would hate to see how he treats the lower ranked fighters. Thankfully, Hermione hasn't come across the Dark Lord since her initial summons, but she has already begun mentally preparing for the party.

"And I'd like to send a letter to Harry."

Malfoy stills, then snags the sheet of parchment from her. As he skims her notes, he drawls, "We know Potter's communications have been tracked. It's why Theo has passed along any information you want them to know."

"Not information," she says, her cheeks burning when his gaze lands on her. "Just a letter."

His gaze is intense, penetrating, but Hermione doesn't back down. She straightens her shoulders in the face of his assessment, readying herself for an argument.

But he says, "Fine," and hands back her parchment. "I'll trust you won't reveal anything incriminating."

Her brows lift in surprise, and she schools her expression moments too late, if the way a smirk tugs at his mouth is any indication. "Okay," she says with a nod. "No one but Harry will even understand any part of it."

They've been friends long enough that they've developed a sort of shorthand that no one else will be able to pick up on—even Warrington, who will most assuredly read the letter when it arrives at the safehouse.

Leaving the resistance in the way she did, on the heels of Malfoy kidnapping and releasing Harry in exchange for information, still weighs heavily on her mind. Especially since now she spends more time with Malfoy than anyone else.

"That's fine," he says again, reaching for a book on the end table.

A small voice in the back of her mind wonders why he's being so agreeable.

But they're in all of this together, and for the time being, she's content enough to shove it away.

Granger slips into their common area minutes after Draco does, her curls messy but eyes sharp. She observes him with a tentative nod before joining him at the small breakfast nook.

Sipping from a mug of coffee, Draco slides that morning's Daily Prophet across the table towards her. Without a word—without any suspicion at all—she rotates the paper in front of her and begins to turn the pages, skimming their contents. When she reaches the third page, she freezes. Slowly, almost comically, her eyes drag up to land on his.

"What the fuck is this?" she asks, reaching for a slice of toast.

"What does it look like?"

Even upside down, the headline is glaring.

MALFOY HEIR TAKES BRIDE IN IMPROMPTU WEDDING

Granger drops the slice of toast on her plate but her focus returns to the article, a grimace forming slowly on her face as she reads. Thinning her lips, she grits out, "Who?"

Draco shrugs, staring at the large photo of her. It looks like little more than a mugshot, Granger's face scowling up from the page next to his stoic one. He only skimmed the article before she arrived, but it was enough to determine a handful of truths buried in embellishment and speculation.

"Hard to say," he says, "but likely a lower tier Death Eater who thought it was fine to talk."

"And is it?"

The question is strangely genuine. As though Granger has come to rely on his comprehension of strategy in all of this. He releases a sigh, takes a sip of coffee, gazing through the window. "Obviously," he drawls, "it isn't ideal. For a variety of reasons. Your ability to reach out to the resistance, per our initial arrangement, has been stunted by the fact that you can't speak freely with Potter. And it goes without saying this won't endear anyone over there to listen to you."

He watches the blood drain from her face as the implications settle. She looks nauseated; Draco tries to imagine Potter's reaction to the article—to learning the two of them are married—and he barely refrains from laughing.

"But," he presses on when she doesn't respond, "in the grander scheme of things, the resistance's reaction to your nuptials doesn't really impact much."

Although she still doesn't respond, her gaze darting rapidly across the page, some of the tension deflates from her shoulders and she reaches for a jar of preserves. She spreads her toast and takes a bite before answering. "I suppose it was never going to be a secret for long."

"No," Draco muses, surprised by her willingness to accept the situation. "Especially not with that blasted second Foray operative."

Granger's eyes narrow and she chews another bite of her toast. "And I'm going shopping today?"

"We are going shopping." When she cocks a brow, Draco snickers. "Please don't get any ideas about running off. Besides—this article will paint a target on your back if any stray resistance members spot you."

Most resistance fighters and supporters avoid Diagon Alley due to the presence of Death Eaters in most public areas of wizarding London, but he isn't willing to take any chances. He's hedged altogether too much on this plan to lose out on it now.

"I wasn't planning on running off," she retorts, indignant, and takes a sip of coffee. "Where would I go?"

The question is flippant but carries sobering undertones; Draco can see the realisation when her expression tightens just slightly. That whatever back door she might have had with the resistance, it's sealed shut now.

He doesn't answer, suspecting the question to be rhetorical. "At any rate," he says lightly, "what sort of husband would I be if I didn't accompany my wife to purchase a dress?"

At her facetious, lifted brows, he nearly laughs.

It's one thing to willingly spend time with Malfoy in their quarters or on the manor grounds, but visiting Diagon Alley on his arm is altogether surreal.

A part of her still feels like it's a betrayal of everything she knows—everything she grew up believing in. And there's no denying that it's the truth. No matter what she tries to tell herself, that she's doing all of this for a future she isn't certain she believes can exist, she's living in Malfoy Manor surrounded by Death Eaters.

The contrast is stark.

Clutching a letter for Harry—carefully drafted and encoded with idle sentences she hopes he'll be able to parse through—she visits the owl post with Malfoy at her side. Despite the many owls in the manor owlery, they both thought it preferable to send the letter via a neutral bird.

Nerves roil within her at the thought that Harry might not understand the code—or that the letter might be intercepted and never make it to him in the first place.

Eyes follow them but she doesn't see anyone she knows, and some small, cowardly part of her is glad of it. Existing in a public space with Draco Malfoy—without trying to kill him—churns at every part of her.

And she can see the judgement. Even from those who don't claim allegiance or offer support to the resistance—those who have stubbornly evaded the bulk of the fighting—she recognises it in their stares.

Malfoy is the highest ranked, the Ghost, and she's become a fixture on his arm.

Hermione Granger, best friend to Harry Potter, the golden girl. She knows she would never believe it.

Too many thoughts swirl within her, wrenching her conscience in a plethora of directions, and it's in a semi-catatonic state that she allows Malfoy to lead her towards Twilfitt and Tattings.

Fancy clothes and accessories have existed near the end of her list of important considerations in recent years, and the exercise of purchasing a dress in the midst of a war strikes her as not only inane but unnecessary. Plenty of beautiful gowns line the walls of the walk-in closet in her suite, but Malfoy's claimed none of them to be adequate.

For too long, she's struggled to get by, to survive—some days, to put food in her stomach.

So the idea of an extravagant party leaves her stomach twisted up with nausea. It's a drastic juxtaposition to live now alongside the Death Eaters—even more so than she expected.

"Believe it or not," Malfoy had drawled when she'd asked him about it earlier, "but there is a great swath of society that aren't out fighting this war like you and I. And to them, these sorts of things are still worthwhile."

If there is, they aren't the resistance supporters, who can scarcely go out in public without being attacked.

And maybe she's been embroiled in the thick of it for too long, but the idea feels so foreign. That there are people who are content and privileged enough to observe from the outside. She wonders if Malfoy would have been among them, had his circumstances proved differently during their Hogwarts years.

It's something for which she can't fault him. That, for as long as they opposed each other, he never backed down from the fight.

Twilfitt and Tattings is the sort of boutique she never visited, favouring Madam Malkin's instead. The garments are sparsely distributed, elaborate fabrics draped over polished mannequins, a few hanging on shelves along the wall.

The proprietor's eyes light up when she sees the two of them enter, crossing the parlour instantly to greet them. Idly, Hermione wonders if the woman is only eager because of the article in that morning's Prophet. This is an opportunity for gossip. Surely, if she were to enter without Malfoy, the reception would be far different.

But a flicker of amusement dances across Malfoy's face as he greets the woman in smooth, perfectly accented French, planting a kiss to each cheek. Hermione blinks at the display, keeping her face carefully neutral. Of course he speaks French. "Marion," he purrs, his eyes drifting to Hermione. "My new bride, Hermione."

"Ah, of course," Marion says in thickly accented English. "Enchanté."

"The same to you as well, I'm sure," Hermione muses, fixing a smile to her face. She lowers her chin, and for good measure, adds a quiet, "Merci beaucoup."

Delighted, Marion claps her hands together. "And what can I do for you today?"

"Hermione requires a dress," Malfoy replies easily. Her given name from his lips, infrequently as he uses it, makes her tense; she quickly conceals her reaction and offers another thin smile. "An extravagant dress."

Marion offers each of them a knowing glance, and within moments, she's ushering Hermione onto a raised dais before a mirror, a collection of animated tailoring tools floating along after her. A measuring tape takes her measurements while a quill jots the results on a sheet of parchment. Watching with shrewd eyes, Marion selects a few bolts of fabric before dismissing each of them.

All the while, Hermione tries to reconcile the fact that she's doing all of this under a ruse.

Amusement flickers when she realises Malfoy's willingly subjected himself to the day, but when she glances at him, he looks as much, if not more, interested in the process as Marion herself is. He fingers the next bolt of fabric to float past, wrinkling his nose with a clipped, "Definitely not."

As Marion begins draping Hermione with fabric, pinning and twisting and manoeuvring the cloth in search of a flattering shape, Malfoy drifts away to browse the small shop.

He returns with several dresses hanging on a rack, and the whole event is so surreal she fights off a sudden, derisive surge of laughter. He and Marion assess the dresses he's collected in quiet French, and before Hermione can parse through any of it with her rudimentary understanding of the language, Marion thrusts her behind a curtain with a great swath of silvery fabric.

Drawing a deep breath and digging deep for patience, Hermione surrenders herself to the process.

A dozen or so dresses later—she lost count after the first five—Hermione slips from the partitioned changing room while Marion is collecting more fabric.

Malfoy approaches her with a raised brow. "Have you selected one?"

"No," she says, hoping she doesn't sound as desperate as she feels, "can we just pick one and go?"

He rolls his eyes. "Granger, I know you aren't the type to have spent your childhood dreaming of the perfect wedding, but... this is your chance to pick out a dress you really like." A furrow knits his brows as the sentiment finally dawns on her. That he wants the dress to be just right because they didn't have a proper wedding. It doesn't align with any part of what she knows of him.

Somehow, the thought sobers her annoyance, and she frowns. "I confess I'm not much for selecting dresses. Which one did you like?"

Shrugging, Malfoy skims the selections she's already tried. "Honestly, there wasn't one that stood out above the rest." He drifts along the perimeter of the shop, towards a corner they've yet to explore. "And please do keep in mind that the media will cover this event. I would hazard a guess that you are likely to land on the front cover of the Prophet."

The idea burns her cheeks with heat, but she doesn't respond. A ball with high society and the media in attendance—it seems ludicrous when only weeks ago she was fighting for her life every damn day.

As if sensing her thoughts, Malfoy drawls under his breath, "I know this is unorthodox. If we could do away with it, I would."

But it isn't an option—not when Voldemort himself has been adamant.

"Fine," she whispers, fingering the fabric of the nearest gown. "Hopefully we can find one soon. And if not, we're just selecting the one we like best of them all."

It takes her a moment to realise Malfoy's stopped listening, his intent gaze fixed on a dress that clings to a mannequin in the corner. "Try this one," he murmurs, something in his tone she doesn't recognise.

She eyes the gown and snorts. "Of course you'd select a green dress."

But when she steps closer, she falters. The fabric is a deep forest green, but woven into the fabric are shimmers of gold. They catch and refract the light in facets that make the colours dance and shift from a rich emerald to a near black, and with a radiant gold shining from within.

A breath hitches in her throat before she's even aware of it.

The shape is more form-fitting than most of the dresses, the design simple but stunning. "Okay," she finds herself saying, unable to tear her gaze away.

When Marion has her in the gown, Hermione's first thought is that it's too much. It's too tight, too revealing, too beautiful. But when she turns to face the mirror, her heart skips a beat. The straps are simple on her shoulders, the front cut dips into a vee that clings to her curves and fits to her body until just above the knee, where it flares back out towards the floor. The back hangs open, daring and exposing the skin to the small of her back, and held together with an intricate lattice of shimmering gold straps.

The green is breathtaking—and the interwoven gold is stunning.

Marion gives a dramatic clap, and even Hermione can't find any words for it right away.

When she glances at Malfoy, a small smile quirks his mouth. "That's the one," he drawls. He gives Marion a look and the woman bustles off, then he approaches. He takes in the dress with a keen eye, his stare lingering on the way it clings to her form. It's elegant in its simplicity, and she likes it more than the rest combined.

Malfoy lifts a hand, drifting his fingers along her bare collarbone; a shiver courses unexpectedly through her, abrasive in its intensity. He drags the backs of his knuckles down her arm, then his palm lands on her hip and lingers.

"Formidable," he whispers with French intonation, placing the emphasis on the third syllable. His eyes glint silver when they latch onto hers.

For a moment, she forgets to breathe.

"It's perfect," he murmurs, and Hermione can't detect anything untoward in the words. "A dress fit for a queen."

His earlier words come back to her. You won't be a pawn. You'd be the queen.

It reminds her that, even now, this is all building to a greater purpose.

But still, his hand lingers on her hip and she can feel the searing heat of it through the fabric, cool against her skin.

"This one," she affirms with a nod, unable to step away. Although she knows they're acting—the whole thing has been an act for Marion and whoever she seeks to tell—she wants to lean in, to drown herself in the way his touch makes her feel. "Only I don't know how much it is."

Malfoy rolls his eyes. "It doesn't matter. I'll cover it. You'll need shoes and accessories as well."

Her shoulders stiffen. "I have my own money—"

"And you aren't blowing it all on a dress," he says smoothly. When she doesn't respond, tightening her jaw, he only smirks. His thumb brushes the curve of her hip. "Trust me—having you on my arm while wearing this dress will be worth every knut." Then he leans in, his warm breath brushing her ear, and breathes, "Ma belle femme."

As a shiver darts the length of her spine, some small, traitorous part of her wishes he truly meant it.

Chapter End Notes

Hi friends, thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked this week's chapter, and I'm always so happy to read your thoughts (even if I don't always have time to respond.) Next up, the party!

Alpha and beta love, as always, to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows 💙

Chapter 23

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione jolts awake, startled, at a soft rap on the door. Instinctively, she grapples for the dagger she keeps under the pillow, her fingers loosening around the handle when she remembers where she is.

Security in the manor is a luxury to which she's yet to become accustomed, after so many years spent living in safehouses. In fearing that one wrong move could cause a breach and allow their enemies in.

Here, she knows Malfoy's—her husband's—wards are so thorough that any intruder who dares even consider breaking in wouldn't make it to the wrought iron gates that decorate the manor's entrance. She can feel the wards bristle against her skin at idle moments, even more so since they've become bonded. She wonders, not for the first time, about the depth at which their magic is now irrevocably linked.

She stares at the ceiling, breathing hard for a long moment, before she calls, "Just a moment!" She extracts her hand from beneath the pillow and settles on her wand instead, sitting at the ready on her nightstand.

The knock isn't Malfoy's. She's come to recognise the sharp rap of his knuckles on her door, and the thought shoots a frisson of fear through her. The last unexpected visitor she received was Lucius Malfoy.

And it's the day of the party. Her nerves have already been on edge, increasingly so as the day drew near, and now she can no longer deny that she's afraid.

Afraid of how the day will go—of how things might turn out.

Hermione shrugs on a dressing gown, chancing a glance in the mirror as she strides for the door. Dark shadows mar the skin beneath her eyes; it was another restless night haunted by bad dreams. Her old nightmares of the manor have been recurring recently, after staying hidden for years.

The memories from that day when she first experienced the Cruciatus at Bellatrix's hand.

She's grateful every day the witch never made it out of the Battle of Hogwarts. Hermione doesn't know how she would be able to maintain this facade—even a shroud of neutrality—were she forced to deal with Bellatrix with any frequency.

Wand held loose in one hand, she opens the door.

And blinks, surprised.

Two women stand on the other side, and they exchange a glance when they see her. Vaguely, Hermione recognises that she knows them, but their presence here is so unexpected that she stares dumbly, her tongue tied into a knot as her mind turns over what she might say to them.

"Granger." Pansy Parkinson cocks a brow, then a wicked smile tugs at her lips. "Or should I say Malfoy."

She shoves past into Hermione's room without invitation, and with an apologetic smile, the second girl follows her in. Daphne Greengrass.

Hermione whirls on the spot, wrapping her arms across her front. "What are you—"

"Draco invited us," Pansy drawls, her gaze sweeping the room before landing once more on Hermione. She gives a sort of stuttering shake of the head, a glint of incredulity flitting across her face. "And Merlin, if I didn’t hear it from him I never would have believed it."

"You didn't believe it even after Draco told you," Daphne reminds her, before offering Hermione another smile that feels too kind.

She continues to stare, dumbfounded, at the pair of them. She laments that she didn't bring her dagger, but her fingers remain curled around her wand. "What are you both doing here? Where's Draco?"

"He let us into the wing, but he was on his way out," Pansy says, clicking her tongue as she tugs at a loose, messy curl. Finally, she clarifies. "He owled us to help you prepare for the party tonight. Hair, make-up, dress."

At the words, Hermione feels a spike of anger flare beneath her skin. She is most certainly capable of preparing herself. But even at the thought, some of her ire sobers. She doesn't know much about this facet of society, and maybe she could use the help. Although she doesn't know these girls aside from their youthful rivalry, the fact that Malfoy trusts them enough to allow them in, to help her get ready, soothes some of her anxiety.

She wonders when she came to value his judgement so much.

So much of it's rooted in the fact that their lives are tied and dependent. Malfoy would never allow someone into her room if he suspected them of ill will.

Idly, Hermione tries to recall whether she's seen either of these women in recent memory, and she suspects she hasn't. They don't fight with the Death Eaters, and while their families may be sympathisers, they've clearly been sheltered from the worst of the strife.

A part of her resents them for it—loathes them, almost.

But she knows if she wasn't forced to participate in the cruel battles that plague her existence, she wouldn't want to either. Maybe they have always had enough privilege that they don't have to fight to keep their own hearts beating.

"Fine," Hermione murmurs, offering a thin attempt at a smile. "If Draco said it's alright, I suppose it's fine."

That same almost disbelieving look lingers on Pansy’s face, and she drops a purse from her shoulder to rest on the floor against the wall. "I still have a hard time believing you have married Draco Malfoy."

"Same," Daphne admits, dragging the chair from Hermione's vanity out, and begins to lay out a variety of products. Hermione only recognises some of them, having spent so long caught up in a war that skin care and makeup is often the last of her concerns. "I do hope you'll tell us the story."

Hermione bites her tongue on a sharp retort. She tries to remind herself again that these girls don't live the existence she does.

"It's not that much of a story," she replies at last. She tugs at her hair. "Should I shower?"

"Yes," Pansy replies. "We've plenty of time before the party begins. I think Draco wanted to be sure you wouldn't be alone today."

At the thought, Hermione pauses. It doesn't sound like him—but then, she's learned a lot about him in recent weeks that she never could have imagined would be true.

She doesn't care to leave the two alone in her quarters, but the majority of the room's contents aren't even hers. She slips into the bathroom, disrobing before she can think better of it, and washes her hair, rapid and half-hearted. Her head spins at this new development.

For the rest of the morning and afternoon, she'll have two other women at her side and she'll be forced to play along with all of it. To act as though she’s excited for the party, over the wedding, for the future she's going to have with the man who, a couple of months back, wanted to stop her heart.

The thought settles like a stone within her.

But she plasters a smile on as she winds a towel around her hair, slipping into the closet to dress in something simple. She had planned on preparing herself for the day, but it might soothe her nerves if she isn't so focused on it.

She's again reminded of the fact that this isn't her world. Not even close.

"When I saw the Prophet article," Pansy says, when Hermione emerges, "I thought it was fake." She draws her wand, casting a few charms on Hermione's curls, drying them and smoothing out some of their wildness simultaneously. She blows out a low whistle and cracks a grin. "Must be some prick he's got."

Hermione nearly chokes.

Daphne titters, shooting Pansy a look. "It's true though; I wondered about that article too," she says idly, twisting one of Hermione's curls around her finger. Hermione stiffens, her fingers twitching instinctively towards her wand where it lays in the bed. "Harry Potter's best friend—one of the resistance's most prominent fighters."

She's going to have to give them something. Even though a part of her wants to ask them to leave, she manages a smile. "To be honest, the resistance isn't all it's cracked up to be. They're… not the leaders they'd like people to think."

That much is true, and she won’t deny it. Memories flit through the back of her mind; numerous occasions where resistance leaders mistreated everyone else.

Daphne shakes her head, as though trying to wrap her head around it. "But you and Draco? Talk about a scandal."

The only scandals Hermione can imagine that involve Draco Malfoy also involve torture and murder. She can only imagine the sneer that would cross his face to hear these girls gossip about his romantic life.

But she knows better than to believe Pansy and Daphne to be insipid society girls. Despite that they aren't forced to fight in the war, they've still existed within it for as long as she has, and she won't allow herself to underestimate them.

The best form of a lie draws on truth, and she gives them a bit of a self-deprecating shrug. "What can I say?" She allows her smile to grow vacant, distracted, as she slips into the seat at the vanity. "He... grew on me, I suppose."

"I heard you were trying to kill him," Daphne murmurs, tugging at Hermione's hair like she's a doll. "But you married him instead."

Hermione can see how it might look from their perspective if she squints. It's been easy to ignore what the rest of society might believe when she's been forced to think only of her own survival for all these years.

"I was," she admits. It's no great mystery that they were rivals, and it doesn't cost her anything to confirm the statement. "And he was trying to kill me as well. I guess at some point the animosity turned to respect. And then... admiration." She forces a thin laugh. "By that point, I think we both knew we weren't going to kill each other. That it had turned into something else entirely."

When the words leave her mouth, they taste bitter. There's a bit too much truth in the lie, and the thought is unsettling.

"Even in war," Daphne murmurs, "there's hope for love."

Hermione doesn't have anything to say to that, and she keeps her mouth shut. She certainly doesn't love the man, and most of the time she barely respects him. She tolerates him because she has no other choice.

"I still find it odd," Pansy says with a shrug. "That you would betray your side for him. You never struck me as the type. Logical and pragmatic to a fault."

Whether she's supposed to find compliment or insult in the words, Hermione isn't certain. But they're so matter of fact—and true—that she's temporarily thrown for a loop. She has to remind herself that many will believe her to be manipulated in some way, and if she plays it up a little, it doesn't hurt anyone.

"I guess there are always exceptions to even the most sound logic," she whispers, then offers Pansy a wry smile. "I can't deny it's been... nice. Not having to constantly worry, watching over my shoulder at every turn. Afraid to sleep half the time in case we're to be ambushed. Draco's given me more than I even anticipated."

And that feels a little too true as well.

The shallow well of magic already building between them—a result of the bonds—simmers below the surface of her skin. Already, she can feel it, and she knows it will continue to strengthen.

In time, they'll be prepared to enact the next phase of their plan. But for now she has to keep up the act.

A jolt of something like pride warms her when she realises that Malfoy wouldn't have sent his friends to help her prepare for the party if he didn't trust her to maintain her side of the facade.

"Did Draco say where he was going?" Hermione asks, then almost instantly bites her tongue when the two exchange a look. She knows he wouldn't. He scarcely even tells her where he goes when he isn't in their quarters, and she's equipped to understand more of what he does. Daphne and Pansy, external to the situation as they are, wouldn't know the lion’s share of it. She offers another smile. "Never mind. I'm sure I'll find him later."

Clearing her throat, as if to dispel the tension, Daphne tilts Hermione's face towards her. "If nothing else, you'll see him at the party!" She peers intently, meeting Hermione's eyes, then pouts, prodding at her cheek. "Your poor skin, living on the run all that time. Draco said we're to go light with the makeup."

"I believe what he said," Pansy drawls, "is to simply enhance your natural beauty." She scoffs, grinning. "Another thing I never would have believed if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. He's finally found someone to thaw that chunk of ice in his chest."

A genuine flush creeps up her chest and into her face as Hermione stares blankly at them. She can't deny the words without giving herself up, but she also knows better than to believe them. Malfoy doesn't care for her—not in the ways they're implying, if at all. Theirs is an arrangement of power and convenience, and whatever he might have said would have been to maintain the act.

She only glances away, hoping she looks appropriately bashful while inside, her heart clamours an anxious rhythm.

The pair of them fall into a pensive calm as they work, Pansy tugging at Hermione's hair with a series of spells as Daphne spreads some sort of cool moisturising cream across her face that feels better than Hermione cares to admit.

"Well," Daphne says at last, breaking the comfortable silence, "it is nice to have another girl around. And Draco could use someone like you to temper all of that."

The word encompasses everything Hermione has learned about Malfoy, and despite herself, she laughs. She knows better than to let anyone else in, but these two have put her well enough at ease that maybe it isn't a terrible thought that she isn't quite so alone here.

She knows they're on the other side—that their families are probably embroiled in the fighting as she has been for so long—but if she really tries, she can see them for who they are. A pair of young women who still try to find some good in the chaotic, messed-up world in which they all exist.

For the first time, she considers the fact that maybe Malfoy didn't invite them only to help her prepare for the party. Something cracks inside her at the thought.

By the middle of the afternoon, Malfoy still hasn't returned—or if he has, he slipped into his own room without informing her of his return. Daphne and Pansy prattle on at her side, inane, diminutive things that would make her roll her eyes if not for the fact that a part of her longs for it. For easy conversation about trivial things that don't need to mean life or death. For the thought that she can still smile and laugh, and it doesn't always have to feel forced.

Her heart twinges at the thought, and she tamps the sudden surge of emotion down.

She isn't here to make friends, or to fall in love, or to enjoy herself. She's here for a mission completely opposite—and it just so happens that in order to achieve her ends, she'll have to act at certain other things along the way.

Even so, she allows Pansy and Daphne to help her into her dress, and once she's appropriately accessorised, the three of them stare at her in the mirror.

"Wow," Daphne whispers, touching the fabric of her dress with reverent fingers. "This is stunning. Hermione, you look beautiful!"

She looks like herself, but cleaner. More refined. There's a sparkle in her defined eyes, a smoothness to her skin, and a glisten to her lips. True to her word, Daphne kept her makeup simple and classy, and Pansy twisted her curls into something elaborate but timeless.

It's more than she could have done for herself, and she manages a tight swallow.

Some part of her still can't reconcile the situation for what it is. That she's married Malfoy—one of Voldemort's coldest, most ruthless Death Eaters—and now she is to attend a ball in celebration of the event.

"Draco is going to die when he sees you," Pansy says with a smirk, folding her arms. She shoots Daphne a look. "We've done well."

"Thank you both," Hermione murmurs, surprising herself with how much she means it. "I've… it's been lonely, spending so much time here with only Draco for company—and he's gone a lot."

Another truth. It slips from her lips as easily as the rest and causes nausea to churn in her gut. But again, she doesn't lose anything by endearing the pair to her just a little. She's felt more lonely than she has in years, and having female companionship at her side has released some soft part of her she's kept stowed away for so long.

Pansy's fingers curl around her shoulder with a squeeze. "We're an owl away. We'll have lunch or something, some time."

Because for them, such a thing still exists. Their life isn't all-encompassed by hard-fought survival. Her heart clenches at the thought that such a thing is even still possible, and she longs more than ever for a life beyond this one.

Hermione's face feels frozen with a smile, but she manages a nod. "I'd like that."

Daphne presses a careful kiss to her cheek and the pair of them slip from the room to prepare themselves for the party, leaving Hermione fully dressed and alone with her own nerves. She takes her usual seat on the sitting room sofa, idly skimming a book though her mind is elsewhere.

Her last experience with the Dark Lord was unnerving enough, and now his attention will be fixed on her—not to mention the eyes of every other Death Eater in the manor and other assorted high society guests.

Including Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

She swallows thickly, closing the book and rising to pace the sitting room. At that moment, the door to Malfoy's room swings open and his face appears in the doorway. His hair is damp, eyes widening almost unnoticeably when he sees her. But then he opens the door wide, clad in a shirt and trousers with the collar still open.

"Hi," Hermione says, the word falling breathy. She fixes him with a stare, and his fingers still where he's fiddling with a cuff link.

His chin drops into a nod. "Hello." His gaze sweeps the length of her, lingering on her face, and warmth rushes through her like a flood. "You look lovely."

"Thank you." She wrings her hands as she stares at him, half-dressed as he is. "As do you." She fights a wince instantly when a smirk tugs at his mouth. But she squares her chin and affirms, "Lovely."

A snicker of amusement falls from his lips, his grey eyes glinting. "Did you have a nice time with Pansy and Daph?"

She wonders again at his true motivations, but she suspects even if she asks he won't tell her. "I did, actually. Despite my surprise when they showed up at my door early this morning. They're… it was nice having company."

"Good." Something on his face sobers when he steps through the door towards her. "They're old friends. I trust them, but they obviously don't understand everything."

Everything. The life the two of them have been caught up in for so long that she doesn't even remember what it's like to dwell on silly things like which cafe in Diagon Alley serves the best biscotti.

"It was nice," she repeats, her voice sounding oddly distant. She can't explain all of what she means, but she sees the recognition in his face. "A break from all of this. I should..." She clears her throat, digging within herself for some scrap of reason, but she can't find one. "I would like to see them again sometime."

It feels like too many shreds of herself laid bare and vulnerable before him, but he only nods. "That's fine. You aren't a prisoner here. You're allowed to have friends." His gaze darts about, as though expecting someone to appear from the shadows despite that this is one of the only places they can speak freely. "None of our plans will be ready in the short term."

Hermione nods, with a quiet, "Right."

Everything they intend to do, the culmination of strategy and intent, all relies on the pair of them successfully navigating the long game together.

"Besides," he murmurs, "it's good to keep up the facade. People will expect you to make friends with other society ladies."

Somehow, his affirmation that it's alright to feel this way—that she isn't distracted and drawn from her purpose by wanting to engage in something else—makes some of her tensions dissolve. "Good." She catches his eye with a rueful smile. "Thank you for sending them to help me. I appreciate it."

He eyes her a moment longer, appraising her once more. "They certainly did good work."

Her flush returns with a vengeance, helped along with the heat blazing in his eyes. "One must look their best," she murmurs, "at a party held in their honour."

Humour draws at his mouth as he slips a tie around his neck, his long fingers making quick work of the green silk to match her dress. "And you'll blow them all away."

He can hardly tear his gaze away from her, and Draco doesn't have to act at the pride that straightens his shoulders when Granger slips her arm into his and the pair of them make for the ballroom. Despite that all of it's fake—even Voldemort's reasons for hosting this party in the first place—he'll make the best of it.

It doesn't mean his wand isn't stowed should the need arise.

And he knows Granger's dress was made with easy access to reach her own—because he spoke to Marion about the modification himself.

She's stunning; an absolute vision. Several steps away from the rugged resistance fighter and towards the lady of the manor—but he likes that she's still a little of both. As much as he appreciates Pansy and Daphne—and he's relieved Granger had a nice time with them that morning—they don't truly understand the frontlines of the war.

It’s not a minor inconvenience like it is to them—the reason their favourite shops are closed unexpectedly, or why they can't get this season's silk—it's a matter of life and death every damn day. Their families keep them sheltered from the bulk of it while their fathers fight for the cause alongside him.

But even those beyond the Inner Circle aren't held to the standard that Draco himself faces.

And he knows Granger understands most of that. He doesn't have to explain anything to her, and he appreciates that, too.

It only further validates that she's the teammate he wanted all along—and now keeps at his side. He can feel the pool of their joint magic flowing through him, her own magical signature nudging every so often against his own. It's a strange feeling, intrusive almost, but he basks in it, knowing what it will one day do for them—if they don't fuck up first.

He draws her a little closer when they arrive, though it's hardly a chore.

Granger's eyes slide towards him, alight with the warmth he recognises as part of the act. And when they cross the threshold into the ballroom, she lifts her chin, a soft, demure smile on her lips. She's fallen into this role with as much grace as he could have imagined.

Their guests hold a collective breath, and he wonders at how much of it is the beauty at his side—and how much of it is because of who she is and what she represents.

His fellow Death Eaters clean up nicely—most of them—though events like this are infrequent.

Draco longs, just once, for the evening to go off without a hitch. For this to simply be the celebration of their nuptials—but a voice deep within tells him it won't be so easy. If nothing else, he'll be able to enjoy this—the looks that track them as they walk down the central aisle deeper into the room. The envy and the raw desire he can read on the faces surrounding them. Draco refrains from coiling his free hand into a fist.

None of them would dare touch her—and even if they tried, Granger wouldn't hesitate to put any of them in their place.

She withholds any admiration for the space, elaborately decorated as it is, and he recognises his mother's own hand in it. Men clap him on the shoulder, women call out congratulatory sentiments, and Granger maintains her grace through it all, offering only cool acknowledgement.

He shifts a hand to the small of her back, tight and possessive, and leans in towards her. He allows a smirk to curl his lips as he murmurs in her ear, "One might think you were made for this."

She smiles up at him, blinking long, pretty lashes. So only he can hear her, she replies, "And one would be wrong."

His grin stretches a little wider, and feeling the eyes of more than a hundred people on them, he presses a lingering kiss to her temple. Her skin is warm and soft beneath his lips, and when he draws back, they both reaffix their cool facades firmly into place. It'll be a long night, but he has no doubt she's up to the challenge.

"You must know," Granger murmurs under her breath as they pick at small plates of hors d'oeuvres. "I despise this."

Draco catches her eye as he chews a morsel, then takes a sip of champagne. They've found a table away from the bulk of the crowd while the rest mingle and gossip. The event might be held in their honour, but the guests have short attention spans.

"I know," he returns easily. "It's… hard to remember, sometimes, that not everyone deals with the war in the same ways we do."

They share a glance. She shakes her head, frustration bristling to the surface only for a moment as she says, "It's difficult to miss the fact that a war is going on outside their extravagant manor homes."

Draco brings her knuckles to his mouth and brushes a kiss to them. "And they'll catch on soon enough."

He thinks she understands his meaning, but as soon as she opens her mouth to respond, she clamps her lips shut again. Following her gaze, Draco spots his parents approaching. Mouth tightening into a grimace, he rises to his feet and assists her as well, and the four of them convene in the aisle.

"Mother, Father," Draco murmurs. "You, of course, know my wife Hermione."

Lucius observes with a disdainful nod, but Narcissa steps forward to press a kiss to each of Granger's cheeks. Her blue eyes shine with delight—Draco isn't certain as to how genuine it is—but she ducks her chin. "Of course, Hermione—it is wonderful to meet you in this capacity at last."

It's only been a matter of weeks, but Draco chooses not to speak.

"And you," Granger returns, demure and calm. "Draco has told me so much about you."

He hasn't. He typically opts not to mention his mother at all, much as he doesn't mention any of his other weaknesses.

But Narcissa looks pleased all the same, beaming at Granger as though she's the answer to so many things. And if his mother has even a suspicion of the real reason behind all of this, Draco wouldn't be surprised—but he knows she will never bring those suspicions to light.

His mother is radiant in pale blue, her blonde hair drawn into an elegant twist at the back of her neck, and Lucius looks stern but well put together. Stomach twisting, Draco ponders that if circumstances were different, this meeting could have gone entirely different as well.

But if that were the case, it most certainly wouldn't be Granger at his side.

Narcissa loops her hand through Hermione's, drawing her away from the men with a quiet, "We must meet for tea."

Exchanging a grimace with his father, Draco lifts his chin, wracking his brain for something civil to say. Although he's a lieutenant of the Death Eaters—and the highest ranked among them—in this setting, he feels on an uneven keel. As though nothing is quite as he prefers it, and he needs to be cautious of every step.

He spots Theo across the room in conversation with Blaise, and a part of him longs to break away and enjoy the evening with them. But his mother is in quiet conversation with his bride, and Draco isn't close enough to hear what they're saying. He clenches his jaw, following after them, when Voldemort steps onto the dais at the front of the room.

A careful hush falls in an instant.

The Dark Lord peers through the crowd with shrewd, red eyes. He's clad in dark utilitarian robes, and he looks so out of place among the group of socialites and party-goers that Draco shoots Granger a look. Her lips thin in an effort to withhold a smile, and he smirks.

"Welcome," Voldemort hisses, the word resonating with a tense echo across the now silent room. "Today we are here to celebrate the marriage of my most loyal Lieutenant Malfoy and his new wife."

A polite smattering of applause breaks out, though only the Death Eaters stand confident and tall. Draco spots Pansy and Daphne, their faces sustained in forced smiles. In fact, the majority of the guests appear as such. Although Voldemort leads their side in a war, most people aren't comforted by his presence in the slightest.

Draco can't say he enjoys being around his master, either, but he doesn't have a choice. He can't simply attend frivolous parties and ignore the rest of it. He catches his teeth grinding with the tightness of his jaw, and carefully smooths his face into indifference.

A pretty flush coats Granger's cheeks, a gentle smile curving her lips, and Draco lifts his champagne glass.

"As they did not allow us the privilege of attending a proper wedding," Voldemort carries on, the words shooting a chill down Draco's spine, "we will celebrate tonight instead. Come, Draco, and let us hear from you."

He detects the words Voldemort embedded only for him, but he allows a gracious nod anyway and strides forward, aware of hundreds of eyes on him.

Suddenly, he isn't feeling particularly joyful.

Brandishing his champagne glass, Draco fixes his eyes on Granger and clears his throat. "Sometimes, life surprises us with the things we least expect." He narrows in on the warmth hidden in her stare and speaks only to her. "I never imagined I would find a woman with whom I connected so deeply across battle lines. But yet..." He manages a self-indulgent smile, and there's a gentle cooing among the females of the room. "Certain things are simply made to be, and who am I to question them otherwise?"

He's highly aware of the Dark Lord at his side, and for once, Draco doesn't care that the man knows he's lying. His motivations in bringing Granger over from the resistance were never anything so plebeian as romance, but that of manipulation and strategy. But none of that is suitable for the ears present.

Granger beams at him, a sparkle in her eyes and her own glass clutched within gentle fingers.

Draco doesn't care for the eyes on him—he prefers to stay in the shadows, to do what is required of him and move on—so he offers one last nod. "To my beautiful, brilliant, amazing bride, Hermione. Isn't she stunning tonight?"

The crowd offers a chorus of cheers, an ubiquitous clinking of crystal, excited conversation bursting free once more.

He slams the last of his champagne and steps down from the dais.

The whole thing is a bloody farce anyway.

Brushing a kiss to his mother's cheek, he steals Granger's hand and drags her away. They're to put on a show, but none of it means anything, and this is just another move in the game that will sustain them through to the end of this war. One way or the other.

The evening drifts at an odd pace, slow and surreal, as the sky darkens to dusk and twilight beyond the large glass windows of the ballroom.

The guests surpass tipsy, their raucous voices rising and drifting in from the gardens outside. For her part, Hermione is tired of the whole charade, and she longs to escape to their quarters. She's tired of idle chatter, of pretending as if she doesn't hate almost everyone in the room, of feeling the cold, lecherous gazes of the Death Eaters who don't dare approach her as their lieutenant's wife.

She's felt a blanket of uncertainty hover above them all night. Some of them believe the story—others are sceptical. She can't blame them, even as she wishes it were made so much simpler with blind acceptance. But she knows if the tables were turned, if she were watching something like this fall into place, that she would wonder at how it happened too.

Daphne and Pansy are at a table with Nott and Zabini, the four of them several bottles of wine deep, and Hermione wants to join them. But Malfoy's tense enough at her side that she knows he still expects the worst. He might carry on the whole evening expecting the worst.

She's come to rely on his instincts almost as much as her own, however.

And so the foreboding creeps through her with the steady march of time.

All evening, she's been keenly aware of Voldemort's attention on her. The situation is unnerving in so many ways, when her very existence depends on her ability to pull this off. To persuade the Dark Lord that she's in love, however authentically, with his best lieutenant.

She hates it, and all night, she's given him a wide berth. If Malfoy can act as a conduit between them for the rest of her time there, it will be preferable, courage be damned.

"Dance with me," Malfoy murmurs eventually, and she isn't certain if it's because people still watch them or because he needs a distraction just as badly as she does.

So she slips her hand into his. "Okay."

He draws her onto the dance floor, his hand warm and sure in her own. His other hand goes to her back, pulling her in close, and Hermione is suddenly, viscerally aware of his proximity.

His fingers drift along the length of her spine, bare but for the lattice of fine straps on the back of her dress. Jolts of heat dart through her at each point of contact, and unbidden, her eyes snag on his.

So much hangs in his stare, words unspoken and promises neither of them dare make. Trapped in his embrace is a wealth of security, of comfort she doesn't quite recognise.

She sinks into him, pushing back all the rest of it, and winds her arms around his neck. The song is slow, an easy rhythm that flows through her, that pulses with the pace of his heart against her cheek.

Malfoy leads them smoothly, almost lazily, through the motions, taking one of her hands into his and entwining their fingers. And for just a moment, she allows herself to imagine. If, by some incredible twist of fate, they're able to pull all of this off, maybe it won't be so bad to have him at her side. He has so many facets she doesn't know which are real and which are fake, and which combine to make the man he truly is deep inside.

The man he could be, if all of this ends.

She doesn't know if she'll ever be able to leave the war behind, even if it comes to an end. All of this is so deeply ingrained within her, the fear and the prioritisation of survival over all the rest. The black and white of it all, kill or be killed. She's been dragged through her paces more times than she can count, and still, nothing's come of it.

She eyes his friends across the room, grins on their faces as they lift their glasses in a toast.

And it takes long moments to realise her eyes are warm with moisture.

"Things aren't always going to be this way," Malfoy murmurs, breaking the easy silence. She starts, wondering if he can see the tears that threaten to slide down her cheeks. She swipes the moisture away. "Not if we do something about it."

"Yeah," she whispers into his chest, something within her weak and crumbling at the thought. She wants to bury herself in his heat, in the protection his hands offer. For so long, she's forced herself to be strong, to keep fighting, to depend on no one but herself. Even with Harry at her side, she never truly allowed herself to rely on him.

And now, in the face of something different, she's exhausted.

Malfoy releases a sigh, his breath brushing her temple. "I mean it, Granger. We can get out of this. It won't be easy, but..."

It's dangerous to talk like this. They're out in the open but no one's close enough to hear. Even so, her chest tightens at the words, at the whisper of possibility she doesn't dare indulge. It's a floodgate she doesn't know how to close, and she fears more than anything that it might break.

Even if the war ends, the world she knows is in ruins.

She's married to a man she doesn't love, who mere months ago wanted her dead. She doesn't know if they'll be able to tolerate each other without the mutual reliance, if she'll recognise him without the cloak and mask.

Hermione doesn't even know who she might be if all of this comes to an end.

She sniffles, horror spiking through her at the slip. Despite the fact that they're working together now, she's loath to show him any shred of the vulnerability she feels. To reveal her weakness is to give him strength over her.

But Hermione doesn't know where any of her own strength is anymore, depleted as it is. And the shreds blow on a chill breeze in every direction.

His hand tightens on her back, shifting up her bare spine, and his long fingers curl around the back of her neck. "Granger," he murmurs into her hair, the word sounding almost like a plea.

"Hermione," she whispers in return, unable to meet his stare. She doesn't want him to see the depths of raw emotion flooding through her.

"Hermione." The word is an exhale, an oath against her skin, and a shudder shoots through her. "I don't know how to promise you a future when we both know it would be a lie."

At the acknowledgement, something within her eases. None of this makes any sense, certainly not from the outside looking in, but at least they're in it together.

"I don't want any promises," she murmurs, finally summoning the courage to meet his eye.

He stares down at her, something unspoken hanging between them. A knit furrows the skin between his brows, his jaw held in a tight line. But then he softens, a flicker of something so sad she can't possibly bear it. His shoulders sink just a little—it's so subtle she almost misses it.

Sliding his hand along the side of her neck, he grazes the line of her jaw with his fingertips, then smooths the pad of his thumb along her cheek. Surprise sluices through her when he swipes away a tear that clings to the corner of her eye.

"All I can give you," he breathes, "is too many broken edges."

He leans in, and his lips meet hers in a kiss so soft it's little more than a whisper of flesh upon hers. But it lingers—and she feels herself tumble. He kisses her again, harder, the pressure of his mouth firm against hers. The hot moisture that spikes at her eyes is eclipsed, chased away with the bitter thrum of her heart when she kisses him back.

And it's for show—she knows it is. She knows everyone around them expects this, and a part of her hates that they have any audience at all.

But something within her erupts, her heart leaping into a rapid, desperate cadence, her fingers sliding into his hair, his hands drawing her flush against his hard chest.

Her world shifts, ever so slightly, on its axis.

If not for his arms around her, she might simply fall into the abyss and never resurface again.

Malfoy's tongue grazes hers, traces the seam of her lips, sweeps into her mouth. He swallows the quiet whimper that breaks from her, kissing her again. When he draws back with a nip to her lower lip, she can feel the smirk against her mouth. Heat sparks within her, a low ember hanging on the edge of a blade, ready to become a flame.

His fingers are searing against her skin, and he presses his temple to hers as they share breath for a moment longer.

It was too fast, too short, not nearly enough to stoke the heat within her. Hermione longs to kiss him again, to draw him close and lose herself in the sensation of his mouth and hands on her.

But eyes linger on them, some doubtful, some appraising. Others, like Daphne and Pansy, glinting with delight.

Malfoy simply draws her into his chest and ignores the rest of them. As if he doesn't care about who sees them—if anyone sees them at all. And she wishes it were true.

Time slips by with the smooth flow of music, with the steady drift of their movement, and Hermione doesn't want to be anywhere else. Tomorrow, life will crash down hard upon them once more, and it might be all the worse for this brief moment of respite they've shared.

But just for now, she pushes all the rest of it back.

Seconds, minutes, or hours pass—she doesn't know—but she feels the instant he tenses. His hands tighten, his entire body going stiff and cold in one heart-shattering moment. Hermione freezes, dread crawling through her like ice in her veins.

She doesn't have to look at him to know. He's been summoned.

"I have to go."

And where she found warmth moments before, she now sees only white hot fury. "Okay."

He stares at her a moment longer, lips parting as though to say something more, but then his jaw clamps shut. A shade slides over his grey eyes, blank nothingness staring back at her, and it's a look that haunts her memories. He knew this was coming, and she can't stay the nausea that swirls with the champagne in her stomach when he releases her and steps back.

Hermione doesn't know that she's ever felt so cold. "I'll see you later," she whispers.

With a nod, he slips away.

And though Hermione takes up a seat between Daphne and Nott at their table, accepting a glass of wine, the will to celebrate has trickled from her entirely.

Half an hour later, she makes her excuses and slips from the room, making the quiet trek to their quarters with only her fear for company.

Chapter End Notes

Me while writing this fic: for sure no one is going to wait this long for them to properly kiss 😅

I hope you liked the chapter! This was one of my favourites to write, and I'd love to hear your thoughts 💙

Alpha and beta love, as always, to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows, respectively.

Chapter 24

Chapter Notes

Hey friends! AO3 had an outage shortly after the last chapter went live, in case anyone missed the update. Please be sure you've read 23 before moving on. 💙

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It's past midnight when Hermione returns to their quarters, and while she isn't tired, she's exhausted. The night rattles through her, the mental strain of it. And Malfoy.

The way he made her feel as though the rest of it was bearable. The comfort of his arms around her as they danced—the taste of his lips when he kissed her. She's practical enough to know it meant nothing, when it would have been suspicious if they didn't touch and kiss and lose themselves in each other at a party to celebrate their recent nuptials.

But something in it felt real.

He's a better actor than she is, and she's known that for a long time.

All of it dropped away when the Dark Lord summoned him to his side, and all she can think now is that Malfoy wasn't paranoid; he had known this was coming. Try as she might, she can't envision it as a routine call—not in the middle of the night at his own celebration.

It's a punishment, as he suspected.

Hermione knows she won't be able to sleep until he's back, but she has no idea how long he will be gone. She paces the sitting room, attempts to read a book, sips a cup of herbal tea to steady her nerves.

The clock ticks past one.

She slips into her closet, taking care with the straps of her dress as she eases it from her shoulders, and hangs it cautiously on the rail.

For a moment she observes herself, clad only in black lace lingerie. Some of the leanness to her form after her time in the resistance, kept under strict rations, has softened into curves, and it's startling in its juxtaposition. She can't quite bring herself to remove the lace undergarments, beautiful as they are. None of this is hers, of course.

Everything she has is his except for a dirty and torn satchel of possessions that kept her alive in the resistance.

She eyes herself in the mirror for a moment longer, and surprises herself when she wonders what Malfoy would think. Whether he would like the lingerie. If he would take care with the delicate fabric, or if he would rip them from her in his urgency to expose her nakedness beneath.

She imagines his hands on her; the ways he might touch her. How he would thrust into her, seeking his pleasure while coaxing hers to the surface. The carnal look in his eye as desire gives way to release inside of her. Her eyelids flutter at the thought, her fingers drifting idly along the lace edges of her bra and grazing the sensitive peak of one nipple.

The thoughts stir heat within her, below her belly, and she clenches her legs together against the moisture pooling there. She does her best to suppress the desire, but after experiencing the fire of his kisses earlier, it isn't easy. It's not only naive but dangerous to think such things.

Self-indulgent. And she doesn't allow herself anything so trivial.

So she shrugs on a knee-length dressing gown, the floral silk cool against her bare skin. Taking a seat at the vanity, she unwinds the meticulous twist from her hair, removes the pins and the magic that holds it in place, and allows her curls to tumble free.

The jar of lotion Daphne used still sits on the vanity, and Hermione washes away her makeup before smoothing some of the cream along her face and neck.

It's been a long time since she's allowed herself such indulgences, but now, it's all in an effort to stay the racing in her mind. The frantic shudder of her heart in her chest.

It's nearly two in the morning, and her eyelids begin to droop. She hates the feeling. The long day has worn her thin, and now fear wracks her, giving way to something else that startles her in its voracity.

A part of her wants to simply go to sleep. Malfoy knows how to handle himself with Lord Voldemort.

Despite her best efforts to distract herself, thoughts of him still drift through the back of her mind. His mouth, his tongue, his long, deft fingers. It's been so long since she's felt the insistent push of arousal, and maybe it wouldn't be the end of the world. She could usher herself into sleep with thoughts of him and release at the other side of her own touch.

But some part of her doesn't want him to be alone when he returns, and a surge of shame rushes through her at the thought. She sinks into the armchair in their joint sitting room, exhaustion sweeping through her and threatening to overwhelm her feeble conviction.

She suspects she drifts in and out of sleep, because when her eyes jolt open it's a quarter to three.

Hermione yawns, stifling her mouth behind her palm, and her eyes snap wide at a sudden crack of Apparition.

Malfoy appears in the sitting room, and she sucks in a sharp breath. He's just barely standing, shoulders slumped and something deflated about him.

And there's blood.

So much blood.

His face is bruised and swollen, dried blood concealing his features. Chunks of his pale hair are tinted copper, and his crisp white shirt is ruined with it.

"Granger," he chokes, his voice hoarse, in the moments before his knees give out. He sinks back against the wall, sliding down until he's seated with his knees bent, and he collapses in on himself with heavy, laboured breaths.

"Holy shit," she mutters to herself, rushing to his side as she instantly reaches for a pulse. It's weak, and his whole body shudders with the effort to breathe. She reaches for his head, tilting his face towards hers so she can peer at his eyes. One is almost entirely swollen shut, the other glassy and bloodshot. Quelling the rising sense of panic within her, she calls out, "Patroclus!"

Moments later, the elf appears in the room, scrubbing at one eye. But he jumps back, startled. "Master! What is happened?"

"Patroclus," Hermione says, surprising herself with the level tone of her voice. "I need you to bring me healing potions, bruise paste, dittany—whatever you keep in the manor infirmary. Alright? All of it."

"Yes, Mistress," Patroclus whispers, his eyes watering with tears, before he vanishes.

Hermione takes Malfoy's hand into hers, giving his fingers a tight squeeze while she waits for the elf to return. Her head spins. Her knowledge of healing magic is rudimentary and likely not what he'll require. She's only practised healing in the field, on missions, and in training exercises.

When Patroclus appears clutching a large basket of vials and jars, she takes it from him and dismisses the elf after gaining a promise not to share what he's seen.

Malfoy eyes her, his head lolling against the wall. His lip is split, and a trail of fresh blood still seeps from it.

"Did he do this?" she growls, unable to keep the raw fury from her voice as she rifles for some disinfectant and a towel.

Malfoy huffs a laugh but the sound is pained. "Who else?" He grimaces, clutching a bruised hand to his sternum as though he's disturbed an injured rib.

Her hands are already covered in his blood, and she shakes her head in disgust, digging through the basket and drawing out one potion for internal healing and another for the pain. She presses them into his palm, watching as he swigs them back with significant effort.

"There is no one more evil. This is going to hurt." She swabs disinfectant in one of the deeper looking cuts before he can object, and he grinds his jaw so hard she fears he could shatter his own teeth. As she moves to work on some of the smaller lacerations, he relaxes a little, and Hermione falls into a quiet rhythm. "Healing magic isn't my forte, I'm afraid, so let me know if you'd prefer to summon a healer."

"No," he grits out. "Just do your best."

Then his eyes flit up to meet hers, and all at once the evening comes back to her. Something haunts his gaze she can't quite reconcile, and he glances away.

Casting a few basic healing spells, she reaches for the dittany. She manages to knit some of the wounds closed, and when the worst of them are disinfected and cleaned, she frowns. "I'm going to wash the rest of this blood off of you."

Too worn out to argue, he only nods. He curses when she helps him to his feet, and he props one hand against the wall to support himself until she draws his arm around her shoulders instead. Slowly, she assists him through the sitting room and into his quarters.

It's the first time she's entered his room. She wishes the circumstances were anything but this. Leaving him leaned against the wall, she starts the water to temper the spray. She would have offered him a bath, but she doesn't imagine he wants to sit in his own bloody water. And he doesn't dispute the shower.

With a wave of her wand, his shoes and socks slide from his feet, and his eyes follow her motions as she reaches for his belt buckle. Hermione swallows, attempting to stay as clinical as she can, taking care to avoid nudging against him with her hands as she slides the trousers from his hips. Then she reaches for his tie, the knot of it askew, and slips the fine silk loose.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, as she begins on the row of buttons on his shirt. She isn't certain what she's apologising for. Undressing him like this. For the blood. For the fact that he's beholden to a sociopathic monster.

Maybe he doesn't know either, because he doesn't answer.

With his shirt off, she can see the full extent of his superficial injuries. Already bruises bloom on his pale skin, overlaid with the thin striping of scar tissue along his chest and torso.

She wants to touch them, to paint his scars over with her lips.

Her fingers hover, only for a moment, against his abdomen before she takes his arm and assists him into the shower in just his shorts. She slips the silk robe from herself, and heat flares in her cheeks when his gaze lands on the lingerie.

It's a cruel joke, that just hours before she'd been thinking of him tearing the garments from her body.

She can't miss the heat in his stare as his eyes rake over her, but she only steels herself and follows him into the large shower. The water is hot, soaking through her underwear in an instant. But any desire she might have felt earlier is stayed by the way blood sluices from his skin and pools in the drain.

Hermione managed to close the deepest of the wounds, but the water reveals so many more, as if he'd been hit with numerous laceration curses. Or maybe this was a Muggle weapon.

She reaches for a cloth, smoothing it gently along his skin where the blood dried and clung to his cuts. "Why?" she asks, quietly, as she works.

"Because he can," Malfoy says, and his voice is equal parts defiance and defeat. "Because all of this—leaving you alive, marrying you—was against his will. None of this goes along with his plans."

"If he cares so much about his bloody plans," Hermione growls, surprising herself with her own ire, "maybe he shouldn't force you to do everything for him."

His gaze remains on her, grey eyes deadened but not in the way to which she's accustomed. For so long, when they hunted each other, she thought there was simply nothing there. That he was so dead to his emotions they no longer existed.

But now she knows better—knows there's so much more to him. He's cold because he has to be, but there are flickers of brightness in every one of his dark corners.

She longs to draw them all to the surface.

Pressing up on her toes, she scrubs at his hair, washing the blood from platinum blond.

"Is anything broken?" she asks, looking him over while his fringe drips into his eyes. "Ribs?"

"I hope not," he drawls. "I don't think so. Just bruised."

"Merlin," she whispers. They stare at each other, the hot water pouring down their skin, and something within her that felt so joyous earlier now feels like it's withered and died. "You might want to see a healer."

He grimaces. "It'll be fine."

Hermione steps closer, peering up at him. Her sodden lingerie clings to her, and in the aftermath of the panic that swelled within her, she's all too aware of his eyes. One of his hands moves along her side, curling around her hip, and her eyelids flutter.

Her fingers drift against his abdomen, intensely aware of the scant fabric that separates them from skin on skin. She longs for him even now, and she doesn't think she'll ever be able to deny it again.

"Come on," she murmurs on a hitched inhale. "I'll clean up the rest of this the best I can."

Malfoy's slightly rejuvenated as she helps him from the shower, wrapping him in a fluffy black towel before she casts drying spells on them both. Her silk dressing gown is coated in his blood so she leaves it in the laundry with his clothes, guiding him back into the sitting room where he deflates into the sofa.

"You should sleep," he muses when she stifles a yawn, rummaging through the basket for a few jars. "It's late."

Hermione fires a scowl at him. "I'm not sleeping while you're like this."

The clock on the wall ticks past four in the morning, but she pushes her exhaustion back. She dabs an anti-inflammatory cream on his swollen eye and broken lip, a tingle shooting through her at the touch of his mouth. Then she slathers an entire jar of paste along the worst of his bruises, desperately trying to ignore the hard feel of his muscles under her touch. She pays special attention to the sensitive ribs, and he straightens as the pain slides away.

Almost as an afterthought, she removes his blood from the wall, the carpet, the furniture. The sitting room looks as though nothing occurred at all.

When she's nearly done, Malfoy catches her hand in his. Already, he looks improved, the worst of his injuries mending or healed. Slowly, he entwines his fingers with hers, and when her gaze drifts to his, he says, "I'm sorry for ruining our nice night."

She detects the words left unspoken. And all she can think of is the kiss.

"You didn't ruin anything," she says, giving his hand a brisk squeeze. This time, when she tugs him to his feet, energy crackles in the air between them. Vaguely, she can detect the magic of the bonds flare, and his hand in hers gives her a sense of peace she never could have imagined.

Malfoy stares down at her, nearly a full head taller than her, and his throat shifts with a swallow.

Aware of his hand still clenched in her own, Hermione can't force her gaze away.

Maybe she ought to be frightened by the look in his eye. Maybe she's too far gone for that.

"I'm going to kill him," he whispers, the words soft and deadly cold.

Tugging him closer by their joined hands, she says, "I know."

"And you're going to help me."

Hermione swallows. "If it's the last thing I do."

When he kisses her, she isn't surprised. She welcomes the contact, the hard press of his lips on hers, the anger and the desperation and the agony on his tongue. Malfoy backs her against the wall, his hands roving the skin of her arms, her shoulders, her stomach. She still wears only her undergarments, and he just his shorts, and she can feel every hard inch of him pressed against her as she draws him flush.

Their tongues tangle, heat racing through her and pooling in her core as searing desire.

It isn't romantic and it isn't soft, but she can feel he needs it as badly as she does.

They're through with pretence—that evening might have been an act, but this is far from it. This is raw and carnal and as real as anything she can find deep within her.

He slips the clasp of her bra, staring unabashedly at her exposed breasts for a moment before his eyes dart up to hers. Then he ducks in, burying his face in her chest, squeezing, licking, sucking at the sensitive flesh. A cry falls from her lips as her head drops back against the wall.

Winding one hand around his back, she basks in his touch, in the rhythm they fall into as easily as all the rest. His hands on her are a sweet misery she didn’t even know she longed for, and he explores every part of her as though he doesn't know anything else.

As if he's desired this even longer than she.

"Granger," he growls, heavy breaths falling against her skin as he bites down on her earlobe, his fingers tweaking one nipple hard. A whimper tears from her throat. "If you don't want this—"

"I do," she pants, reaching for him. She wraps her hand around his hard length, straining against the fabric of his shorts.

Heat dances in his eyes, each breath mingling with her own. He reaches for the lace of her knickers, toying with the waistband for a moment before he drags them down her legs.

A thought drifts through the back of her mind from earlier, and a smile tugs at her lips. As if reading her amusement, he smirks, then tosses her knickers to the floor. "Those are nice," he murmurs, his fingers drifting between her legs and zeroing in on her clit. "Did you wear the lacy knickers for me or for you?"

A gasp falls from her as she arches away from the wall. She grinds against his hand, unapologetic in the swell of her desire. "For me," she whispers, eyelids fluttering. "But I left them on for you."

He sucks her earlobe into his mouth as he thrusts two fingers inside of her. "An excellent call." Mirth dances in his eyes. "You have impeccable taste, Missus Malfoy."

The name from his lips shoots straight through her, and she cries out when his thumb finds her clit in slow, pulsing circles. His fingers drive into her, curling against her inner wall in a way that makes her vision blur around the edges.

She pushes his shorts from his hips, freeing his cock, and her mouth goes dry at the sight of him. He's hard and long, thick enough that he fills her palm, and she takes hold of him as he kicks his shorts the rest of the way free.

"Granger," he groans into her ear, pressing his forehead against the wall next to her head as he drives her nearer to the edge with his fingers. "Fuck."

"Is it Granger or Malfoy?" she whispers, biting down on her lower lip at the pleasure that courses through her. She tugs him in smooth strokes, assertive but languid.

He huffs a surprised laugh and draws her into a deep, fiery kiss. "Both. Neither," he drawls when he pulls back, pressing his thumb still harder into her clit as though it’s all that matters. Release crashes over her, almost taking her by surprise as a cry breaks from her lips. Wave after wave of pleasure rushes through her, adrenaline bright and searing in her veins as it pulses behind her ears.

She draws in a gasping breath, her fingers tightening around his cock as she comes down.

A slow, teasing smirk draws across his face.

Hermione wants to kiss it away. Wants to feel him buried inside her to the hilt.

For all her imaginings, this is nothing like it. She tugs at him, smoothing her thumb along the head of his erection where a drop of liquid has leaked free. Malfoy pulls her hand away, pressing her wrist against the wall, and positions himself at her entrance.

"Tell me to fuck you," he whispers.

She meets his eye. "Fuck me."

When she draws his mouth to hers, the kiss is nothing like the one they shared in the ballroom that night. It's hard and punishing, and she catches his bottom lip with her teeth.

She wraps one leg around his waist, and he hitches the other up, lifting her from the floor and keeping her flush against the wall.

They both still with a groan when he thrusts into her.

His cock is generous, filling her to the point where her head spins at the feel of him, raw and buried within her walls. A long, low moan slides from her lips as she drops her head back. He releases her wrist, squeezing her breast, and leans in to suck the nipple between his teeth. As if sensing she needs a moment to adjust.

"Okay," she whispers with a heavy exhale.

His arm winds around her back, holding her as he draws almost entirely out—then drives back into her.

A cry falls from her at the feel of it, the heady combination of pain and pleasure all swirling into one in an explosion of sensation. He thrusts into her, drawing sharp spikes of pleasure. Her back slams against the wall with the force of it, a hiss sliding from between her teeth as she brings his mouth back to hers.

It's too much, and all at once, not enough. She needs him closer, deeper; she needs every part of him against every part of her.

His eyes snap to hers, his expression faltering.

But she murmurs against his mouth, "Keep going."

It's what she needs—what they both need—and the culmination of so much between them. Months of hunting each other, of the way uncertainty has lain between them like an unwanted guest, and now this.

Hermione will welcome each jolt of pleasure, every clench of pain at his hands if if means she knows him, implicitly. She's known they're on the same side for some time, but something shifts between them in that moment, and now he feels like someone on her team.

She's pledged herself at his side, and he at hers.

The thought stirs something deep within her, a tightness in her chest. She rolls her hips against him, drags her nails down his shoulders, traces the scar tissue on his chest with her tongue.

"More," she breathes, quiet and desperate, a demand and a plea, a promise and an oath. Tears push at the corners of her eyes. "Harder."

Planting one hand on the wall as he holds her tight to him with the other, he slams into her, harder, faster, their rapid breaths dancing as one.

Hermione feels delirium creep in, her whole body tensing and coiling with her impending release, and she finds the same in his grey eyes. "Malfoy," she groans, burying her face in his neck. Her fingers tighten against his back, her legs winding tighter as he plunges deep inside her.

Releasing a heavy breath, he drives into her again. Brushes his fingers to her clit, bringing her climax to the surface.

And as she falls apart he follows her over the edge, a low groan falling from his lips as he stills inside her.

Hermione's head spins, body wracked with an orgasm that tears through her as she quakes, her hands trembling, and she clutches him like a lifeline. Pleasure rushes through every vein, every nerve ending, and her heavy eyelids slide open to find his stare on her.

Malfoy's shoulders sink and a slow, sated smile tugs at his mouth. He presses a lingering kiss to her mouth before releasing her, withdrawing carefully as he lowers her legs to the ground.

Wincing at the tenderness she already feels, she manages a half-hearted smile of her own. She reaches up, dragging her fingers through his hair, damp from the shower and sweat.

For several long moments, they only stand there, staring at each other with lazy, satisfied smiles. Almost as if they're young, experiencing a partner for the first time, and she feels a hint of self-consciousness she hasn't known in years. In the aftermath of her pleasure, of the exertion of it, she's exhausted. And she can't hold back a wide yawn.

Her back already hurts from the wall, and she knows she'll feel it tomorrow.

A part of her yearns for it.

Malfoy presses a kiss to her mouth, to her jaw, to each of her breasts. He kneels down, with a final kiss to her inner thigh. At that, his eyes sparkle with hidden promise, and a shiver of energy courses through her. Then he rises, twines her fingers between his and drags her to the nearest bedroom without a word.

They collapse atop the covers in a tangled heap of limbs, and when Hermione's eyes slide shut, she falls immediately into sleep.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading. I hope you are all enjoying the story so far!! 🥰

Alpha and beta love to the wonderful kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

Chapter 25

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

His eyes open slowly and the night before comes back to him all at once.

From the pain to the pleasure. The searing, intense agony of the Dark Lord's punishment. Fucking Granger against the sitting room wall.

Draco snickers, taking in her nude form next to his. He doesn't even remember falling asleep, fatigued as he was after such a long night, but they must have shifted in their sleep because her back is pressed to his front, her arse shoved back against his cock, her feet tangled with his own.

When he kissed her at the ball, he'd promised himself it was for the benefit of onlookers.

But later, when he'd returned back half-conscious and she'd cleaned and healed his wounds, they'd willingly thrown themselves over all the carefully crafted lines between them. The memory, even now, stirs something within him, and his cock eases awake, already growing hard from the feel of her pressed so intimately against him.

Draco doesn't know what her thoughts are on the night before, but he isn't keen to go back to a place where he pretends he doesn't want her.

He smooths a hand along her ribcage, around the curve of her hip, up to the swell of her breast. Granger stirs, a contented hum falling from her lips, and she grinds herself back against him.

Her eyes slide open and she turns her head towards him, but her expression remains blank. A furrow knits her brow and he falters, unwilling to keep exploring her body if she isn't inclined. But then she bites down on her lower lip, arches her back just so and presses her chest into his hand. She reaches one hand back, catching his hard cock in her palm and giving a slow drag through her fingers.

Draco smirks, relieved to find they're on the same page. More than relieved, if he's honest.

He palms her breast with a squeeze, presses a kiss to the sensitive skin where her throat meets her shoulder, brushes his tongue along her soft skin.

But then Granger stills, her fingers loosening around him. Her eyes snag on his, and Draco realises they fell asleep in the middle of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

He drops his head down, drawing idle patterns into her bare skin, and considers the question. Although his body still aches from the relentless torture of the night before, the woman at his side managed to heal the worst of it. He might still need to consult with a healer, but he doesn't care to bring his dealings with the Dark Lord to anyone's attention unnecessarily.

"Fine," he murmurs, sliding one hand between her legs. "Whole and in one piece." He grazes her clit with his fingertips, and she shifts to oblige his touch. "How are you feeling?"

A whisper of a moan slides from her lips, and his cock jolts in response. "Tired."

Draco presses his mouth to her bare back, a few bruises marring the surface from the night before. He smirks against her flesh. "We could spend all day in bed if you like."

Although he expects her to retort, to deny him for the sake of it, she only hums in response and grinds her arse back against him. "Could we really though?"

He understands instantly. The war rages on outside, and even when he isn't sent out to fight, he's often called to the Dark Lord for various other tasks. When he does have a rare day to himself, there are plenty of other preparations to catch up on.

But Draco draws her closer against him, slipping one finger between her folds to find her already wet. She sucks in a breath and he stills. "Sore?"

"A little," she admits. No part of what they did the night before was gentle by any reckoning of the word, and he snickers. Before he can speak, or say that they could simply rest, she adds, "But don't stop."

"That's a good girl," he murmurs into her skin, sliding his finger into her a little easier, slower, allowing her to adjust to the intrusion before adding a second. "I'll stay in today if I can."

It's the best he can offer, and when she nods, he knows she understands.

So many things have changed between them in the months since he was first assigned to track her down and stop her heart. She's become the only person he truly believes he can trust. And now Draco doesn't know if he has it in him to block her out again. They're married, bonded together for life over the cause of a common purpose, and if he can't trust her for that, then he doesn't know what would possibly merit such a thing.

He's so tired, so worn out by all of it, and after the torture he faced the night before, he's all the more committed to the path that leads to the Dark Lord dead at his feet.

Now that he's experienced what it's like to have someone else, he doesn't want to be alone anymore. And just maybe he can learn to let her in.

Granger moans at his easy touches, her fingers tugging idly at his cock.

And, as Draco recalls the sex from the night before, he doesn't mind being bound to her all that much. He wants to bury himself in her, to feel her tight walls wrapped around him. He pushes her onto her stomach with a hand to the small of her back. Manoeuvring her arse up to align himself, he slides into her slowly, lazily, resting on an elbow above her.

Some distant part of him is grateful she’s been taking a contraceptive potion from the manor healers to keep up the facade.

She moans his name—his given name—and it's almost enough for him to come undone right then.

Grinding back against him, she moves in time to the slow, teasing rhythm he sets, both of them too tired for much more. Draco drives into her, kissing her bare skin, sliding his other hand along her stomach, her breasts, playing idle circles along her clit.

And when he feels himself tighten with impending release, he pushes her over first, basking in the soft cries that fall from her mouth and land halfway muffled in the bedding beneath her.

After, sated and spent, his body strained with the residual effects of too many different sorts of torture, he collapses at her side. He draws her close, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, lets himself slide back into sleep, soothed by the rhythmic beat of her heart.

When Hermione stirs awake again, it's nearly one in the afternoon. She bolts up from the bed, still naked, still with Malfoy's juices dried between her legs. A quiet scratching comes from the window, and she peers through to see a large barn owl.

Her heart drops into her stomach. It's the same owl she sent to Harry from the Diagon Alley post office a handful of days prior. The wards on Malfoy Manor are comprehensive enough that she knows the owl wouldn't have been able to bring anything untoward, but she curses the slight tremble in her hands when she takes the letter from its outstretched talons.

Instantly, her heart sinks. The same letter she sent to Harry—untouched and unopened. But stuck to the front of it is a cutout from the Daily Prophet—the article that discussed her marriage to Draco Malfoy. Scrawled across her face in dark ink is one word: TRAITOR.

She swallows hard, nausea churning in her stomach in an instant. There isn't any way to be certain Harry even received the letter—maybe Warrington intercepted it and didn't even pass it along, recognising it was from her.

But if this is Harry's response...

Shame courses, hot and sticky, through her veins, compounded all the more by the fact that she kissed Malfoy—she slept with the man twice in less than twelve hours—and still she can't bring herself to regret it.

"Bastards," Malfoy huffs, coming up behind her. He plucks the letter from her grasp, still fully nude, and shakes his head at it. His gaze slides up to assess her face, and Hermione wishes she had something to cover herself in the light of day.

As if sensing her discomfort, he glances away and peers closer at the letter, turning it over in his hands. "I'll scan the writing to see who wrote this."

Something odd strikes her in the sentiment; in the fact that he cares about it at all. Then Hermione realises it must be written on her face.

"If it was Harry," she hedges, "he's on my list, remember?"

His gaze lands on her face again, blank but for some of that coldness she knows too well; he simply folds the letter in two. "I remember."

Then he places the scroll onto his desk and vanishes into his closet. Taking the chance to make herself decent, Hermione slips to her own room to dress.

He finds Granger perched on her bed half an hour later, her curls still damp and a pensive expression on her face. The Black family grimoire sits open on the quilt before her, and without even looking up, she pats the spot beside her.

Draco snickers but obliges, dropping into the edge of the bed and peering at what she's reading. Almost instantly, he recognises the discussion of the enhancement bonds.

"I thought," she muses softly, finally looking up at him, "if we're staying in today, maybe we could explore the magic of this bond."

If he hadn't already been fully aware that he'd made the right choice in proceeding with this with her—he would be vindicated now. "Okay," he says, taking her hand into his, turning it face-up. He drifts his fingertips along the lines of her palm, watching her expression. "And how do you propose we do that?"

"Have you felt it?"

"Yes." He hesitates. "Not strongly. But it comes and goes, sometimes on the edge of consciousness." He interlaces their fingers. "It's stronger when we're connected."

A part of him was curious whether the magic—the bond—might grow stronger if the ritual were consummated. But for as unromantic as the ceremony itself was, he didn’t hold his breath. And now, he doesn't feel any different.

"It says here," she muses, turning back to the book though she leaves her hand in his, "that the magical pool will strengthen over time—but that we can actively seek to grow it like a muscle."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Because that isn't needlessly vague."

She snickers, then rolls out her shoulders. "Maybe you don't remember a time when magic didn't exist in your life, but I didn't even know about this world until I was eleven. I had to learn how to use it then, and I can only imagine the same applies now."

"That magic was always a part of you," Draco counters, gesturing with a hand. "This is something else entirely."

Her face falls. Drifting her fingers along the page, she sighs. "Well, this is our way out."

The words sober his flippancy, and he stares at the page. "Then we'd best figure it out."

Reaching within him, Draco locates the small flicker of magic he sometimes feels, foreign against his own. It carries a hint of her magical signature to it, and he recognises that—but the rest is something else. Something deeper and archaic, something that feels as though it comes from the earth itself.

He hangs tight to the thread of it, drawing it closer to his own core magic. "Can you feel that?"

She blinks, surprised. "Yes. I can."

The side of the signature that's inherently Granger strengthens, and his eyes widen when he feels her exert her will onto the pool. The thread shifts just slightly out of his control, like it's a bowstring that she's plucked, drawing the magic from the resulting reverberations.

His whole life, Draco has learned to understand and manipulate magic. And he knows he's good at it.

He hasn’t had a choice, to survive the war to this point.

But this is something entirely new. Some long-buried part of him that used to luxuriate in such things springs awake, and he tugs at the string. When Granger draws in a breath, he knows she can feel it too.

"So we can't both manage it at once?" she asks, the words hushed.

"Not necessarily." Draco's eyes are tight with focus as he stares at the quilt. "Though it is fascinating that we can feel each other through it."

"It is."

She flexes the magic, drawing it to her side, and Draco snatches it back. In a way, it's amusing, a strange mental manipulation with which neither of them are familiar. But it doesn't accomplish anything, and a shadowy, pragmatic part of him wonders whether it will be enough.

Whether maybe this magic isn't as powerful as he'd hoped. If it isn't enough to overpower the magic of the Dark Mark after all. To break through the impenetrable magic the Dark Lord wears as a cloak.

"We'll figure it out," Granger whispers, drawing the thread almost entirely from his grasp. Then she releases it, thrusting it back towards his magical core.

Like a pendulum.

A small swell of magic surges through him, stronger than anything he's felt from it to this point, and he turns to stare at her. He's so taken aback by the manoeuvre, by the thoughts it inspires, that he lets the thread go entirely.

"A give and take," he muses.

"Push and pull," Granger returns. They stare at each other a long moment before she adds, "A true partnership."

All at once, Draco wants to kiss her. And so he does.

"You know what we didn't deal with?" Draco muses that evening as they lounge in the sitting room. "The second Foray operative."

When Granger's eyes slide to meet his, he can see the guilt within her stare. "I almost forgot about that."

He refrains from saying it means she did forget, but he can't fault her. The night before was pure chaos from the point when the Dark Lord summoned him to his chambers. Before that, it almost slipped his mind as well. If he's honest, Draco's attention was mostly fixed on Granger for the majority of the day.

"I spoke with Theo about it in advance," he says, "while you were preparing with Daphne and Pansy."

At that, a frown furrows her brow. "You should have told me. I would have gone with you instead of spending the day fretting over hair and makeup. We could have figured something else out."

"Theo and I did figure out something," Draco says, "but of course the details will depend on exactly who it is." He nudges her foot with his. "And I know why you had other things on your mind."

Never mind the torture he endured. There was the sex as well.

A pale pink flush rises into her cheeks, and he doesn't have to wonder which part she's thinking of.

"Regardless," Draco presses on. "I haven't had a chance to confer with Theo yet. For the safety and silence of everyone involved in this, we're reluctant to even discuss it within the manor walls. I know my quarters are safe, but I'm hesitant for Theo to make a habit of visiting here. The other Foray operative will surely be watching Theo now that they've made contact with each other."

"That's valid," Granger says, though she still looks put out at being left out of the initial discussion.

"For the record," Draco drawls, "I wanted you to spend time with Daphne and Pansy because no part of our wedding ceremony was remotely like a wedding, and the ball was the only chance we were going to get." His voice drops off when her expression falters, and he shifts on the sofa, uncomfortable. "I wanted you to experience some of it."

As though she's trying to make sense of him, her eyes tighten. But then her brows lift up, sadness furrowing her brow, and she whispers, "Oh."

"Yes, oh." When she doesn't speak, he rolls his eyes. "If you'd let me finish before—"

"Smart arse—"

"I would have told you that we are meeting with Theo off the grounds this evening to discuss the matter."

That's enough to shut her up, and privately, he basks in the brightness that comes into her eyes at the thought. Draco might have thought he'd offered her tickets to some sort of high class event rather than a meeting of stealth in a forest beyond the warehouse district. A part of London where the two of them spent plenty of time chasing each other down.

"Fine," she returns. "I'll get ready."

"Great idea." Draco ducks from the room before she can hit him with a hex.

The sun is just beginning to set below the horizon, casting rays of purple and orange through the trees.

The territory is all too familiar, only this time Malfoy isn't her enemy. Not really—not when she's found herself so thoroughly disconnected from the cause she once claimed. Hermione wonders if he's thinking the same thing.

So much has shifted between them since the night before, though she can't quite put her finger on the specifics. He's a little looser around her, not quite so stiff and rigid. A bit more open.

Maybe after everything that happened between the ball, him returning to the quarters beaten half to oblivion, and the rest that ensued past that point, he's finally determined they're on the same side.

Malfoy's exceedingly private, and she understands why. He exists in a place of such power, deep within an organisation he despises, and one wrong move or slipped word could be used against him. Too many people have it out for him, and he has no choice but to watch his back.

Hermione feels the same way, a lot of the time. But for some reason crossing into his territory has eased some of the strain she faced with the resistance.

Still, she loathes the idea of falling into a false sense of security.

She prepared for the meeting with Nott as she would any confrontation prior to all of this. Despite the closet full of clean, expensive items, she slipped into her old worn leather boots, tucking holstered daggers on her person, and slung her worn satchel over her back. Malfoy shot her a look when she emerged into the sitting room but didn't say anything.

If anything, his lips quirked at the sight of her.

Minutes after they arrive, Nott appears in the clearing and eyes the two of them before casting a few of his own wards on the area. Neither of them dispute the move—they can never be too careful.

Toeing the loamy earth, Malfoy drawls, "How did you find the party?"

"It was pleasant," Nott returns, hesitating. "Enlightening."

"And did you discover the guest of honour?"

Malfoy cocks a pale brow when Hermione snickers at their code before offering a wry, "There are three sets of wards on this clearing."

"I met the operative," Nott muses, giving in with another brief glance around. "The issue is, I suspect they're on to me already. Whoever it is in the resistance that doubts if I'm still trustworthy has informed the second operative. Maybe none of them trust me anymore. Which means—"

"Which means you're as good as dead," Malfoy concludes.

A shudder darts Hermione's spine.

Nott's mouth tightens in a pout. "If we don't fix this, yes. They might even use the other operative to get to me. I've tried to reach out to Neville, but he doesn't know the extent of how much I'm still working with you, so it's tricky."

Not for the first time, Hermione marvels at how thoroughly entrenched he is on both sides. She suspects if it weren't for his friendship with Malfoy, Nott would have abandoned them altogether when he was revealed. Somehow, the thought endears him to her just a little despite that he's clearly been playing both sides.

It's the reason Malfoy's still hesitant to tell him anything important.

"So?" Malfoy asks, folding his arms. "We aren't going to stand out here all night and debate whether or not you're going to die. Who is it?"

Nott smirks, draws the galleon from his pocket, and tosses it into the air. "You'll love this, Draco. It's fucking Flint."

At her side, Malfoy stiffens. She recalls, only days before, the way Flint insulted her while they were out for a walk on the grounds. It almost doesn't make sense unless she considers the fact that he's likely had to overcompensate to maintain his cover.

"You did already put him on your list," Hermione intones under her breath.

Malfoy flashes her a dark grin. "That I did. And the death of one Marcus Flint is no skin off my teeth—in fact, I'm relieved it's not someone I actually... like."

"The issue now is how to put him out of commission without making it look like we had anything to do with it."

Nott's words hang in the clearing alongside the three of them. After the meeting, the resistance will know Nott was responsible if Flint turns up dead—and with Flint watching Nott closely, they'll have to work around that, too.

"A skirmish," Malfoy says. "Spells flying all over the place. Every so often they simply miss their targets."

"The problem with that idea, lieutenant, is that magical origins can be tracked." Nott shrugs. "So if you or I were to do it ourselves, the magic would be traced back to our wands. Furthermore, the Dark Lord knows about all unsanctioned Death Eater on Death Eater violence."

Hermione feels Malfoy's gaze settle on her, and almost instantly, she understands his intent. She swallows thickly at the implication—that the pool of magic between them could do it without leading back to them. Or so he likely suspects.

But possibly, even this magic could be traced.

"Are you willing to take that risk?" she asks, low under her breath.

Malfoy doesn't immediately respond, and she thinks it's answer enough. "We'll sort something out," he drawls. "Thanks, Theo."

Nodding once, Theo vanishes. Hermione turns to face Malfoy, drifting a step closer. "It only solves one problem."

"And opens up a few more," he agrees. "But we know where to start. And we can figure this out." Scrubbing a hand down his face, he shakes his head. "If it isn't one bloody thing, it's another."

The banality of his irritation makes her snicker, and when he scowls, her grin widens. "Come on, Lieutenant," she whispers, slipping her fingers beneath his belt buckle and giving a tug towards her, "perhaps we ought to solve this problem at home."

A teasing smirk draws at his lips. "I am really enjoying this side of marriage."

A pale moon hangs low in the clear night sky above. Draco gazes out upon the grounds, darkness enveloping him like a cloak.

Granger slips up alongside him, silent on her feet and tugging a cardigan tightly around herself. It's easy to forget sometimes, when he's drawn into her captivating mind, that she's been trained as a ruthless killer. That she knows so much about how to catch someone off guard—that she kept him on his toes for months.

"Hi," she whispers, shooting him a glance. "Is everything alright?"

He isn't used to this. For so long he's operated alone without anyone to show concern or interest. Sometimes it makes him want to shut her out entirely—or maybe he just doesn't know how to properly let someone in.

"Fine." He leans his arms on the rail, watching as she joins him. "I'm just... I think I'm trying to manoeuvre too many pieces into too tight a space. And I can't help but think it's all going to end up a mess."

Granger shrugs, her arm brushing his own. "It might, you know. This could all go horribly wrong. We're hinging so much on a frail hope."

Draco already knows as much, and it keeps him up at night more often than not.

"Speaking of," she presses on, "we ought to sort out some of the details. How we're going to dismantle the resistance. I know a lot about their operations, of course, but things change frequently."

"I know." He scrubs a hand down his face, the exhaustion of the last few days catching up to him. "I've hardly stopped thinking about it." He turns, leaning back against the railing so he can better look at her. "I'm leading a raid tomorrow."

The flicker of surprise in her gaze leaves him uneasy, as though she doesn't expect him to tell her about these things. But all she says is, "Don't take unnecessary risks."

"The Dark Lord... expects certain things."

"I know."

"From you."

Her eyes slide to land on his. "And I'll convey information to him through you."

"Yeah." Draco nods once, and his hand twitches towards her—to wrap around her, draw her close; he isn't certain—but he leaves it by his side. "That's what I told him."

"Does he expect me to fight alongside you?"

He blows out a breath, pressing his eyes shut for a moment. "I don't know. Not yet, anyway. My mother was never expected to fight—but the Dark Lord knows of your capabilities. The impression I've received is that he values your presence here more for the intel you can provide."

"I can't provide anything if Harry won't respond to my letters," she reminds him. "What I need is to meet up with him—to explain some of this, at least."

Draco considers the thought for a moment, a chill crawling down his spine. "Some of it," he concedes at last. "But Potter isn't part of this. He may be protected in our agreement, but we can't trust him not to run to the resistance with every damn thing you say to him."

And although her face falls, she murmurs, "I know."

"I think I can make a meeting happen," he muses, turning the idea over in his mind. "This week. I'll try to get something to him through the raid tomorrow."

"You won't recognise him," she muses. "He's glamoured."

"Then I'll figure something else out." He catches her eye, hoping there's a shred of reassurance in his own. "It's important to me that you stay safe while you're here. I don't want the Dark Lord to suspect you of having ulterior motives. Right now, he has enough faith in my judgement that he's accepted you."

"He has a funny way of showing it," she grumbles.

Draco doesn't respond to that. Not when his nerves still burn from the after effects of the night before.

The air between them feels too tense, too dark, like he's straining to see a light that's too distant. He releases a sigh, trying to sort the contents of his overactive mind into the boxes where they belong.

Granger turns to face him, and the warmth from her body pressed against his does wonders for his tattered soul. "Your mother wants me to meet her for tea." She gnaws on her lower lip and adds, "She also invited me to visit her in Spain."

His brows lift in surprise. "I knew she would take a liking to you—but my mother is smart. I wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't buy any of this—if she thinks there's something else going on. You're welcome to do as you wish, but be careful. I've never wanted my mother to be dragged into more than necessary."

She nods, murmuring, "Noted."

And it's that simple. Draco relaxes, blowing out a breath. He knows she can look after herself, and she knows the stakes here as well as he does. There's something oddly reassuring in the fact that he doesn't need to worry about her—at least not like that. He'll worry if she's forced to fight, but he doubts that will happen.

He knows the resistance will be out for her blood if it comes to that. And maybe that's why the Dark Lord isn't concerned over pushing the matter either.

Granger is of more use to them inside, and Draco isn't going to argue that point.

"I think you'll like my mother," Draco replies. "She may be a Slytherin, but she's fiercely loyal."

"Not your father?"

He clenches his jaw. "No, not my father. You'd be best to keep your distance from him. Visit my mother when he's away."

A part of him always expects her to challenge him—to argue against what he knows better than she does for the sake of it. But so many things have shifted between them, even in the last week, and matters between them have strengthened to the point where he knows she's beginning to trust him. To respect him, even.

And Draco finds he doesn't mind that at all.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading. We're nearly at the mid-point which feels wild to me. I hope you're all still enjoying the story!

Alpha and beta hugs to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows <3

Chapter 26

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

When Hermione stirs awake the next morning at a later hour than she meant to sleep, she finds herself alone and in her own bed. Some of her instincts and careful habits have begun to dull over the course of her time living in Malfoy Manor; an issue she'll need to rectify.

If anything, she should maintain a higher awareness of her surroundings at all times here, even though she's only with Malfoy most of the time.

Dressing quickly, she emerges into the common area between their rooms, but he isn't there.

He didn't elaborate on the raid he was to lead today, but it wouldn't surprise her if he's gone elsewhere ahead of time. She knows his methods better than anyone—the informants he meets, where he stops to pick up material goods.

Releasing a sigh, Hermione settles into a seat at the breakfast table and pours herself a cup of tea, kept hot under stasis.

Malfoy left that morning's Daily Prophet on the table, turned towards her seat to be sure she reads it, and she nearly chokes on a sip of hot tea.

He hadn't been wrong in guessing the ball would land on the front page.

In the photo, taking up the majority of the page, a version of herself turns to look at Malfoy, a soft smile curling her lips, while he leans in to brush a kiss to her brow. Her cheeks heat at the thought of her former resistance comrades seeing this.

She skims the headline—UNEXPECTED SOCIAL EVENT OF THE SEASON—and sneers at it. Spreading a slice of toast with preserves, she reads the article despite herself.

But her eyes keep sliding back to the photo.

She can't deny that they look good together, done up in their best attire, and even in black and white the dress is stunning. And in a way they look almost... happy. Like they're enjoying each other's presence enough to block out the rest of it.

They look like a young couple in love.

The thought only twists her stomach up into knots.

She takes a bite of toast, but the food is somehow both hard and chewy on her tongue, every part of her suddenly feeling bitter and unpleasant. She wants to save the photo; she wants to burn it.

Malfoy's presence in her life only grows more complicated as the days pass. And while she knows their mission together—and believes it to be valid—there are so many other factors at play.

She thinks of Harry, of the letter she sent which was returned unread. Of the word TRAITOR scrawled across the photo of her—by his hand or someone else’s, she doesn’t know. She can only imagine how this will go over, with the proof of her own betrayal blatant and glaring from the front page.

Turning the page so she doesn't have to see the article, she manages another slice of toast and some more tea. It'll be a long day alone if Malfoy's gone to make his rounds—and she can't help the creeping anxiety at the thought of the raid later.

For a moment, she debates owling Pansy and Daphne. Malfoy said he wanted her to make friends, that she was able to do as she liked during her days in the manor, but she hesitates all the same. Surely there are more productive ways to utilise her time.

Digging deep within herself, she locates the magical thread that connects her and Malfoy—the Black lineage marital bonds.

She gives a tug, drawing the thread into her magical core.

Even from a distance, she can feel Malfoy's response—his surprise. His amusement. He pulls the bonds towards him, drawing the magical thread from her grasp, and unbidden, a smile drags across her face. She holds tight, infusing all of her efforts into hanging on when he tugs with greater insistence.

The shared magic swells within her as she fixates on it, pouring more of her own magic into it—she can feel Malfoy's surprise over that, too.

Whatever he's doing, wherever he is, he obviously isn't busy enough to let her win at this.

So she doubles down, coiling the thread into a mental spool within her and feeling the surge of raw power that emanates through her. The more she focuses on it, stretches it, tends to it, the stronger it becomes.

The line goes slack, tumbling towards her. Sucking in a breath and holding it, Hermione freezes. She loses track of her awareness of him, and something like a jolt of panic settles within her.

But only moments pass before his magic coils around hers again, tugging hard on the thread and catching her off guard. She feels the spool she amassed unwind all at once, and she curses under her breath.

Malfoy's magic nudges against her own, a cool, amused caress, and she senses him disconnect.

A smile lingers on her face for long moments before she catches it.

Come to the gardens.

Her coin has been silent for so long that the message startles her. She still carries it on her out of habit more than anything else, when no one has sent a message to her coin since her position in the resistance was compromised.

But Malfoy's been gone all day and she knows, instinctively, it's from him. The sun is just beginning to set, and she slips on a cloak as she makes her way from their quarters. A thin breeze flutters on the air, the setting sun casting an array of mellow shades across the sky.

Hermione finds him seated on the bench within his mother's gardens, head back against the slats and hands folded in his lap. He wears only a shirt and jeans, having removed his robes and mask at some point. She can feel his secrecy wards as she passes through them and knows they're safe to speak freely.

Without a word, she drops into the seat next to him, and they both gaze towards the sky in silence for several moments.

"How did it go?" she asks at last, both anxious and reticent to hear the answer.

"Casualties on both sides," he says, the words a flat drone as though he hasn't the energy. Like he’s used to reporting battle results. "Three Death Eaters; four resistance. They scattered shortly after we found them." His eyes slide to hers. "No one from your list."

Hermione nods, not wanting the details. If he'd been injured, he wouldn't be sitting in the gardens watching the sunset, so she refrains from asking about that, too.

"I couldn't spot Potter, as you said," he adds, almost offhand. Then he reaches into his pocket and withdraws his galleon, eyes tightening as he reads the face. He sends a message and stows it again, ignoring her eyes on him.

"Who are you speaking with?"

"Theo." His lips twitch with a hint of humour. "We've determined it's an easy way to communicate between the three of us without drawing attention to our interactions. Especially with Flint creeping about."

"He wasn't one of the Death Eaters who fell then today, I assume?" she asks.

He rolls his eyes. "Unfortunately not."

"What did Theo have to say?"

Drawing the coin from his pocket once more, he reads it and sends another message. "I am arranging a meeting," he drawls, the words slow and distracted, "through Theo's connection with Longbottom."

It takes so long for the words to settle into anything that makes sense, that she only gapes at him. "With Neville?" Then she frowns. "You mean you're using Theo's relationship to manipulate him."

Pursing his lips, Malfoy leans back in his seat and folds his arms. "Theo knows as well as anyone the stakes in all of this. And if anything, he's indebted to me. I allow him to share information both ways—and he knows I turn a blind eye to what he shares with Longbottom—but his life is still beholden to me. This is what I’m asking in return. Never mind the fact that I possess a rather vital piece of information about him that I have failed to share with our master."

Hermione deflates as he speaks, knowing it's all truth. At any point, Malfoy could inform Voldemort that Theo betrayed the Death Eaters and that would be it. "Neville won't want to meet with you. Not after what you did to him."

"He will for Theo."

It's so crisp and matter of fact that she can't help but believe him.

"Why Neville anyway?" Now that he's speaking with her, she finds she's fascinated by how his brain works. The way he twists the game to suit his own purposes; how he has such a large role in coordinating everything on this side of the war.

"Because I need someone," he murmurs in return, reading another message from Theo. "Technically, this is about securing a meeting with Potter." Hermione nearly chokes at the words, but he carries on. "Theo brings Longbottom—Longbottom brings Potter. The five of us work it all out."

"Work what out?" His brain is so many steps ahead of her comprehension that she's struggling to keep up.

"Flint." He hesitates, then adds, "We need eyes and ears inside the resistance."

"They won't," she whispers, shaking her head. "You won't convince either of them to betray the resistance."

"Won't I?" he drawls, something cocky in his words that leaves her unsettled. "Look at everything Theo's done for Longbottom. You don't think it goes both ways? You don't think Potter would be willing to at least hear you out? I'm not talking about revealing everything we have planned. But I need someone who can act as an intermediary. And those two are on your list to protect."

She doesn't respond, unconvinced. Harry's loyalty runs deep, even to Cassius who doesn't deserve it.

Malfoy releases a sigh and tucks his coin away.

The sky darkens, swirling with shades of blue and purple, and though the chill strengthens, Hermione feels content to stay in his company.

"Why do you do all this?" she asks after a long while. "Why rise up to this point in his ranks? You do so much for him and he treats you so poorly."

Despite the newfound camaraderie between them, she doesn't expect him to answer. Their bond is one of necessity, not intimacy, and she doesn't know how she would answer if he were to ask too many questions about her.

But eventually, he shrugs. "I was naive. When I was young I thought if I could only prove myself I would be better off. That if I could show him I was trustworthy I wouldn't have to fear for my mother's life." He frowns, a knit furrowing his brow. "And then it was just a matter of doing more, proving I was better than the rest, that he could count on me. It was about winning."

The words haunt the air between them, bitter though they sound.

"And now?" she whispers, almost afraid of the answer.

"Maybe I've hit my limit," he breathes, leaning his elbows forward on his knees. "Maybe we can all only take so much."

Hermione hums, considering the thought. She thinks of everything she's witnessed—of the way he's returned to their quarters soaked in someone else's blood. In his own blood. "Maybe you want something different out of life just as much as everyone else does. And you've put yourself in a position where it's within reach."

But he scowls at that. "I'm not a good person, Granger. I told you as much before we went ahead with the marriage rites. I am where I am because I'm not afraid to do what needs to be done. To get my hands dirty."

The words fall soft from her lips. "You're better than you think you are."

"That isn't true," he says, cold and clipped. "And you wouldn't say that if you knew half of what I've done. I don't even know how many people I've killed anymore."

"You think I do?" she retorts, nausea curdling her stomach as she confronts the truth of it. "We've all done things we aren't proud of."

A bitter smile curls his lips. "The difference is that I don't still see their faces when I close my eyes at night."

His voice is hollow and empty, devoid of even the shred of emotion she's come to know from him. She slumps in her seat, the energy seeping from her with every word spoken between them, and fatigue tugs at her eyelids.

"You should get some sleep," he murmurs at last, something softer in his tone. "We're going to Diagon Alley tomorrow."

"We?"

"Yes." He nods once. "There's something I need to get. You might as well come along if you want to."

Hermione perks up, appreciative of a chance to leave the manor grounds and go somewhere other than an abandoned factory. "Yes, of course. I'd like that."

Malfoy rises to his feet, his countenance fully drained, and she can see in the faint light of the moon the dark shadows that encircle his eyes. They aren't close; despite that they've slept together a few times, it doesn’t run deeper than what's required to move their plans along.

Whatever it is that exists between them, it isn't love.

But every so often, she feels as though she knows him better than she knows herself.

And no matter what he says about himself, she knows there's a part of him that longs for more.

He offers a hand, tugging her to her feet, and draws her briefly into his chest. It could be no more than a front, an act in case anyone's observing them, but she sinks a little into his embrace and her eyelids flutter.

Malfoy draws back before she can think too far into it, however, and he jams his hands into his pockets as they walk back across the grounds and into the manor. Once they reach their quarters, Malfoy fixes her with a brief look and nods.

"Sleep well, Granger."

She doesn't bother to correct him; something about her former surname rolling from his lips settles a sort of warmth within her. "And you." Pressing up on her toes, she brushes a kiss to his jaw.

When she draws back, his eyes slide open a second later before he turns away and vanishes into his room.

Head spinning with all he's shared, she retreats to her own.

"You look like you're ready for battle, not a trip to the high street," Draco snickers, unable to quash his amusement when Granger cocks a brow at him. As she emerges fully from her room, he takes her in. Although she's given up on the worn clothes from her time in the resistance, she's clad in trousers and a hooded jumper and the old leather boots she wore when she arrived at the manor. With a quick glance, he can spy at least two knives sheathed on her person.

He imagines she has at least another two hidden away.

"Can never be too careful," she says, folding her arms as though she expects him to contradict her.

But he only offers a sombre nod, fixing his face into impassivity. "Too true." When she narrows her eyes, he holds his hands up. "If you want to go to Diagon dressed like this, I won't stop you."

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Finally, she nods. "Good. Then I'm ready to go."

Any trace of humour evaporates from him when he realises this is her armour. He's taking her into a part of London she hasn't frequented in years, without giving her the details of what they're to be doing. For Granger, survival was all that mattered for so long that she can't fathom going anywhere without keeping herself protected.

"For the record," he says, offering his hand. "You won't be in any danger. Not with me."

Although she shoots him a scowl, a dusting of pink drifts into her cheekbones as she slips her hand into his. Draco tugs her closer, turning her so her eyes land on his.

"I know this isn't what you're used to," he murmurs. "But you'll be fine. Promise."

Although her eyes remain sceptical—he would be surprised were she to cave so easily—some of the tension dissolves from her shoulders. "Fine," she murmurs, "but I'm keeping my knives all the same."

"Good," Draco drawls, flashing her a smirk. "I like the knives. They bring back so many great memories."

Her flush deepens but she doesn't respond.

Taking pity on her, he Apparates them both to Diagon Alley. Slipping a hand to the small of her back—a show of support as much as an act—he guides her towards Gringotts.

"I have to make a withdrawal," he murmurs, glancing at her, "but if there's anything you need, let me know."

Uncertainty settles across her face for only a moment before she blinks it away. Most resistance members don't visit Diagon Alley because the Death Eaters have claimed free reign over its streets—not for the first time, he has to remind himself of how different this life is to the one she's used to living.

She shoots him a sidelong glance. "Perhaps we could visit Flourish and Blotts."

Draco snorts. "I'm so unsurprised by this, it's already in our plans."

Granger looks so out of sorts as they walk the street, he can't help the way he feels uncomfortable too. She's been able to act her way through most situations with ease, and he nudges her in the side. "You weren't like this when we came to get you a dress."

"I suppose not," she murmurs, visibly straightening. She rolls out a crick in her neck, then offers him a thin smile. "You're right."

Drifting his fingers along her hip, he hitches her a little closer. She doesn't say anything when they enter Gringotts, nor when he hands his wand to the first available goblin to take them to his vault. And in the cart, she sits at his side, her thigh pressed against his own, her chin held high.

With a glance towards their goblin pilot, she says under her breath, "I suppose your vault is buried within the earth's mantle."

Draco barks a surprised laugh. "Close."

A hint of warmth curls her lips at that, and she relaxes still a little more. Once the cart finally comes to a stop outside the Malfoy vault, Draco shoots the goblin a look. "We may be a while."

"Mister Malfoy," the goblin croaks in a deep voice, ducking his chin in a bow. Then he drags one long finger down the vault door, and it slides open.

For her part, Granger maintains as much stoicism as he might have expected. It isn't one of the deepest vaults for no reason, nor one of the largest. Her eyes widen, brows high on her forehead, and for a moment she stops on the threshold, simply staring.

"Come on, love," he murmurs before the goblin steps away out of earshot, "we haven't got all day."

She stumbles a step forward when he gives a tug on her hand, and under her breath, Granger whispers, "Sweet Merlin."

For some reason, her reaction makes him uneasy, and he shoots a glance back to be sure the goblin has walked away to give them privacy. "Don't get lost," he says with a snicker, infusing as much flippancy into the words as he can manage. "We're here for something specific. The marriage bonds should protect you from any wards and spells in here but... just don't touch anything that looks cursed."

The blood drains from her face at that. "Nothing that looks cursed. Noted."

"And I suppose it goes without saying," he adds, "that we're married now. What's mine is yours and all that—just don't drain the vaults, please."

She shoots him a look of stark incredulity. "I'll be sure not to buy too many castles or tropical islands."

Draco cracks a grin, unable to stop himself. "You'd be better off visiting the ones we already own. Less paperwork."

"You already—" Thinning her lips, she nods once. "Of course you do."

He shakes his head, guiding her between the aisles stacked with money, artefacts, and other assorted rare objects. He's never made a secret of the Malfoy wealth, but seeing the reaction of someone unfamiliar with it leaves a twist of uncertainty in his gut. "This way," he murmurs, guiding her towards the back corner where a cabinet holds a range of black velvet racks piled carefully with all sorts of jewellery.

Draco brandishes a hand at a shelf of rings. "It occurred to me," he drawls, "that a proper husband would get his wife a ring." Slowly, she turns to face him, her face a mask of alarm. He brandishes the magical tattoo circling his ring finger. "And we don't want anyone looking too closely at these, now do we?"

"No," she chokes out, "we don't." Her eyes slide back to the cabinet and she brushes her fingers along the glass top of it. "Just... pick one?"

"None of these are cursed."

There are somewhere around two dozen rings, each one more priceless than the next, and a variety of accompanying bands.

"Merlin," she huffs, gnawing on her lower lip. "How am I meant to choose?"

"Perhaps I should have selected one for you," Draco muttered. "I suppose it wasn't top of my priority list while we were preparing for the bonds and in the days after it slipped my mind."

She turns towards him, wrapping her arms across her front. A flicker of vulnerability dances across her face. "Which would you have chosen?"

Thrown by the question, Draco peers down at the large assortment. "Nothing gaudy," he drawls, tapping the glass above a few rings. "Red and gold is a little too on the nose so—neither of these." He eyes her with a deep focus, gaze narrowing. "White gold, I think." He drifts his fingers to the next section, mentally debating a few different rings.

"Great fucking diamond," he snickers, watching the way her cheeks grow flushed again. His eyes catch on one ring, set with a large diamond in the centre, and to either side of it, a ruby and an emerald. The white gold snakes between them in a delicate, intricate design. "That one."

"That one's beautiful," she breathes.

When Draco looks back at her, he's surprised to see her eyes are glassy. "If that's the one you want, it's yours."

He didn't expect her to grow emotional over this—she hadn't cared about missing any other elements of a proper wedding, and neither had she been bothered over planning for the ball. So her reaction now leaves him off guard in such a way that he doesn't know what to say.

Biting down hard on her lower lip, Granger nods. "Yes."

Draco waves a hand over the cabinet, and the glass vanishes only long enough for him to pluck the ring from its velvet cushion—he locates the equivalent bands both for her and him—and the glass reforms once his fingers are clear.

He catches her eye as he picks up her hand. "We've done all of this backwards haven't we?"

"Yes." She sniffs once, but then straightens, and offers only a thin smile instead. "But no part of this is orthodox."

Draco slides the band then the ring onto her fourth finger, brushing his thumb along the stones as the metal automatically resizes to fit her finger. Eyeing them a moment longer, he reaches for his own.

But her fingers wrap around his and still; a small smile curls at her mouth as she takes the last ring and slides it onto his finger. Draco feels the sharp sting of magic as the ring fits itself to him. It carries a heavy weight on the finger next to his Malfoy signet ring, and he manages a thick swallow.

Granger's hand lingers on his, grazing his knuckles before her fingers slide between his own. She peers up at him, her eyes large—and there's something else in her stare he can't quite comprehend.

"Thank you," she whispers, pressing up on her toes to brush a kiss to his jaw. "I appreciate this."

Her gratitude, as it always does, leaves him off guard, off axis. For so long they were rivals, bent on each other's extermination, and the thought that she appreciates any part of him still leaves him uncertain as to his next course of action.

"It's all part of the plan," he mutters, the words falling gruff and doubtful to his own ears. "The last thing we need is for someone to question the validity of all this."

"Right." Her face falters, but she blinks it away in an instant. Some part of Draco hates all his other parts as the light in her eyes diminishes. "Of course—but you still don't need to be as accommodating as you've been. You could keep me locked up in the manor, and you certainly don't need to be kind."

Draco doesn't know that he's been kind at all, but he bites his tongue. He's tired of pushing her away, though it's all he knows.

It's all he allows.

"You could make all of this miserable on me," he counters, gesturing with his open hand. He's acutely aware of her fingers still clasped in the other. "It isn't kindness when we both need each other to get through this."

At that, her brows knit, and all the remaining warmth in her face evaporates. "You don't need to do this, you know."

"What am I doing?"

Granger eyes him a moment overlong, and he feels as though she can see right through him to his barest parts. He wonders how inadequate he looks to her eyes.

Then she shakes her head just slightly, and untangles her fingers from his. "This... I don't know. You're unnecessarily cold while I'm trying to be honest with you. I'm not going to judge you for being a decent person."

Draco doesn't answer, hardening his jaw, and when she scoffs and turns to leave, his insides twist up.

She's already seen so much of him he doesn't dare share with anyone else. Vulnerability is too thin a cloak in this world where he needs as much protection as he can don.

And maybe her words are true—but anything other than steel tastes like ash on his tongue.

Stepping forward, he catches her wrist, pursing his lips when he tugs her back to face him. "I don't know what you want me to say," he drawls. "We both know the circumstances here. We know why we married—we know why all of this is happening."

"Of course we do!" she exclaims, her voice rising a little. "But that doesn't mean we need to endure it like soldiers in an unwilling truce. That doesn't mean we need to keep ourselves miserable along the way." She hesitates, unease crossing her face. "I'm here... Draco. I'm with you."

Heat burns under his skin, taking up residence in his chest, and something like shame roars behind his ears.

Her wrist feels so small in his hand, the bones so soft and fragile, and he tugs her hand into his again. "It's meant to be an act," he murmurs, and the words sound false even to his own ears.

Because he knows it isn't. Not truly, at least. Not anymore.

He thinks back to the way she healed him after the Dark Lord's punishment the night of the ball. The feel of her, warm and willing and bare against him.

"I don't—" He grits his teeth, wishing they could ignore this conversation altogether. But he knows, at the same time, how necessary it is. "I don't know how to do this. I'm not good at letting anyone in."

Even the simple admission feels like too much, his skin hot and itching, and he hates the flash of something like sympathy in her eyes. He hates it as much as he longs for her attention. Because even though he doesn't deserve her—and they both know he never will—that part of him that's greedy and conceited basks in it.

"I know you aren't," she murmurs, and she brings his hand to her mouth. Presses a kiss to the new ring on his fourth finger. "But if you can try with anyone, I'm a safe bet."

He knows she speaks the truth. They quite literally cannot betray each other—and they're bound to each other for life.

His eyes burn, and he glances away, horrified at the thought that tears could spike.

"You've seen all the worst sides of me," he says, uncertain whether it's a question or a statement; whether it's the truth or if there are worse angles to him that she's yet to witness.

A part of him fears the thought.

"I've also seen the sides that aren't so bad," she whispers. "Not at all. And... I don't mind those sides of you." She steps closer, catching his eye with caution in her stare. As though he's a wild animal she needs to approach with care. "We've all done things, seen things. We all have monsters inside. It doesn't mean we aren't worthy of anything else."

"My monsters are all there is to me," he says.

Granger shakes her head. "I know that isn't true."

Then her mouth is on his, her lips warm and soft and tempting, her fingers drifting the line of his jaw and cheek.

And even if Draco doesn't deserve her, he pulls her in all the same because he wants her. Merlin, he needs her. He's consumed by her, by the feel of her lips and tongue, the gentle touch of her hand as though he's made of something she doesn't dare break.

He draws her lithe body flush, pulling her close as he can manage, and his desperation for her courses through him, raw and with a heartbeat of its own.

They're surrounded by priceless treasures, precarious piles of gold and silver that spill and slide to the floor as she draws him into her, stumbling under the intensity of their touch on each other. Draco palms her arse, bringing her hips against his own, and a moan slips from her throat and into his mouth.

When they nearly topple a cabinet of artefacts, Draco draws back, breathing heavily, and buries his face in her hair. "This isn't ideal," he says wryly.

Granger laughs, pressing a kiss to his throat. "No, it isn't."

"Come on." He laces their fingers again, tugging her towards the entrance of the vault. His body thrums with awareness of her, his heart pounding in his chest, but before they exit the vault he fixes his mask of stoicism in place once more. He watches as she does the same, marvelling at all the ways they aren't so bad for each other after all.

Her words ring through the back of his mind as their cart begins the long ascent through Gringotts once more. I'm a safe bet.

Merlin, he hopes it's true.

Although the trip to Diagon Alley was meant to be a quick trip to the bank and little else, Draco finds himself in no rush to return to the dour coldness of the manor. Despite the autumnal chill, the sun is warm in the sky, and having Granger at his side makes him feel just a little more alive.

Once they return to the high street, Draco leads her to Flourish and Blotts. Observing Granger shop for books is something he never imagined would be so amusing. But as she strolls the aisles, eyes wide with poorly concealed delight, clasping her hands together in an effort to keep from picking up every damn book on the shelf, Draco finds himself holding back a laugh.

And when she turns towards him with a final selection of three books, Draco cocks a brow. "That's all you're getting?"

Idly, he notes one of the books is on the subject of magical bonds; he wonders what she means to learn from it.

"Yes." Her cheeks flush a dull pink. "I don't want to go overboard."

He refrains from reminding her of what she just witnessed, the overgrown piles of grotesque wealth in the Malfoy vault. From informing her, once again, that they're married and she's entitled to purchase herself more than a few books.

He simply reaches over her and collects a book that she stared at for a good five minutes before returning it to the shelf, and adds it to her stack. When she gives him a look, Draco drawls, "I wanted to read that one."

But she can't quite conceal her smile.

After the purchase is paid for and delivery is arranged for later in the afternoon, he leads her from the shop.

"Anywhere else?" he asks, "before we return to the manor?"

Granger gnaws on her lower lip; he can see the cogs churning. And he knows that even if she doesn't actually need or want anything else, she'll seek to prolong their trip simply to avoid returning to the manor so soon.

"Perhaps," she murmurs, "we could visit Scribbulus."

Draco offers her his arm. "Done."

As they begin down the road once more, they both freeze when a soft, feminine voice says, "Hermione?"

Instantly stiffening, Draco reaches for his wand. He observes Granger's face alter with surprise before she turns on the spot, tilting her head to the side. Draco affixes his hand firmly to the small of her back, prepared to attack at any second.

It's Luna Lovegood. Draco hasn't seen her in years—not since the Battle of Hogwarts—and before that, when she endured a brief residency in the Malfoy Manor dungeons during Draco's seventh year.

"Luna," Granger says slowly, her eyes darting sidelong towards him.

Tension wracks Draco's form. As far as he knows, Lovegood is in the resistance, but he can't imagine why she would be so brazen as to be in Diagon Alley, exposed on the high street, in the middle of the day. She's asking to be picked off by a rogue spell.

But Lovegood offers the pair of them a confused smile, staring between them for a moment. "I heard you were married now," she says quietly, as though this is everyday conversation.

The woman is as airy as Draco remembers, and for a moment, he wonders how she's survived the war for so long.

Lovegood's eyes drift to the massive rock on Granger's ring finger. But to Draco's surprise, there's no judgement in her stare. "Congratulations are in order, I suppose."

"I—thank you," Granger manages. He can feel in her stance that she's ready to run—or to fight—should the need arise. "We are. Married."

When Lovegood's blue eyes tighten, Draco wonders what it is she sees. Even at Hogwarts, the girl was strangely perceptive. A part of him wouldn't be surprised if she were to see through all of it.

"I wasn't aware you were still in England," Granger murmurs after a moment. The three of them remain in a tense standoff, as though all of them are uncertain what to make of the exchange.

Draco wants to drag Granger off. He also wants to curse Lovegood, but he suspects that wouldn't go over well. In a corner of his mind, he adds Lovegood to Granger's list of people to protect.

"I am," Lovegood says with a soft smile. "I've simply been..." Her gaze slants towards Draco. "Reassigned."

it doesn't tell him anything other than Lovegood is working with the resistance. Whether undercover, or on a mission, Draco can't tell. Maybe she's simply been relocated if Granger wasn't aware of her continued presence.

He thinks, not for the first time, of something she told him early on. That divisions of the resistance operate in almost complete isolation from each other. He eyes the exchange, tucking it away. Surely Lovegood knows better than to expose information about the resistance, but he's willing to wait and find out.

Granger nods, a grimace flashing across her face. "That's good. It's... nice to see you, Luna."

"Is it?" Lovegood cocks her head to the side again, those blue eyes roving him. "I'm quite sure your new husband doesn't agree."

Granger simply lifts her chin but doesn't respond.

Draco wishes he could read her thoughts in the moment—enough that he tries, nudging gently against her Occlumency walls on the off chance she wants to let him in. But the magic of her mental shield simply caresses his own—a gentle acknowledgement—and remains closed off.

"We ought to carry on," Granger offers, a bland smile on her face, and she shoots him a glance. "We have that appointment—"

"Right you are," Draco drawls. "We'll be late."

"Dreadfully important, I'm sure," Lovegood says in that soft, airy voice of hers. Draco's hackles raise, tension rankling through him once more. It must be an act, and he wonders what exactly the woman has been doing that led Granger to think she wasn't even in England anymore. "Don't let me keep you."

When Granger offers a stiff nod, and Draco eyes the pair of them, he wonders what it might have taken for the conversation to escalate into something else—something uglier.

If he had drawn his wand on Lovegood, what might Granger have done?

But as they walk away, she nudges against his Occlumency walls in return. Draco doesn't have to allow her into his mind to feel the way her magic is coated with a tang of uncertainty, of fear.

"I didn't know," she murmurs under her breath as they walk, "I haven't even seen her."

"It makes me wonder what she's been doing," Draco admits, drifting his fingertips along the backs of her knuckles where her hand rests in the crook of his elbow. "Where the resistance has been keeping her."

"I want to protect Luna," Granger blurts. "I know there are already several people on my list and you don't like that but—"

"I've already added her to your list," he drawls, then fixes her with a hard stare. "Unless Lovegood proves to be dangerous. If whatever she's been doing requires her elimination for us to proceed."

Granger hesitates for a moment, her eyes darkening as indecision and a haunted sort of dread lingers in her stare. Then she nods once. "Fine. Deal."

They stow the conversation in an unspoken agreement to move along, but Draco can still see the way she remains distracted through the rest of their shopping trip. However, he knows he can count on Granger's pragmatism. The ruthlessness and the desperation that drives her to end this war as much as it does him.

And he knows, if nothing else, he can rely on the fact that they're on the same team. He thinks again of her words in his vault, and clasps her hand ever so slightly tighter in his own.

Chapter End Notes

Hi friends, I hope you liked the chapter!! Thank you so much for all your lovely comments - I don't always have time to respond individually, but I can't even say how much the support means to me. Also we are so close to 2k kudos which is exciting!

Have a great week everyone 💙

Alpha and beta love, as always, to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

Chapter 27

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"Come on," Draco says brusquely, striding into the sitting room where Granger's perched on the sofa with her new purchases from the book shop. "We have a meeting."

"A meeting," she echoes, but carefully marks her page with a satin ribbon all the same. "With whom?"

"I've told you about it.”

Granger tenses in her seat, then instantly rises to approach him. She peers up at him, her fingers grazing his side; he isn't certain whether it's accidental, but he has to refrain from reaching for her hand.

She has a way about her that leaves him oddly comforted at strange times, even when he isn't aware of the stress that wracks his form.

A part of him suspects it's related to the magic that binds them.

And if it's a matter of something else... he isn't ready to confront that.

"Theo convinced Neville to meet, then?" she asks, affixing a holstered dagger to her thigh in swift movements. "Is he aware we're going to be there?"

"He is," Draco murmurs. "Though I gather he isn't exactly pleased over it." He clears his throat and adds, "Potter is coming as well. And he doesn't know."

Granger stills, one hand wrapped around the collar of her cloak. She shrugs it on in calculated silence. "And how much are we willing to reveal?"

Draco ponders the question. He already knows Potter is Granger's soft spot—and Longbottom a close second. If he has to wager a guess, he might suspect these are the only two lives Granger genuinely cares about protecting in the whole world. He doesn't dare include himself in the list.

The uncertainty of it has haunted him for days. Whether Granger will still be able to do what's necessary in the face of her old friends.

"We need to discuss the matter of Flint’s removal," he drawls. "We can't have him passing information from the Death Eaters to the resistance—not when he's such a wild card. We have no way of controlling his information." Lowering his voice, he fixes her with a heavy stare. "But I want him alive."

He can tell by the way Granger's expression shifts that she understands the implied meaning. That Draco intends to have a few conversations of his own with Flint before dispatching the man.

"I need him subdued through means other than myself—the Dark Lord has ways of monitoring the spells we cast on each other."

"And what are we willing to tell Harry?" The words fall from her lips on a tense breath, as though she doesn't actually want the answer.

Draco hesitates. "You need to decide... to what extent you're willing to trust Potter with both of our lives. Because that's what it comes down to. And if you can't promise me he won't betray us, even accidentally, he can't know any of this, Granger." She doesn't respond, shifting on the spot in a display of poorly concealed unease. "If something happens and Potter gives us up—if all of this goes wrong because we trusted too easily—I won't have a choice."

By we he means her, and they both know it. Thankfully, she doesn't call him out on it.

They don't have time for an argument over this, and he hopes she understands well enough. She was willing to put Potter's life ahead of the whole cause of the resistance once before; Draco holds no delusions that she wouldn't put Potter's life ahead of his own, bonds be damned.

"I won't tell him anything if we don't both agree on it," she says at last. Her Legilimency nudges against his mental shields, and he follows her meaning. He allows his magic to entwine against hers—and there's something so careful, so intimate about it, that a part of him wants to drag her into him and forget about the meeting.

Her magic is intoxicating—the trust she offers.

He slips seamlessly into her mind, into a small chamber she's designated for him. It doesn't reveal much, but his chest tightens a little at the thought. That she'll be willing to keep a direct passage into her thoughts during the meeting.

And Draco fashions a similar cell of his own, wrapping his magic around hers to ease her through his careful wards.

A breath catches in her throat when she slips into his mind for the first time.

Her eyes lock on his, something dark and heated in her stare, and he wonders if she can feel it in the same way he can. The way the signatures of their magic pulse in rhythm with each other.

A strange curl of her power around his own.

It's enough to stir heat in his veins. And intermingled as their thoughts are, he can feel her, too. She tentatively scours the chamber of his mind, settling herself a place within him.

And the way she can feel it too, this strange magical heat that courses between them. Her awareness of it only amplifies his own, and his mouth grows dry. His breathing picks up a little, and he catches the way her next inhale is a little sharper.

Granger drifts a step closer, grazing his shirt with her fingertips; her tongue darts out to moisten her lips as her eyes lock on his. "This is..." she whispers. "Interesting."

Interesting is one word for it, he thinks.

Her magic entwines with his own again, twisting and dancing and nudging against his very core. It's a connection he never imagined and hasn't thought to explore between them; not like this. Not with his mind bared to her and hers to him.

He wants to push it. To see how far they can take it.

Wants to explore her desire.

Hitching her flush against him, he drags a palm along her tight arse, brushes his nose against hers. Presses a kiss to her mouth.

He explodes with the sensation of it, with the way her thoughts mingle with his own.

"Shit," Granger whispers against his mouth, her breath minty and intoxicating. Her fingers drift downwards towards his belt buckle and she murmurs, "How much time do we have?"

Draco wants to get her off. Wants to witness the way he can make her feel firsthand, arousal coursing between them, compounded by the sheer awareness of it.

He wants to experience her falling apart under his tongue.

"We have to go," he murmurs instead, coiling his hand around her searching fingers. He's already growing hard despite himself, and given the way he hasn't bothered to censor his thoughts from her, her eyes are glassy with desire when they lock on his. "Or we'll be late. We can't risk losing out on this meeting."

Granger draws in a breath, and he can feel the effort it costs her to unwind her magic from his own in the moments before she breaks off. He's left cold and oddly bereft.

A sharp breath falls from his lips. "But we can explore that later, if you want."

Idly, she grinds against him, lacing her fingers through the fine hairs along the back of his neck. "I definitely think we should."

Merlin, he wants to fuck her; to push her down to the rug and bury himself inside her. He's never been so driven by desire for one person before—and he doesn't think it's just the magic.

But he forces his magic back into his own mind, keeping the chamber open to her though he can feel it's empty. His heart throbs in his chest at the raw feel of her, the open connection she carries with her every emotion, every sensation.

A part of him can't wait until they get back and—

Frowning, he quashes the thought. They have important work to do, and he can't allow himself to grow so distracted in the face of it. As if coming to the same understanding, Granger straightens.

"We will deal with this meeting," she murmurs, a hint of a smile twitching at her mouth. "And we can test the boundaries of the magic later."

Draco allows a small smile of his own. "I do appreciate how naturally inquisitive you are." He leans in, plants a kiss to her mouth, nips her lower lip.

Then he offers her his arm.

When they land in the clearing, Theo is the only one already present. A surge of relief darts through Draco when he realises that his brief delay with Granger hasn't cost them the upper hand. He needs to be present when Longbottom and Potter arrive.

He wants to set the parameters for the engagement.

Particularly because he knows both of them will have no interest in speaking with him, and the only chip he has to play is Granger. A willing chip, but a chip nonetheless.

"You two are late," Theo drawls, casting a look at his watch, and then back to the two of them, somewhat rumpled. His lips twitch with a smirk. "Married life treating you well, I gather."

"Mind your own," Draco clips, drawing his wand to double-check Theo's wards and cast a few of his own.

Granger drifts from his side, her cheeks pink, and though she fiddles with her own wand, she doesn't cast any spells. Clearly, she doesn't find fault with any of the wards already in place.

But he can sense her nerves, even without slipping back into her mind.

The meeting could come down to more than any of them are even expecting. And it's the first time Granger's seen any of her friends since she was forced unceremoniously from the resistance. Since the two of them were married.

Prodding against the Occlumency chamber she's left unsealed for him, Draco offers her a hint of comfort. It's the best he can manage, but he can feel the relief and gratitude emanating back at him. He keeps his face blank but his magic close.

The three of them wait in tense silence for only minutes before the quiet pop of Apparition sounds. Longbottom appears, and moments later, Potter.

He knows this won't go well—but he can't imagine the full extent of it.

The moment Potter sees Granger—when he sees Draco—an array of emotions flit across his face and his expression lands on cold fury. Brandishing his wand, he begins to initiate a Disapparition; his jaw clenches when the effort fails. Longbottom remains silent and stoic, his wand held aloft and scepticism directed at Theo.

"Anti-Disapparition wards," Draco drawls, clicking his tongue. "By the time you dismantle them, you'll be incapacitated."

He could swear Potter releases a growl. At his side, Granger stands stock still, frozen as though every nerve is seized by tension. And for the sake of everything they've already done, already sacrificed, he hopes she makes the right call.

"Please," she murmurs, "hear us out."

"You didn't tell me they would be here," Potter snaps at Longbottom, turning his wand on Draco as though he doesn't know what else to do with it. At the raw fury embedded in the words, the blatant hatred on his face, Granger flinches back a step. But Potter doesn't even address either of them. "What is this, Neville?"

Longbottom's gaze flits to Theo. "I sure hope you have a good explanation for all of this."

They could cut the tension in the small clearing with a blade, and Draco carefully shifts his attention from one to the next. So much depends on this meeting, on the calculations—or miscalculations—they make here.

He clears his throat and turns to face Longbottom. "I'm responsible for bringing us all together today. So whatever Theo said to convince you, everyone can blame me."

He offers the small group a wry, unfriendly smile.

"But," Longbottom huffs, "Theo, you—"

"What the fuck, Neville?" Potter snaps.

"Just hear him out—" Theo begins.

Granger releases a sigh at his side. "Please, Harry, Neville—we needed to talk to you."

Massaging his temple, Draco casts a silencing spell over everyone but Granger. Potter and Longbottom turn to face him, fuming, wands drawn. But his threat wasn't idle, and if he detects either of them even attempting to take down his wards, he'll throw stunners.

"There is, understandably, a lot of anger between us," Draco says, rolling his eyes. "Obviously, Longbottom and Potter have both been my prisoners; Theo is operating as an informant for both sides, and—" He glances at Potter, lips curling with a smirk "—there's the matter of my marriage to Granger."

In the face of so much hotheadedness, it's in everyone's best interest to lay all the cards on the table.

Granger's cheeks flush but she doesn't speak.

Although all of them are still silenced, he adds, "Have I missed something vital? If you could all speak one at a time, please, and then I'll explain why we're all assembled here."

When he lifts the spell, Potter spits instantly, "I didn't want to believe it. Hermione, how could you? How could you betray the resistance?"

His eyes slide to the ring on her finger, and Granger clasps her hands together. "Just listen, Harry."

"And you," Longbottom snarls at Theo. Hurt settles in his expression. "You've been using me for information."

"Technically," Theo retorts, "I've been passing information from inside the Death Eater camp. It's just that I'm also working for Draco because otherwise..."

"Because otherwise I'll kill him for betraying me," Draco drawls.

Longbottom pales.

"You, too?" Potter hisses. "Are all of my friends taking up with Death Eaters?"

Although the question carries a rhetorical note, Granger exchanges a look with Longbottom and grimaces. "I mean, sort of, yes. But there are explanations for all of this."

Potter folds his arms. "So explain."

"What is most important right now," Draco interrupts, "is that if any of what's shared here today gets leaked I'll know exactly who to go after." An eerie silence falls and no one responds, so he proceeds. "All anyone needs to know at this exact moment is that none of this is entirely as it appears—but since I don't trust any of you aside from Granger, I won't be sharing any details on that front."

"Then what do you want?" Longbottom asks with a resigned sigh. Draco notes the way Theo stands a little closer to Longbottom than anyone else, including himself.

Draco has imagined this a dozen ways, has turned over an absurd number of possibilities in his mind, and he hates that there are so many variables at play here. He decides on honesty—or a version of it. "I want eyes and ears inside the resistance."

"Not a chance," Potter snaps. "Why would you think we would ever—"

"Harry," Granger says, her expression tightening. Her tone is tinged with more impatience now.

"I also," Draco proceeds as though he hasn't been interrupted, "need for one of you to incapacitate a traitor—but keep him alive."

"I'm not listening to anything until you tell me what's going on here," Potter growls, the bracing force of his fury lancing through Granger once more. "Not only did you betray the name of the Foray operative for him—"

"That was me," Nott quips. "And I'm still alive, so—"

Potter blinks at him before continuing. "But then I see you've wed the prick. That you're throwing fancy parties together. And now you expect me to listen to anything he has to say? This is sickening."

To her credit, Granger only stares him down. "Yes, that is what I'm asking of you."

"I'm not happy about any of this either," Longbottom grumbles, folding his arms.

There are altogether too many emotions flying about for a group of trained fighters, and Draco doesn't care for it. He observes all of them with cool distaste. "If everyone is done acting like hormonal teenagers, perhaps we could discuss the matter of putting an end to this war once and for all." Several sets of eyes land on him. "Because rest assured, everything we're here to discuss is an effort towards that end."

He watches as Potter turns his narrowed gaze on Granger, truly looking at her for the first time. A knit furrows his brow and he deflates, his wand still tight in his fist but dropping to hang at his side.

"I promise it's more than it looks like," Granger allows, and her magic nudges against Draco's as though seeking assurance.

"Fine," Longbottom mutters. Although he's speaking to Potter, the words are loud enough for everyone to acknowledge. "I know Theo wouldn't have asked me here if Malfoy meant to kill us, so we can hear him out and then decide what to do from there. If he wanted us dead, we'd already be dead."

"That's true," Draco concedes. He chooses his next words carefully. "Like I suggested, Granger and I have been assembling a plan to put an end to all of this. I don't know if I can trust any of you, and every step will be dangerous and life-threatening. If anyone here isn't interested in playing a role, speak up now."

For the life of him, he can't figure out how this is the team with which he's meant to trust any small measure of information. But they're already the ones he needs to keep alive thanks to his deal with Granger, and he doesn't care to renege on that if he can avoid it.

When the silence stretches on, he speaks again.

"Theo is uniquely positioned to funnel information of my choosing to the resistance, whilst also supplying information in return. The issue is that there is another Foray informant, someone who none of us can trust and who will make all of this… messy. He met with Theo the night of our wedding ball—and that's the only reason I know who he is." Clenching his jaw, Draco observes both Potter and Longbottom for a moment. "I need him taken out—but I can't do it myself because the Dark Lord will know."

"And if Theo does it the resistance will know he's corrupt," Longbottom says, piecing the situation together.

Theo flashed him a smile. "Exactly."

"Thing is," Draco proceeds, "I need him alive."

Another stifled silence falls over them as the words sink in.

Then Potter says, "So you want us to do your dirty work for you?"

"I need for it to look like he's been killed at the hands of the resistance—fighters who don't know of his affiliation to their cause." Draco pauses, reaching for Granger's magic with his own. An invitation. She slips seamlessly into his mind, and though he notes her surprise as she comes across his intent, he can feel her support as well. "I need people to see that I had nothing to do with it. But I only want him incapacitated so I can take him elsewhere."

"You're going to torture him." Longbottom folds his arms and cocks a sceptical brow. "What do you expect to learn?"

It's unstable ground, when Longbottom spent weeks under Draco's wand, and he can see the resentment buried beneath the man's present willingness to cooperate.

But Draco can't apologise for any of that. Not when it was his job to do so. Not when he learned what he needed in order to get Granger over to his side.

Even if things between them have begun to shift into something more akin to a true partnership.

"He's a traitor. I'll get from him whatever I can learn," Draco murmurs, casting Granger a glance. "And... he insulted my wife. No one insults my wife."

At that, Potter's brows fly up with incredulity. "So you two are actually married, then?"

Draco wants to laugh; he feels an inane surge of it welling up within him. That during this casual conversation of torture and murder, the detail Potter has chosen to fixate on is his friend's nuptials.

But Granger lifts her head. "We are. In every sense of the word."

The clarification catches them up—Draco can see the moment it registers—and he's at once grateful and wary of the thought that these two are smart and they understand the trivialities of war. He'll need to be very careful about what he does and doesn't reveal.

"Why would we want to help you kill someone who's feeding information to the resistance from inside the Death Eaters?" Longbottom asks, loud and abrasive.

"Because he is volatile," Draco clips. "And because Theo is doing the same thing."

Potter holds out a hand. "You just said Nott is only passing on information that you're allowing him to."

"I am allowing Theo to live despite the fact that he betrayed me," Draco drawls. "And I have yet to inform the Dark Lord of said betrayal."

Another arduous, prolonged silence.

Then, "Merlin," Potter huffs. "You're the most corrupt of them all, aren't you?"

Draco allows a tug of amusement at the corner of his mouth. "Call it whatever you like. While the Dark Lord rules from his throne, I'm setting up a few plans on the side."

"You said ending the war," Longbottom says, his voice careful as though he isn't quite certain he wants the answer. "But you're making plays different from your master's intent. So what do you mean—you want the resistance to win?"

He sneers at that. "No. I do not."

Longbottom and Theo exchange a glance, some sort of private communication, and Theo speaks up. "If you're including them, I want in on all of it. No more keeping me on the edge."

Draco's eyes tighten. "And can I trust you?"

The unspoken words hang beneath the question. Even if Longbottom decides not to go ahead with it?

But Theo lifts his chin. "Yes."

"Why marry Hermione?" Longbottom's defiance is evident in every line of his face. "Why take her from the resistance at all?"

Granger, having been curiously quiet at his side through most of the discussion, says, "He didn't take me from the resistance. I gave up Theo's name to save Harry—and I'd do it again." She stares hard at Potter for a moment before going on. "Warrington was out for my blood and I didn't have another choice. We married as a part of the cover."

He notes she doesn't mention the bonds, and he’s glad of it. But if the rest of them are to be truly in on it, at some point they'll need to know everything.

"The two of you," he says, gesturing between the newcomers, "were on Granger's list to protect when we made the arrangements. You're safe from my wand, and it's the reason we're having this meeting today. But if either of you betray us, I won't have a choice but to take action. Nothing we've discussed today is to leave this clearing."

Potter clenches his jaw, and Draco can see the indecision. His loyalty to Granger at open war with his commitment to the resistance.

"So, what?" he asks. "If you don't want the resistance to win but you're working against the Dark Lord? What's the end game?"

For a long moment, Draco carefully considers his response. He slips into Granger's mind, searching the chamber she's fashioned for him, and he can feel her uncertainty as well. This is the moment to decide how much they want to share. And he knows he doesn't have to tell her that if either of her friends give them up, they'll all be dead.

"I need a vow," Draco murmurs. "A vow of secrecy that any details we discuss here today won't be shared elsewhere. Because rest assured, if the Dark Lord learns of any of this, Granger, Theo, and myself will all be dead. And if our plan works, people on both sides will die."

The blood drains from Potter's face, and he shoots Longbottom a glance.

But only moments later, with little deliberation, Longbottom steps towards Theo. "This war has taken almost everything from me—and I'm tired of being their battering ram. If you have a way to put it to an end—I'm in."

He brandishes his wrist, prepared for the vow, and Draco steps towards him. He can see the man's searing hatred of him, but it's buried beneath something else. Something like hope.

Draco might sneer at it—at the idea that of course Longbottom still clings to hope after all this time—if not for the fact that he's so desperate for all of this to come to an end as well.

"You should know that none of it was personal," he says quietly between them, catching Granger and Potter in conversation in his periphery. If she can persuade her friend—and speak to him properly for the first time in weeks—Draco will leave her to it.

"I know," Longbottom returns, the words steady. "You were following orders. And Theo kept me alive."

Draco ducks his chin. He wonders at the man's blatant courage; at what this easy acquiescence has cost him. But the war has cost so many people everything. "If you're in, we're going to make it count."

With a fortifying breath in, Longbottom nods. "I'm tired of living in fear. Whatever it takes."

"You're going to kill resistance leaders," Potter murmurs, slipping up alongside Longbottom. "And, what—we're going to kill the Dark Lord?"

"It's a little more complicated than all that," Draco allows, a smirk pulling at his mouth. "But neither side will walk away unscathed."

Potter’s jaw tightens in a hard line. Somehow, Draco always knew he would be the harder sell.

But he only says, "You're not going to hurt Hermione."

The words aren't so much a question as they are a threat.

So Draco meets his gaze and says, "Never."

Granger's magic twines with his own, sliding into his mind and taking up residence.

"And there's something else," Draco says, glancing between the two of them. He lowers his voice to barely a whisper. "The Dark Lord is mine."

It might be something in his voice or in his stare, or maybe Potter's as tired of it all as the rest of them. Maybe the prospect of finally putting an end to all of this is enough to forgo the costs ahead—that none of this is by the book or strictly on one side or the other.

That all of this is entirely grey.

But Potter swallows, then nods. "Yeah. I'm in."

The vow is simple and quick but final. Theo casts the spell, and Draco feels the magic of it twisting through his wrist and into his bloodstream, twice, before both of them step back and eye him warily.

"So," Longbottom says, clapping his hands together as if they've had a successful but infinitely banal gathering of colleagues. "Who is this other informant you intend to murder?"

Hermione sits on her bed, already dressed for sleep, gnawing her lower lip. The meeting with Harry and Neville went surprisingly well—better than she anticipated, if she's honest. But a part of her hates dragging her friends into this mess.

She tries to remind herself they've been pulled into altogether too much already, and that none of them chose this life.

Malfoy taps on the open door frame, leaning against it for a moment as he eyes her.

"Come in," she murmurs, folding her legs beneath herself on the quilt.

He slips into the room and joins her on the bed, stretching his long legs out in front of himself. "Are you alright? You were quiet today."

A part of her is surprised he noticed—but another part recognises how implicitly they've come to know each other. "It was your meeting. I didn't want to overstep. And, to be honest, I wasn't certain how much we were going to share."

After Harry and Neville cast the vow of secrecy, they discussed logistics around taking out Marcus Flint before dispersing.

"I wasn't either," he admits.

"It's... nice," she settles on. "Knowing that some of this is out in the air with people we can trust. But I'm also terrified. Expressing our plans aloud feels like the next step in a series of risks, and so few of them are calculated."

He sighs, catching her gaze. "I know what you mean. Like all of this is one wild pipe dream, and no matter how much we plan and strategise, most of it will never have a guarantee."

She likes that about him—that he's so often on the same wavelength as her. That they rarely need to explain things to each other. She wonders how much of this connection is from the bonds, and how much of it is borne of necessity.

Maybe there's a part of her that wonders whether some of it comes from somewhere deeper, somewhere more natural and instinctive.

Every so often, she wonders at what might have happened had they known each other all along.

"What are you hoping to get from Flint?" she asks.

"His reasons for all of this," Malfoy returns. "Why turn on the Death Eaters? He's been one of us since the early days. I want to know what he told Warrington about our side and what he picked up in return from the resistance. Surely, there are things of use he can provide."

She sorts through the answer and nods. "And do you think he'll break?"

"I know he'll break."

The finality of it ensures her certainty as well. "You can't kill him."

His expression darkens. "Not with my wand. But I need it to look like he's been taken out by the resistance. I don't need anyone questioning where he ended up. So if Longbottom can knock him out for long enough that I can get him somewhere else..."

She doesn't need him to finish the sentence. Not when she's seen some of his methods firsthand. "Okay," she murmurs. "I suppose we'll see what we can get from him."

So many of their carefully arranged plans swirl about in her head, a jumbled mass of possibility and chance. "And then what's our next step? We can't simply go after Warrington because someone will step up in his place."

Releasing an aggravated sigh, Malfoy rubs at his brow. "I've been trying to figure out our next move, and I think it has to be Thicknesse."

Hermione nods, sifting carefully over the idea.

"We need to put a hit on him," he tacks on. "Knock him out from the top of the Ministry, and let the chaos ensue."

It's a good thought, when the Death Eaters have held firm control over the Ministry for so many years under the command of Pius Thicknesse. Not a proper Death Eater but a sympathiser after being caught under the Imperius early on, his leadership has allowed for the situation to grow to the point where it is. Where Death Eaters are free to walk the streets, to influence Ministry policy, while resistance members cower and hide out in safehouses.

"Someone else will step in," she muses. "They'll have an election. We can't control that."

"We can't," he allows. "But it'll allow the careful cogs to falter."

The words settle in the air between them, a frisson of something building in her chest after the big moves they made that day. She reaches for his hand, longing for the odd sense of comfort she's come to rely on from him. His fingers twine with hers easily.

Neither of them have broached the way things keep shifting between them. The way they're quicker to touch, more open to understanding and respect. How they've had no choice but to trust each other with their lives.

And a part of her is afraid to look too close, to observe it with too sharp a lens lest it all crumble.

Their discovery that morning, the odd mingling of Legilimency and the magic of the bonds—that allowed them to feel each other so intimately—both exhilarated and scared her.

She wants to know him so much better—and she wants to pull away at the same time, to guard her heart from the ice that coats his.

Because her heart will surely be trampled in a field of war if she allows herself to think of him in that way.

He presses a kiss to her knuckles. "It's been a long day. You should get some sleep."

As though summoned by his words, she yawns widely, covering her mouth with her other palm. "Probably for the best."

Malfoy eyes her for a moment longer as though he's about to say something more, but he only gives her hand a squeeze and makes to rise.

And she knows better. She knows she does. Distractions won't offer any benefit to the cause in which they're entrenched. But she thinks of their conversation in the Malfoy vault. Of the way he, almost begrudgingly, has begun to open up to her. Like maybe he's as powerless to it as she is.

"You can stay, if you like." The words slip from her mouth of their own accord. When his grey eyes snap up to land on hers, she tacks on a hasty, "You don't have to, of course."

She isn't even certain what she's offering. They've had sex a few times, but it all feels a bit arbitrary, and neither of them have given this a name beyond the formal bounds of it. It's a marriage of convenience, of mutual gain, and there isn't meant to be anything more.

Hermione shouldn't want him to sleep in her bed. Shouldn't crave the warmth of another body against hers.

She thinks he'll say no, that he'll offer a reason why he ought to return to his own room. "I'm tired," he murmurs, the words softly apologetic. He doesn't look away from her, and she realises it's not a rejection but a caveat. "But I'll stay to sleep, if that's on the table."

"It is," she whispers, viscerally aware of his hand still in hers.

Without a word, he slips off his shirt and trousers and hangs them over the chair of her vanity. The muscles of his chest and abdomen are streaked with silver scar tissue that catches dim moonlight. Her eyes linger on the way he's all chiselled alabaster and something that speaks to the darkest parts of her soul.

When she slips beneath the covers, he joins her, his knees brushing the backs of hers and cold feet entwining with hers. She can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck, and Hermione counts the ragged beats of her heart.

Then his arm slides around her to rest on her stomach, his fingers grazing her sternum in slow, idle patterns. The undersides of her breasts.

Malfoy sinks into the bed beside her, and she can feel the expulsion of his tension as surely as if it were her own. He sweeps her curls to one side and presses a single, lingering kiss to her jawline.

And without another word between them, she slides almost immediately into sleep.

Chapter End Notes

We have been doing this every Tuesday for SIX MONTHS now? And some of you have been along since the start?? I am honoured - truly. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

PS - I finished the rough draft of my original novel on Sunday! \o/

So much love to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows, my alpha and beta respectively, for their assistance and feedback.

Chapter 28

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The air grows cold in earnest as autumn leaks towards the crisp chill of winter. If anything, the manor grounds only grow more beautiful, as though made for the austerity of the cold months rather than the warmth of summer.

Hermione has taken to spending her time in Narcissa's garden under the veil of heating charms, watching as the petals fall from the plants, as their skeletal forms grow more prominent with the shift.

A part of her hates feeling closeted up all the time.

Another part—the slothful, mildly complacent part, is happy for the small comforts. She's losing track of the days when she was with the resistance, kept in a narrow room next to Harry's, spending every day fearful for her life.

This is an altogether different sort of fear.

Because she's living under the watch of her greatest enemy; she can feel Voldemort's stare on her whenever she sees him, on the rare occasions when she and Malfoy walk the manor or take dinner in the hall.

They keep to themselves in his quarters more often than not—enough Death Eaters roam the manor that they don't need to make excuses for it—but they both know they'll grow suspicious if they never emerge.

"Patroclus," Hermione murmurs, waiting for the elf to arrive. She offers a demure smile that pales in comparison to the beaming warmth on the creature's face. "Please prepare a tea service for two."

"Snacks, Mistress Hermione?" Patroclus asks, eyes alight.

"Yes, please. Some snacks."

The elf is back within ten minutes, a steaming pot of tea and all the fixings on a small garden cart beside the wrought iron furniture set. Hermione tries to quash her nerves, and not for the first time that day, it doesn't work.

Malfoy is out on a tip to catch the resistance off guard—but it's all been carefully laid out in advance.

Weeks have passed since their initial meeting with Harry and Neville, after the group of them determined it would be suspicious if Flint were to vanish too soon after Theo learned of his identity. The five of them have kept in close contact, and while Hermione appreciates having her friends back on her side, she also hates their involvement for the very fact that they're all at risk from both sides now.

So Hermione arranged for tea with Narcissa Malfoy.

She isn't certain which part of the day makes her more nervous.

Some minutes later, Narcissa arrives directly in the gardens, as though she doesn't care to go into the manor itself. Hermione can't blame her.

Rising from her seat, she greets the woman—her mother-in-law—and meets her startlingly blue gaze.

"Hermione," Narcissa demures, brushing a kiss to each of her cheeks. "It is wonderful to see you. I cannot tell you how thrilled I was to receive your invitation."

In the back of her mind, Hermione can hardly focus on the insignificance of taking tea while her friends and Malfoy are out fighting—while they're enacting the plan to seize Marcus Flint. She can't help the way she continues to scan the magic of the bond for any hint that they've succeeded or failed.

"Of course," she returns. "I'm so glad you were able to join me. Draco is away a lot, and I tend to grow lonesome."

She almost hates the sympathy in Narcissa's gaze—but she also feels a sudden surge of respect for the woman. "Such is the curse of being a Malfoy wife during these trying times."

Narcissa plays no role in the war, but Hermione can't find it within her to hold it against the woman. Not when she's been pulled through hell by both her husband and son.

"Indeed it is," Hermione says. "And one can only hope for brighter days on the horizon."

Narcissa settles into her seat with a soft smile, and Patroclus prepares two cups of tea. Narcissa selects a finger sandwich and a sweet square before speaking again.

"Hermione," she says, her pronunciation of the syllables crisp and elegant, "I do hope we can speak frankly between the two of us."

Hermione sucks in a small breath. And when Narcissa's gaze meets hers, there's an implicit hint buried within. "We can," she says, confirming that she's warded the gardens with everything she knows. "And we're family now—so I should certainly hope so."

The woman's mouth lifts into a smile. "Then you should know that I'm not stupid."

"I never for a minute thought you were." Hermione returns the gesture.

"I know my son, Hermione, and I know he is many things. But he would never use magic to manipulate a woman into his bed—nor into a lifelong marriage." She ponders a moment, stirring a cube of sugar into her tea. "I do not need to know the details, and quite honestly, I don't want them."

Hermione sips her tea.

"But I would like you to be careful. Both of you. I don't need to tell you that you're dealing with dangerous forces."

"You do not," Hermione acquiesces. "And I can assure you, Missus Malfoy, your son is the most careful man I know."

A small, indulgent smile warms the woman's face, but her next words are contrary. "I know what my son has done to survive, and as much as I abhor it, I cannot fault him. He is in the position he is because of our mistakes, and I wish every day it were not the case."

She pauses, taking a sip from her cup. Despite the careful wards that cover the area, Hermione still casts a glance around to be sure they're alone.

"I know," Narcissa concludes, "many consider Draco to be a monster."

The words clench Hermione’s insides into a knot, and she frowns. "I don't believe him to be so. At least, not anymore. I think, like the rest of us, Draco does what he needs to do to survive. None of us have clean hands anymore. Draco is simply in a position where survival means more of a battle than it does to most people."

Narcissa eyes her for a moment, cautious and assessing. Her next words are hardly a whisper.

"Protect him, Hermione. He'll slide headfirst into his own ruin."

"I know," she murmurs, aware of the truth of the words within her soul. "I will do my best."

Releasing a sigh, Narcissa nods and takes a careful bite of her sandwich. "I believe you will."

For a moment, Hermione considers saying more. It's refreshing to be able to speak the truth—or some semblance of it. But Malfoy specifically said he didn't want his mother involved in matters any more than necessary.

So she only says, "I cannot say how everything will turn out, but know that Draco seeks an end to all of this. And I'm going to do what I can to see it through by his side."

Relief flits, only for a moment, through Narcissa's eyes. She offers a nod, and drops her hand to rest on Hermione's atop the table. She gives a wordless squeeze.

And Hermione feels the intent, the gratitude, all the things neither of them can express. The hope they don't dare speak aloud.

It's far from the first time since arriving at Malfoy Manor, since everything began to come together and crumble simultaneously, that she wishes for the end. That she longs for something that may not even be possible.

The air between them hangs heavy and stale, and it occurs to Hermione that Narcissa has sat in all of this for so long. She's watched both her husband and now her son fall into these trials, unable to do anything to stop it. And if not for herself, Hermione wants to put an end to this for the woman before her. For the son she longs to save but cannot.

The man that Hermione now knows has so many sides—and that even if he can't admit it, she knows he desires something more, too.

She doesn't put a voice to any of that, but she can sense it between them. The implicit understanding in the carefully crafted silence.

So Hermione takes a sip of her tea and offers Narcissa a gentle, coy smile. "Is this the part where you share embarrassing stories about Draco's escapades as a child?"

It's hard to imagine, especially knowing him now. She thinks for a moment of the small lake he showed her, deep within the manor grounds, and how he spent so much of his youth on its shores.

A surprised laugh falls from Narcissa's lips. "I'm certain I have a few of those. But I'll deny having told you if he ever asks."

Hermione's smile widens. "Deal."

To Draco’s surprise—and begrudging pleasure—the battle went more or less according to plan. At least half a dozen people from either side saw Flint fall to a curse from Longbottom's wand—an imperative element of the arrangement. And while both Theo and Potter returned to their respective strongholds to report the day's toll, Draco now finds himself with an unconscious Flint—and a very conscious Longbottom.

The air between them is tense—understandably so—despite that this step of the plan is as they meant it.

After all, the last time Draco and Longbottom were alone together, the latter had been locked in a cell in the dungeons after suffering round after round of magical agony at Draco's hand.

Now, Longbottom eyes him with scarcely concealed doubt, arms folded across a broad chest. Draco has to admit the man is in possession of remarkable resilience.

"So," Longbottom prompts, as though unable to handle the silence. Draco knows better. He's grown as hard as the rest of them, and he recognises that the attempt Longbottom makes is calculated. He clears his throat. "You and Hermione."

Draco ignores him, tapping a message into his golden coin before refocusing his attention on Flint. Eventually, he drawls, "You and Theo."

To his surprise, Longbottom huffs a humourless laugh. "Hardly. Not after he told me he was only working for the resistance."

Draco feels a twinge in his gut. "Surely you knew it would never be that simple. I've known of Theo's involvement with Foray for weeks—months." He allows a quick sidelong glance. "If it helps, I threatened to kill him if he didn't continue working for me as well. But I did allow him to continue passing information to the resistance on Granger's behalf."

As if the banality of Theo's relationship drama has anything to do with him—but the part of Draco that couldn't bring himself to kill Theo still acknowledges the man as his oldest friend. And obviously Theo cares enough about the man at Draco’s side to risk his life for him.

Draco knows Theo well—or at least, he thought he did—and it's unlike him to put his neck on the line for anyone.

Longbottom only shrugs. "We'll see." He prods Flint's immobile form with the toe of his boot. "I don't believe whatever it is between you and Hermione is legitimate. There's something else going on here, isn't there? More than what you've told us."

"There are many pieces on the board," Draco allows, drawing his coin back from his pocket as it warms. "And no, you don't know half of them."

"So why kill Flint?"

Grinding his jaw, Draco reconsiders leaving Longbottom alive when he released him from the dungeons. "Because he'll cause trouble."

"In your careful plan." The words are scathing, derisive, and Longbottom offers him a sneer. "Just because I did this today, it doesn't mean I'm working for you."

"Of course it doesn't," Draco snaps. "I don't want you working for me. But I wasn't lying when I said I intend to end this bloody war. And trouble doesn't factor in."

"How does Hermione factor in?"

"Hermione," Draco grits through his teeth, "is a hell of a lot more important in my plans than you are, so if I were you, I'd stop asking questions before you find yourself disposable."

If Longbottom's remotely threatened, he hides it well. He only snorts and leans against the wall. "I have a hard time believing you persuaded her into leaving the resistance is all."

Despite himself, Draco considers the words. "She saw the bigger picture." At that, some of the annoyance in Longbottom's stance fades, and Draco releases a sigh. "For what it's worth—I apologise. About the whole... kidnapping and torture thing. If I'd known about you and Theo sooner I might have gone a little easier."

For a long moment, Longbottom stares hard at him, green eyes narrowed. "I don't believe you're sorry, either. But I'll accept the gesture."

"Fair enough," Draco grumbles. He peers at the latest message from Granger and taps in a location. Although he debated keeping her out of the afternoon's proceedings, ugly as they're certain to become, she insisted upon joining him.

They fall into a tense silence, and a few minutes later Hermione Apparates in through his wards.

Her gaze lands on Flint, stoic and unreadable, then drifts between Draco and Longbottom.

"Have you learned anything?" she asks, sidling up between them. "How did the battle go?"

"Not yet," Longbottom replies. He shoots Draco a wary glance. "He wanted to wait for you."

Observing the pair of them, the way they seem to speak without words in the quiet moments that follow, Draco feels a twinge in his chest.

He recalls the vehemence in her voice when she demanded he free Longbottom from the dungeons; the way he had inferred something between them.

At the thought, his eyes narrow.

He reminds himself she's married to him. That he didn't even know if it was true. And that Longbottom has some sort of entanglement with Theo.

As far as he knows, Granger and Longbottom have been friends since Hogwarts and that's all. But he can't quite quash the unease.

"Yes," he drawls, sliding his wand from its holster. "I thought you might have something to say to our friend Marcus."

He can't read her expression, and a petulant part of him wants to slip into her mind, to check if she's left the antechamber open for him. But he refrains, allowing her the privacy he would want if the tables were turned.

He knows, even now, so many of her decisions still factor in the resistance. Even after the way they treated her; if he's honest, he can't blame her. And Flint has been feeding information to Warrington.

"Not sure how much I have to say to him, to be honest," she says at last. "But I am curious to hear what he has to say."

"As am I," Longbottom interjects.

"Fine." Draco draws his wand, gazing at the man on the floor. Every so often, moments like this one catch him off his guard. It's a rough throwback into the past to remember the way the two of them once played Quidditch for Slytherin together. It feels like a different life, a different world. As though Draco's been teleported into an alternate timeline of events.

But then he has to remind himself that this is all real, and the sequence of events that led him here were all painfully, horrifically real.

"Enervate," he drawls, feeling Granger shift alongside him as Flint's eyes flutter open. He groans, rubbing at his temple, only for a moment until he sees the three of them together. He tries to stand but finds Draco's wand trained on him.

Draco waves his wand, conjuring a chair, and directs a mocking hand towards it. "Take a seat, Flint."

The colour drains from the man's face as he tugs himself into the chair. Draco binds his wrists and ankles to the seat. Flint's gaze flits between the three of them, as if he can't decide whether he means to implore Longbottom and Granger for his freedom or if he wants to keep a careful eye on Draco's wand.

"Do I need to explain why we're here?" Draco asks, his voice low and quiet.

Flint swallows audibly, then shakes his head. "No."

"Then you should know it's in your best interest to tell me what I want to know. There's no sense in denying anything, because I know you'll be lying." He hesitates, glancing towards Longbottom. "Everyone saw you go down at the fight today. They already believe you to be dead."

Instinctively, Flint's fingers grapple for the wand that he no longer possesses, and they curl instead into a loose fist. "You are a bloody traitor," Marcus huffs, a humourless laugh breaking free. "Ain't that a treat."

Draco doesn't care to indulge him. He doesn't want to do any of this, and he has no interest in playing games today. He raises his wand so it's in line with Flint's eyes. "How long have you been working with Foray?"

An angry sneer draws at the man's face. "If you're going to kill me anyway, I'm not telling you anything."

"Or," Draco hisses, leaning in close, "you could answer the fucking question and I won't drag this out for weeks." In his periphery, he sees Granger and Longbottom exchange a glance. "Why did you betray your side? What did Warrington do to convince you?"

Flint spits on the floor. "Not telling you a fucking thing, you tosser."

Draco doesn't hesitate before he casts the first Crucio. The man tenses, teeth gritted, but he's well enough accustomed to the violence of a torture curse that he barely lets slip a sound. It's unsteady territory, but the Dark Lord will only learn of it if Flint returns.

Granger and Longbottom shift in his periphery though neither of them speak and he knows they won't. That even if they disagree with his methods, they won't dare stand against him. Not when a show of power like this requires them to present a unified front.

Especially because Flint is the one who is at a disadvantage here.

Letting up on the curse before it can go on for too long, Draco fixes Flint with a hard stare. "I am not in the mood for games. If you answer my questions, I'll let this end before it goes too far."

He knows Flint understands. He's been in Draco's position enough times that he knows how it goes. That all a prisoner can expect is a quick, relatively painful end.

Still, he resists. Some of the malice leaves his voice as he says, "I suppose I should have known you would be disloyal. Always were a selfish prat."

Draco purses his lips and lifts his wand once more. He sifts through the mental catalogue of curses for something that might catch Flint by surprise.

Granger steps closer and breathes next to his ear, "See if you can get something lesser from him first."

Considering the thought, Draco lowers his wand. "I didn't realise you and Warrington were still so close."

The words contain a question carefully tucked beneath them, and though Draco can see in Flint's face that he isn't fooled, he releases a sigh. "We went to Hogwarts together."

"That isn't an answer."

Flint scowls at him. "Of course I'm not close with that tosser. Been a Death Eater for years, haven't I?"

At that, Longbottom says, "Surely you know Warrington isn't worth your loyalty."

"And yet he has yours?" Flint spits out.

Draco understands the intent in an instant. All of them in the room are well trained against torture, and Longbottom's showing an alternative path to the information they need.

"He does," Longbottom allows with a curious tilt of his head. Then he lifts an idle, flippant hand, indicating Draco at his side. "If you want to call it that."

Indecision flickers across Flint's face for the first time, and Draco realises exactly what this could cost Longbottom if something were to go wrong. Of course, none of them intend to let Flint out of here, and even if they do, everyone already believes him dead. They have nothing to lose by playing this a little loose.

"What is this?" Flint asks, a sneer curling his lip as he turns to Draco again. "Obviously your sudden marriage to Granger was suspicious enough to anyone who dared think to question you. Are you working with the bloody resistance?"

Even as he speaks the words, the conviction falls away from them.

Because Flint knows that isn't the case. He knows Draco wouldn't think to indulge the resistance—but the situation before him doesn't make sense in any light. He knows Longbottom is a resistance fighter, and Granger used to be.

Hell, they traded turns torturing Longbottom in a cell.

"Of course I’m not working with the resistance," Draco clips. "And you knew better than to do such a thing either."

For a long moment, Flint grinds his jaw. If the man is ruthless and cruel, it's nothing compared to the cleverness that Draco has come to expect from him. A valuable resource that he’s fostered in the man for so long.

Maybe that's why so much of this stings.

When Flint speaks again, it's frank and open. As if he knows the mercy Draco's offering in a quick death.

"I did," Flint drawls, "but I didn't have an option."

Granger's eyes slide to meet his, and Draco's fingers curl a little tighter around his wand when he asks, "What do you mean? Your option was the Death Eaters."

"It wasn't about me." Flint sneers, though Draco doesn't think it's aimed at him. "Warrington had... information."

"Prat," Longbottom huffs.

The more time Draco spends around the other man, the less he suspects any of them truly hold loyalty for Cassius Warrington. It's valuable information, and welcome too. If the resistance aren't as loyal as he originally suspected to the man who leads them, it will be all the easier to dismantle their side from within.

"Explain," Draco drawls, infusing his words with as much boredom as he can manage.

Flint's jaw is a tight line. "It was hardly anything at first. A simple bit of information between old friends."

"And yet you knew he was resistance." Draco cocks a brow, though his heart picks up at the thought of something real. "Surely you understood that any information was treason."

Flint snorts, then gives Granger a pointed stare. Draco opts not to respond, knowing fully well what the man has pieced together. Now that he's seen Draco and Granger truly cooperating to accomplish something—and not simply drifting idly about the manor grounds—he's clearly determined there's something deeper at play.

Draco doesn't care.

"Yeah." Flint shrugs. "Of course. But it wasn't about me."

The silence in the wake of that confession prickles against Draco's skin and he doesn't reply. Granger and Longbottom remain quiet at either side of him, and Draco only stares at Flint. Sometimes a targetted silence is the best tactic.

Flint sighs again, one hand twitching as though he might reach for something, but then he stills. "Warrington threatened my mum and sister. Said he had eyes on them and if I didn't tell him anything he would go for them and it would be slow."

The words rattle some part of Draco long buried.

For a moment, they bring him back to a place where he was a scared sixteen-year-old boy, making impossible decisions to keep his own mother safe.

He swallows back the unpleasant taste on his tongue. "Surely you know the Dark Lord would do worse if he learned of your betrayal."

"The Dark Lord was the unknown," Flint admits. "When Warrington's threat was already real."

Draco shoots Longbottom a glance, uncertain of his intent. Whether he wants the man to either confirm or deny Warrington's claim. He already knows resistance grunts like the two at his side have been largely kept in the dark by leadership.

But he knows Warrington's vindictive streak. He's lost spies of his own to the man's soulless ambition.

Draco shakes his head. "Where are your mum and sister now?"

Flint spits on the floor again. "As if I'll tell you."

"Fair enough," Draco agrees, "but they aren't any part of our negotiations today. We've fought at each other's side for long enough that I can promise you that."

And he can see in Flint's face that he believes him. His features crumple with a sort of relief, his shoulders giving into a sag. As if he's resigned himself to what is to come; that he's willing to give himself up so long as his family is safe.

Draco's stomach churns into a mess at the thought.

The situation is altogether too familiar for his tastes. He tightens his grip on his wand and some part of him feels the need to add, "Our business here today is between us. The resistance already thinks you're dead."

By the way Flint gives a stiff nod, he knows Warrington won't go after his family if he falls in battle. Or maybe he only hopes as much. Draco doesn't know if Warrington has that much humanity left.

If any of them do.

"Will Warrington go after them if you die today?" Granger speaks up for the first time in several minutes, and it's her first time truly addressing Flint. She doesn't look surprised that Warrington might do such a thing—that he would be willing to threaten innocent women to persuade Flint to spy for him.

Flint levels her with a hard glare. "No."

Draco can't help the clench of relief that strikes his own chest. Some of his determination falters, and he fortifies his waning strength. The conversation has impacted him in a way he didn't anticipate, and he doesn't care for it.

"How much have you told him?" Draco asks. "How long have you shared Death Eater secrets under the guise of Foray?"

Flint purses his lips, staring hard at the floor for a long moment. "Two months. At first I tried to keep it to information he could readily find on his own—but it wasn't enough. I've told him a lot."

Draco ponders the thought. He already knows the extent of what Theo shared as a Foray operative whilst working with Longbottom as his operative.

"Is any of it enough to put us at a disadvantage?" he asks, uncertain why he's even allowing the caveat. Flint has admitted to working as a spy for the resistance. It should be all he needs to put the man to death—but maybe he will give them more.

"Warrington's always got plans," Longbottom says quietly at Draco's side. "And the resistance leadership isn't coordinated to make the best of most of them."

Flint nods towards him. "That. As far as I can tell, Warrington's captaining a sinking ship, but he isn't going down without a fight. Whatever you're trying to do here—whatever you think you're going to do to him—Warrington's a cornered rat, and that's only going to grow worse if things carry on as they are."

Draco scowls at the man. But he can't refute a word of it, and he can tell by the discomfort that flickers across Granger's face that she agrees with the assessment. That their fight with Warrington is only going to begin as they progress deeper into their plans.

A part of Draco relishes the thought.

He wants to be the one to draw the man's blood, though he knows others are more deserving of it. And he's already laid claim to the Dark Lord.

A hoarse, humourless laugh falls from Flint's lips. "You're working on something, aren't you?"

There's no sense in denying it. Not with the three of them assembled together and presenting as a team.

Draco stares at him hard. "Yes."

"Good." The response surprises him as much as the defeat that crosses Flint's face. He presses his eyes shut. "Someone should. This needs to end."

As much as he understands the man's resignation, he's surprised by it. By the way Flint is willing to die—to give up on everything he's believed in for so long—for the chance to go into oblivion knowing his family is safe.

Draco forces a swallow around the sudden lump forming in his throat.

He lifts his wand, though his hands aren't as certain as they usually are. "Tell me something," he breathes. "Something I can use against Warrington."

But Flint shakes his head. "It never went both ways. I didn't have anything on him."

It's the reason for the defeat on his shoulders—he knows he has nothing to give Draco. He knows he's going to die.

"Where are they?" Draco asks, then clarifies, "Are they still in England?"

So many people fled early on. Especially the ones not afforded the protection of affluence and influence. Even some of the old families collapsed in the wake of war, Flint's among them.

"They aren't," Flint says. "They're on the continent. And thank Merlin for that."

Draco can feel the weight of Granger's stare. Of Longbottom's presence at his side. The judgement.

That even if they're in this together—if they're affording him the lead on this task—neither of them are happy about it. Draco isn't either, if he's honest with himself. But he knows better than to let Flint walk.

"You're already dead," he says, meeting Flint's hard gaze. "A dozen people saw you fall today."

He doesn't even know why he's speaking the thought out loud. He promised Flint a quick death. It's all he can do for the man.

Feeling a sudden and uncharacteristic surge of indecision, Draco reaches out for Granger's mind. Nudges against her mental walls, some part of him desperate for a foothold. For a life raft.

In an instant, she lets him in. It's a small antechamber like the one she's offered him before, but her mind is gentle and understanding against his own.

It's alright, her mind tells him. This decision is yours and I will stand by whatever you choose—but you don't have to kill him. His death today isn't a necessary one.

Draco remains silent for a long moment, then offers another thought into her head. He will betray us.

Not if you let him live. If you let his family live.

Wrought with tension, Draco presses his eyes shut. He coils the mental thread around Granger's, seeking her assurance. He doesn't slip from her mind, and she doesn't force him out. If anything, she offers him solace.

Long moments pass. Minutes wherein he and Flint stare at each other, Longbottom stiff at his other side.

As if so many things depend on this moment. More than Draco can conceive of just now, with his mind in a frantic state.

At last he tightens his grip on his wand and says, "Leave."

Flint's brow furrows. His eyes are glassy, watery with despair. "What do you—"

"Get out of Britain." Draco grinds his jaw, his heart throbbing an anxious pulse. "Find your family and stay there." He presses his eyes shut. "I never want to see you again."

Flint's voice is hoarse. "You're letting me go?"

"I know what it is," Draco whispers, "to fear for the safety of your family. To act in desperation."

The look that crosses Flint's face is one of pure relief, of a sodden spark rekindled, and for a moment Draco thinks the man might cry. But he only nods instead. And his gratitude is so loud he doesn't need words.

The Dark Lord will be furious, and although Draco had nothing to do with it, he will likely bear the brunt of this anger. But Flint is dead either way—he will never again lift a wand as a Death Eater.

"The Mark," Draco drawls, thankful for the steadiness of his voice. "I cannot perform the spell to remove it."

Flint grimaces at the thought, and Draco's own stomach turns. It won't be pleasant—but while Flint retains his Dark Mark the Dark Lord will be able to tune into the connection between them.

Longbottom clears his throat. "What is it? I'll do it."

In the simple offer, Draco knows he approves of this decision, even as his mind is in disarray. He knows that this might be one step closer, even if it feels like the opposite.

"It's incredibly dark magic," Draco allows. "And Flint will wish he were never born."

He doesn't know the details other than what Voldemort has told him. That no Death Eater can remove his own Mark, but that a back door exists for those guilty of betrayal. That the procedure is intentionally painful. To render the recipient with shame, dishonour, and an experience that will haunt them forever. But Flint walks from this willingly.

It's the only way he will ever be able to live a life with his family away from all of this.

A jolt of longing darts through Draco but he doesn't dare indulge it.

Draco explains the spell, knowing well enough what Flint will endure—the price of his freedom. But he doesn't so much as hesitate when he brandishes his forearm.

Nodding at Longbottom, Draco takes Granger's arm.

Flint stares at Draco, recognising his imminent departure. That he doesn't want Granger to witness this part. "Thank you," he says.

Shaking his head once, Draco meets the man's gaze for the last time. "Don't waste it. Get out of here—take the option I never had."

Before Longbottom's spell strikes, Flint says, "Put an end to this."

Draco freezes, catching Granger's gaze. Her eyes are watery, and he can't quite dissect the look on her face. "We intend to."

Then without waiting for what he knows to come—the searing of flesh, the agony worse than the Cruciatus—he Apparates the two of them home.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading, friends! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. There is a chance I might take next week off from posting for the holidays, but I am not certain yet.

Happy holidays and a Merry Christmas from me to all of you, if you celebrate, however you celebrate - I hope the season is bright and you get to spend some time with the people who mean the most. I'm so grateful for all of you. ♡

Love and hugs to my team, kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

PS my submission to the DHr Advent went up this week if you want some Christmas fluff!

Chapter 29

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Too many thoughts swirl through Draco’s mind, all of them piecemeal and none of them quite falling into any semblance of sense.

For so long, he’s been in the middle of a war that he should never have been involved in. Certainly not at such a depth and not for so damn long.

Especially given how young he had been when it started.

And now, as the pieces on the board begin to feel different, he doesn't know what to make of any of it.

He sits at the desk in his study, eyeing the bookshelf while his head spins and spins.

He never wanted to involve too many other people—and now the list of people in the know has grown precarious and tentative. He doesn’t know if he can trust any of them—aside from Granger. He knows he can trust Granger.

It’s a startling thought—a juxtaposition from what he’s known the rest of his life altogether.

Drawing in a deep breath, Draco sinks back in his seat. He looks around the study. As it always does, the room reminds him of times past. Times when he looked up to his father—when he would visit the space in an effort to garner some of Lucius’ precious attention.

Times that were simpler. When things were either right and wrong; things he believed in or things he didn’t.

Nothing makes sense any more. And most definitely, nothing is simple.

He draws the coin from his pocket.

Too many moves are already in the works—too many steps forward, and so many things that can send them backwards instead. So many things that, if they become a misstep, could cost them all their lives.

He taps a message into the coin, directing it to Granger’s.

Get ready. We’re leaving in ten.

Exhaustion tugs at his eyelids, and the thought of leaving the manor now is almost more than he can handle. Every part of him feels brittle and ready to crumble to dust.

The situation with Flint has weighed on him more heavily than he cares for; his reasoning for giving in to Warrington's demands. Heavier than he would admit to anyone, even Granger.

For as much as he knows he can trust her, and as much as he knows the reverse is also coming to be true, there are certain weaknesses he doesn’t know how to share even with her.

Even with the woman to whom his life is irrevocably bound.

It all strikes him as a little too familiar, a spear lanced through the very centre of him.

Her returning message comes through quickly.

Where are we going?

Draco rubs at his dry eyes.

His soul feels weary, his bones cold and fragile. The weight is too much, and it’s sat on him for too long. He doesn’t know what to make of any of it most days. But he has no choice but to press on, relying on some unseen and wavering faith to push through in the hopes that one day he might be able to breathe a little deeper.

Nothing remains of his energy, and he frowns at the coin.

We’re taking a fucking picnic in the park. Just get ready.

The lack of response that follows seems altogether too loud as he stares at the coin. Releasing a sigh, he lifts his wand again and taps another word.

Please.

He can almost picture the look on her face, and despite himself, a wry grin curls one corner of his mouth. He imagines the affront; the cocked, disapproving brow. The way she refuses to take shit from him, even now, even with everything they’re up against.

Especially now.

She’s his wife, and even though the idea has had time to settle in and take root, for the benefits of the situation to begin taking place, it’s odd to parse through in his own mind.

Hermione Granger. Hermione Malfoy.

It’s nothing like what he ever envisioned, but it's the hand he’s been dealt. The one he is to play to the best of his ability. To victory or ruin.

Her message comes through at last.

See you in ten.

Hermione eyes Malfoy as he jams his hands into his pockets, walking quietly along at her side as they venture into a part of town she doesn’t recognise. They’re in London, but he hasn’t explained why or where they're going, and he’s been oddly quiet.

His expression is set hard with discontent, mirrored in the magic that nudges against her own. That she’s grown increasingly aware of as the days pass.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?" she asks, aware of the feeble, hesitant tone to her own words.

Malfoy releases a sigh.

He looks tired—exhausted. More so than she’s ever seen him, if she’s honest.

It’s almost startling to think that he’s willing to show her this side of him. When for so long he had been impenetrable, a fortress of will and malice and so many other things she hadn’t known how to see.

Or maybe he’s just empty of everything but this—the raw, depleted part of him that lingers when he runs out of everything else.

She’s seen glimpses of it. The night when he was sent out on a mission before the bonding ritual.

The evening after the party when he returned back to their quarters tortured half to death.

“I am,” he drawls at last, then squints at a nearby street sign. He leads her around the corner, rolling the strain from his neck. With a quick glance down the otherwise empty street, he draws his wand to cast a series of spells.

He’s so quick, so proficient with his spellcasting, that she might have missed most of them if not for the fact that they’re all the ones she would have cast were she the one in search of privacy.

“It’s become increasingly evident,” he says, “that we can’t carry on as we’ve been doing. Not with so many pieces in motion—and now with other people involved.”

Hermione watches him, waiting for the truth of the matter. But even now, she finds herself fascinated with his disposition.

Sometimes she can’t help but to compare this version of Draco Malfoy to the version she knew during their days hunting each other. He’s different, but at his core, he’s the same.

Only now he carries so many more facets that she never would have recognised before. Because now she can see him in the light.

“So we’re… what?" she asks, scuffing the toe of her boot on the pavement. “Walking through London to make plans?”

Malfoy scowls at her, but something in his cold, dour countenance lightens a shred. She’ll take it as enough of a victory to count.

“We are walking through London,” he drawls, “because I don’t trust that the magic of Apparition can’t be tracked. At least, not until all of the appropriate protections are in place. Any spell can be tracked with enough effort, and a powerful Finite Incantatem can even sort through Apparition.”

It's enough to pique her curiosity once more.

But he carries on before she can say anything more. “We are… making a purchase. Sort of.”

All at once, the explanation stirs something within her. That they can’t carry on within the manor—she knows as much as well. There are too many eyes and ears around every corner, and their dealings with Nott are sure to be noticed. Never mind that they’re coordinating with Harry and Neville now too, to an extent.

“Are we now,” she muses, eyeing the tall houses on either side of them.

Malfoy nods once. “We are.”

The building he stops in front of doesn’t strike her as anything special. It’s a Muggle neighbourhood which in itself is interesting given Malfoy’s predispositions, but it looks just like any of the ones around it.

A good reason, she realises, for the selection.

She almost can’t believe it.

Malfoy draws a key from his pocket, and a string of wandless spells tumble from his lips before he even slides it into the lock. Hermione feels the powerful wash of his magic roll across her skin when he swings the door open.

“I was going to invite you along for the real estate hunt,” he drawls, casting another series of revealing charms as he stands in the foyer. “But it turned out to be much simpler than necessary. And I haven't wanted to raise unnecessary questions or call excess attention to it.”

“Does Theo know?” she asks, peering around into the house. It’s sparsely furnished, and a thin layer of dust sits on some of the surfaces.

“No one knows,” Malfoy returns. “The real estate agent and everyone involved in the sale have had all knowledge of the meeting extracted from their minds, along with false information implanted about where the money came from.”

Memory modification spells always tug at something uneasy within her, and she doesn’t respond. She quashes an errant thought of her parents—this isn't a world for them to live in anyway.

“And won’t someone notice the money going missing?”

Malfoy cocks a brow.

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she realises how absurd the question is, thinking back to the utterly obscene wealth she witnessed in his vault.

But he answers anyway. “No. I withdrew a sum when we were at Gringotts to get your ring, and I didn’t reveal my purposes to anyone while we were there. The goblins are unable to witness the deposit or withdrawal activity on such a high level vault.”

At the intricacy of everything he’s put into this venture, Hermione can’t help but marvel.

“It’s… nice,” she allows at last, drifting further into the house.

“It’s fine,” he returns, with a crisp nod. “Nothing special—exactly as it’s meant to be.”

Although the house is an ordinary Muggle abode, the air is already rich with magic, and Hermione knows instinctively how heavily he’s imbued it with wards and protective magic.

Hermione nods. “So this is… what, our base of operations?”

A smirk twitches at his mouth, the first real show of amusement since they met up that afternoon. “Something like that. You’re the Secret Keeper.”

The words clang through her mind, and she’s struck suddenly with the level of trust such a position merits. She’s oddly touched, despite that she knows it’s the most pragmatic solution. “Okay,” she returns quietly, catching his eye for a moment.

And for just a second longer, he stares at her, his expression softening. Something settles in the space between them that she can’t quite put her finger on.

She suspects it’s some extension of everything that’s occurred between them in the last months.

“So I need you to keep this place protected with your life,” Malfoy says, his throat bobbing with a swallow when he averts his gaze at last. “And we’ll go from there.”

“Okay,” she says again.

The kitchen has a small round table with four wooden chairs perched around it. The sitting room is bare but for a single armchair along one wall. A small end table sits at the nearest corner.

“If we… expand,” he adds, “and we bring people in, then things will change as needed.” He lifts a brow at her confusion, and adds, “Theo. Potter. Longbottom. I don’t know—we’ll have to see how it plays out. For now, this is a safe space for you and I to work on what comes next without anyone seeing or hearing anything they shouldn’t.”

She smiles at the thought. They feel like more of a team than ever, and though she knows so many things contribute to the fact, both internally and externally, warmth coils within her.

“Yes,” she returns with a nod. “It makes sense.”

His fingers graze her elbow. “Good.” He meets her eye again. “We’ll need to be careful, but I thought you might like to spend some of your time making this place a little… nicer. Furniture, maybe a coat of paint or two. A bit of life.”

The thought makes her swallow, and for a fleeting instant, she envisions what might be possible. It’s just a house now, scuffed white walls and aged carpet, worn almost threadbare in places.

But what he’s offering… it’s not just a base of operations. It could be a home.

A home of sorts—enough of one for her to be able to breathe just a little deeper.

“Leave it to me,” she muses, drifting her fingers along his arm. “I think I can make something work. And we’ll both like it.”

“I thought you might,” he says quietly in return.

And she can’t help the true smile that draws at her mouth.

Legs crossed beneath her as she leans against the blank white wall, Hermione allows her mind to drift. For the first time in as long as she can remember, she's alone. For years, she was surrounded by resistance fighters, and even in the weeks since she left to Malfoy Manor, she hasn’t been truly alone, even when Malfoy has been out.

The unease has sat on her ever since, a tight compression in her chest and shoulders. That feeling that there's always someone keeping an eye on her.

Malfoy responded to a summons in his Dark Mark shortly after he brought her to the house he purchased, and he gave Hermione the option to return with him or remain at the house.

She'd jumped instantly at the chance.

Although the air is a bit stale, she draws deep, relaxing breaths, basking in the isolation of it. Spending most of her time in the manor feels almost as stifling as when she was crammed into a resistance safehouse.

The house isn't anything special—as Malfoy intended when he selected it—but she can't help a smile. He'll allow her free reign, within reason, to bring the small space to life, and it feels nice to have a project that isn't related to some sort of life or death mission.

Although they'll have to be careful, especially with making any purchases in public, Malfoy withdrew and converted enough galleons into pounds that they should be able to visit only with Muggle shops, glamoured to disguise their appearance.

The thought sinks in slowly. That it's probably the nicest thing Malfoy's ever offered her, whether intentional or not.

As the manor's constrictive strain seeps from her skin, an odd sense of relief swells instead, and it's enough to cause her chest to tighten in a different way entirely. Her eyes grow watery and she hastily swipes the tear that threatens, chiding herself. It's a sitting room, not something truly sentimental.

Maybe it's the fact that it's a true step in the right direction.

They've been toeing too many lines by planning their next course of action within the manor, under the suspicious watch of too many Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself.

It's all been layers upon layers of excuses, half-truths, and downright lies—but this is something entirely theirs.

Her mind spins, turning over idle thoughts of how they might transform the nondescript space—and while mostly unproductive, she's almost delighted by the thought of it. A wry smile pulls at her lips and she can't find it within herself to push back the anticipation.

The doorknob rattles and she tenses, grappling instinctively for her wand. Maybe they've been found out, and her joy has been tremendously short-lived.

But before she can jump to her feet, she spots a flash of blond and relaxes. Malfoy eyes her as he closes and wards the door, not bothering to hide his bemusement. "Why are you on the floor?"

"Why not the floor?" she asks, tucking her wand back into its holster. "I'm thinking. You were quick."

"Just a briefing for an upcoming mission," he drawls, and to her surprise, he crosses the room and drops down onto the floor beside her. His head falls back against the wall with a quiet thud, and his shoulder presses firmly against her own. "Do you like it? I know it's nothing fancy."

"It's perfect," she says, her voice carrying more sentiment than she meant to reveal. She can feel his gaze slide to land on her. "It's just what we need, I mean."

Malfoy nods once. "I think so, too." Silence falls for a long moment, as though neither of them are keen to break the easy quiet, then he huffs, "Fuck, I'm tired. Are you ever just... tired?"

She can sense the deeper meaning, and she doesn't suspect he's referring to a lack of sleep. So she whispers, "All the time."

He shifts, dropping his face into her shoulder. His next words are muffled. "I'm so bloody sick of pretending. I don't want any of this—I don't want to fight for a fucking sadist."

Her stomach clenches into a knot at the admission, at the raw, devastating honesty.

"I know," Hermione breathes. Every shred of vulnerability he displays leaves her out of sorts, and this is no different. But maybe she knows him better now. She recognises the small details that make him tick.

He's familiar.

She slides her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp, and instead of tensing he only deflates further, as though he's run out of everything that keeps him going from day to day.

"We're going to get through this," she murmurs. "I know it doesn't always feel like it."

"There's so much," he says.

He doesn't need to finish the thought when she knows exactly what he means. So many of their plans are just plans, yet to be enacted, and so many things can go wrong.

"We can only do what we can do." Hermione wishes she could believe her own words with more conviction. But halfway is all she has right now. "The important part is that we are doing."

"Yeah," he mutters, lifting his head from her shoulder. His eyes meet hers, dull and forlorn, a furrow of sadness drawing at his brow. He blows out a breath. "You're right." To her surprise, a chuckle falls from his lips, as though at the words that left his mouth. "Merlin, imagine if I'd killed you."

A laugh slips from her, bright and genuine. "You'd have made more problems for yourself."

His amusement drops off almost immediately, but his gaze remains intent and fixated on her. "I would have." He hesitates for a moment, and then says, "Do you believe in fate? That things happen for a reason?"

"I don't know." The question catches her off guard. "I don't think so. Not after everything that's happened. I can't believe all of this—years spent fighting in a war that never ends—has any true purpose in the scope of the universe."

Sometimes she wishes she could truly read Draco Malfoy's mind—to reach beneath his skull and dissect his thoughts and motivations. The mercurial characteristic that drives him from one mood to the next. From the side of him that's cold and ruthless and deadened to the atrocious things he needs to do in order to survive.

To the side of him that sits beside her now, silent and pensive, a lost soul gazing back at her. "Yeah," he says again, twisting his mouth to the side. "Yeah, of course. But... what if this world was meant to collapse because it wasn't working? What if you and I were meant to survive to this point—to work together to a new end?" Even as he speaks, he shakes his head. "It's bollocks, of course."

But a wry smile curls her lips. "Maybe it isn't all bollocks."

Because every so often she can feel something between them, beyond the deep-seated animosity and the slow thaw borne of necessity and ambition. The way she can sometimes detect his magic even when she isn't looking for it.

"Maybe we were meant to do this," she murmurs. "To put an end to all of this chaos."

"From chaos," he says, the words soft with reverence, "comes order."

Then he's kissing her, his mouth soft but firm, the easy slide of his tongue when it meets hers awakening the heat in her core. Breathless in an instant, she draws him close, the reckless rove of their hands on each other making quick work of the clothes that separate them.

It was only a matter of time, she supposes as she drags her fingers through his hair, before they christened the new house.

And they do, right there on the threadbare carpet.

"Next steps," Draco says, sifting through a stack of parchment on the kitchen table. He's made their excuses with the Dark Lord, and the pair of them have spent the day holed up in their new base. Granger's snagged a few new furnishings so far, and he was surprised that morning to see she'd painted the sitting room a soft grey-blue. He glances away and adds, "Now that Flint's out of the picture."

He appreciates that she hasn't called him out on it. That she didn't ask too many questions, as though she trusted him to make the right call.

If they ever see Flint again, it'll be with their heads on the chopping block. But Draco suspects the man has enough self-preservation to stay far away.

At least until all of this is over.

Granger releases a sigh and echoes, "Next steps."

Drawing a careful breath, Draco says, "Thicknesse."

Her eyes land on his. "What are you thinking?"

"A hit," Draco says, cold and decisive. "Upheaval. Remove the Dark Lord's man atop the Ministry and watch the pieces crumble while they rush to find someone new."

"A blow to the Dark side," Granger reasons, "but also to wizarding society."

"A reset," he corrects. "And a much needed one." He slants her a look, drawing his coin out. "But who would be in line? The Ministry hasn't had a stable bureaucracy in years."

Curiosity tugs at her brow. "I don't know."

Draco begins sending messages. "I think I have an idea."

Within an hour, they number five. Although the mission with Flint went off better than he anticipated, Draco's been hesitant enough about letting anyone else into the new house that he arranged the meeting spot for the same forest as the last time.

It'll take more than one thwarted spy to garner that much trust.

"I'm looking for a hit on Pius Thicknesse," he says without preamble.

Potter blinks at him. "He's Imperiused."

"No, he isn't." Draco paces the small clearing. "That might have been the case early on—but Thicknesse has always been an opportunist. He never took the Mark—too openly biased for the Minister to take a side like that—but it didn't take the top job for his loyalty to lock on permanently. And besides, it would have been too easy to free him from the Imperius years ago."

He points to Theo, who stands beside a tense Longbottom. "Take care of it?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," Theo says, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I'll figure something out."

If nothing else, Draco can still count on Theo to take care of business.

But Longbottom fixes Theo with a look and clears his throat. "I'll do it."

"I will do it," Theo confirms, grinding his heel into the top of Longbottom's foot. The latter's jaw tightens.

Draco waves a dismissive hand. "One of you, then. Work it out together, yeah?" The last thing he needs is for a lover's spat to break out, but there's something reassuring in knowing Longbottom has Theo's back—especially given the way matters between them have been stilted by questions of Theo's wavering loyalty.

At the end of the day, Draco doesn't care who does it or how, as long as Thicknesse is no longer a piece on the board.

Potter folds his arms, a frown on his face as he looks between them. "Say in theory I understand why you're taking Thicknesse out of the equation—but where is the situation meant to go from there? You could end up with someone in the position with ties to the resistance, and you certainly won't be any better off."

For days, Draco's weighed the gamble in his mind, sifting through the pros and cons, and hoping against everything that it's a viable option.

"Which is why we need it to be someone with both the experience and the influence—someone not in the resistance."

Hermione shifts at his side as he speaks the words, as if she's piecing together the same thread of logic, and she sucks in a breath. A smirk draws at Draco's mouth.

"Years back," he drawls, "I heard talk of your pal Shacklebolt in line for the Minister's seat."

Potter scoffs. "Kingsley's high level resistance and that isn't a secret. If that's your great plan—"

"And he'll never get the position if that remains the case," Draco says, cutting him off. "The Sacred Twenty-Eight holds plenty of sway inside the Ministry and they will never support it. But he's still one of us—they will if he openly severs ties with the resistance."

The small clearing falls into a hush.

Granger's eyes glimmer when they catch his.

At last Potter drops his chin and says, "I see."

"Do you?"

The ramifications if this doesn't pan out are staggeringly against him, and Draco hates those odds. But if he can dislodge Shacklebolt from the clutches of the resistance, it'll not only be a blow to Warrington and the other resistance leadership, but it'll throw a wrench in Voldemort's power too.

Unfortunately, he has no way of ensuring the bureaucracy's direction.

Potter shakes his head slowly, almost incredulous. "It makes sense—if it plays out."

"Precisely," Draco clips. "And all of our lives depend on it. I need you to persuade Shacklebolt that he can contribute more to the wizarding world as a whole from a seat atop the Ministry than a grungy safe house with the resistance."

"Kingsley is dedicated to the resistance," Granger speaks up though she's been curiously quiet. "If Harry tries to convince him of anything along those lines, it'll be suspicious."

Smirking, Draco shoots her a look. "Not if Pius Thicknesse is dead."

Another of those tense silences fall over the group, and Draco would swear he can hear four other brains spinning.

"High risk," Longbottom says at last, squaring his shoulders. "High reward."

Considering Longbottom and Potter came into the situation relatively blind, Draco has to admit, they're assets to the cause right now. He recalls the way Longbottom held strong in the face of his questioning, and he suspects the man is little more than a mercenary at this point. It's an intriguing juxtaposition from the boy he remembers when they were at Hogwarts together.

But then he remembers, not for the first time, the man beheaded Voldemort's snake.

"Precisely," Draco clips, eyes sliding between the group. He glances at his watch; he can only make so many excuses for why he's been away from the manor more than usual before his motives garner suspicion.

"So I'll have to approach Kingsley after we take out Thicknesse?" Potter asks. The question hangs between them all—the precarious timing of it and all the many things that could go wrong.

Theo's the one to respond. "It's likely the only way to keep Shacklebolt from growing suspicious and conferring with Warrington and the other resistance leaders. He can't know any of what's happening behind the scenes here. But you'll have the inside line to when it happens—so there will be a small window where we can act." He allows a grimace in Potter's direction. "You'll have to be more persuasive than you've ever been before."

Draco knows what that means. That if Shacklebolt refuses, they'll have to put him under an Imperius.

By the unease that takes Potter's countenance when he shifts on the spot, Draco surmises he understands well enough too. If Shacklebolt doesn't make a play for the Minister's seat in the wake of Thicknesse's removal and someone else takes the position instead, all of this will be for nothing.

And a part of him desperately desires the blow to Warrington's chain of command. There's too much bad blood between them at this point and Draco wants to see the man knocked down a peg or two.

"Got it," Potter says in a low voice. "But for the record, all of this... everything I'm doing is for Hermione."

"I never suspected otherwise," Draco drawls.

"Thanks, Harry," Hermione says, offering her friend a tentative smile. "I know most of this doesn't make sense, and this is all unorthodox—and we'll all wind up dead if things backfire." She lets the sentiment hang, as if any of them don't already know this. "But I do hope you know everything we're doing is in an effort to put an end to this nightmare."

"I know," Potter says gruffly. "I get it now."

Then his stare slides to Draco, and he offers a nod. A quiet moment passes, and Draco believes him. "Right, then. Theo, Longbottom—for fuck's sake, do not let anyone know who's behind the hit, yeah? Let everyone know as soon as it's done."

"Then I'm up," Potter adds.

There's a lot to be said for fighters who are tired of the fight. Who want nothing more than to put an end to the mess they're in, no matter the cost.

They all have so little left to lose.

Draco blows out a breath, searching within himself for some shred of fortification. "Okay. Then we proceed."

Granger's fingers brush his when the rest of the group Disapparates, and he draws her silently into him before Apparating them both back to the manor. He can only hope against everything that this works out.

Chapter End Notes

Hello! Thank you all so much for your patience with me in taking the holidays off from posting. I realized partway through December how burnt out I was, and sometimes posting a new chapter makes me very stressed out lol. I hope you enjoyed this one, and we're back on regular Tuesday updates moving forward. Big things are coming for these guys! I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season, and wishing you the very best in 2023!

BTW follow me on twitter for updates and snippets on my fanfic and original writing!

Alpha and beta hugs, as always, to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

Chapter 30

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The instant Hermione awakens, tension seizes hold. She and Malfoy don't know the details—it's best for fewer people to know—but anxiety wracks her spine even as she forces herself to rise from her bed.

If everything goes well, Thicknesse will be dead by sundown. Leaving the Ministry with a rather gaping hole and decisions to make.

Maybe the part of her that might have resisted this in the past is now dead to this sort of thing. To the idea that certain lives aren't worth the consequences of this war carrying on in perpetuity. The plan, if carried out as they hope, will have far-reaching effects on both the resistance and the Death Eaters—as well as ripples that will impact the rest of wizarding Britain as a whole.

When she emerges into the sitting room, dressed in casual clothes and with only mild effort afforded to her curls, she isn't surprised to see Malfoy already awake though he doesn't look quite as flawless as she's come to expect from him. He wears a thin pair of frames as he scans that morning's Daily Prophet.

Hermione slips into a seat at the off breakfast table across from him, helping herself to a mug of coffee. "Couldn't sleep?" she asks.

Although he's hardly acknowledged her presence, he turns the page and murmurs, "Not in the slightest."

Early on, she might have been surprised to find honesty on his lips. Now, she's grown accustomed to the side of him that no one else sees. She suspects it's made the situation between them more palatable.

"All we can do is wait," she says, selecting a slice of toast and an assortment of cubed fruit from the platter before her. "And hope everything turns out."

"Yeah." He rakes a hand through his hair, further mussing the pale strands. "I just hate it. If this goes wrong today..."

When Hermione looks more closely, she can see the deep shadows bruising the pale skin below his eyes.

He doesn't need to finish the sentence, when her own imagination has been thorough at filling in the gaps. Neville and Theo could get caught—and the two of them implicated as a result. Malfoy's ability to control things is borne of Voldemort's trust in him, and it's a difficult line to hold.

If any of this goes wrong, they're all dead.

It's a precarious line, but they have no choice but to keep walking it.

As Hermione sips her coffee and nibbles at her breakfast, Malfoy makes his way through the Prophet, though his eyes scan with only cursory interest. Like it's habit rather than curiosity that keeps his focus on the page.

"We should go for a walk," Hermione says at last, finishing her toast. She eyes the grounds through the window. "It looks like a nice day out."

And they could both use a distraction today.

"Fine," he murmurs, glancing up as he tosses the paper aside. "That's fine. I've been thinking we ought to look around for some furniture for the house, but... maybe not today."

"Best not to taunt too many beasts at once," she muses.

A wry smirk tugs at his mouth, the first show of amusement she's seen since waking up. "Something like that."

Hermione scrubs at her own eyes, attempting to dispel some of the frustration that holds her in its grasp. "It might be a good idea to be seen around the manor today anyway." She shoots him a glance. "Just in case."

"Good idea." The response is so straightforward and open, and she's surprised by how easy it's become for the pair of them to acknowledge each other in such a way. "The last thing we need is for anyone to grow suspicious."

An hour later, they reconvene in the sitting room, Hermione in a sleek but casual dress, and Malfoy in an elegant shirt and trousers. Even when it's just the two of them, it's still a show—it's always a show—and it would be both foolish and dangerous to ever imagine otherwise.

They walk the manor in idle conversation, and despite the tension that always hovers around every corner, the exercise is enough to dispel some of Hermione's nervous energy. She quells any remaining trace of it lest anyone see.

Malfoy's expression vacillates between cool indifference and cruel disdain—just another mask he wears that she's come to recognise as surely as the one of silver and black. It's remarkable when she truly thinks on it—when she attempts to dissect all the ways in which things between them have changed.

They visit the gardens, inspecting Narcissa's floral bushes in her absence, and Hermione thinks not for the first time of the conversation they shared regarding the war.

She finds herself curious so she asks Malfoy about the wellbeing of his parents—though she can’t truly be bothered over Lucius—and he fills her in with banal assurances.

Her life in the manor is so bland and surface level. She knows if it weren't a necessity for their circumstances, she would hate it. Sometimes, she tries to imagine if she were to marry Malfoy in a different context—or any pureblood of his standing—without the war weren't hanging over them and she can't do it. The lack of personality she's forced to maintain and independence she has to surrender makes her skin crawl.

Eyes follow them through every room and across the grounds, and though she knows it's a good thing that they likely won't be implicated in anything that's set to happen later that day, Hermione despises the show.

Malfoy's palm lands on the small of her back, soothing yet possessive, and she wonders whether he can tell how unnerved she is despite her best efforts to maintain a casual air.

If nothing else, at least she has him.

It's a laughable thought—that Malfoy has become her greatest ally. Or it might be if their lives weren't so dependent on the presentation of it.

He ducks in to speak in a low voice, his breath ghosting the shell of her ear, his body tense.

Yaxley's watching them from down the corridor, and although Hermione doesn't like any of the Death Eaters, every encounter with Yaxley leaves her feeling as though she'll never be warm again. Or clean.

He eyes the pair of them with a cold sneer, and the only way she recognises the shift in Malfoy's countenance is by the way his fingers curl into her back. He lifts his chin and purrs a cold, "Yaxley."

"Lieutenant." The acknowledgement from Yaxley doesn't carry half the respect as it does from the rest of them, but Malfoy's face doesn't betray a thing. Yaxley stares between them, his eyes cold and dead. "Out for a walk. How pleasant."

Malfoy levels Yaxley with a look, and it's enough to drop the temperature in the room. Hermione opts to stay silent, to let him deal with it. A part of her basks in it—in the cruelty that dances in his eyes as he observes the man.

So many parts of herself now she never would have recognised before.

"It is pleasant," Malfoy drawls, his tone inferring anything but.

"Mm," Yaxley agrees, "even despite the unpleasant happenings of late. Marcus Flint, for instance."

Malfoy lifts a single brow. "Indeed."

The Dark Lord had been frustrated over losing a strong fighter—but Death Eaters fell in battle regularly. A necessary side effect of the war carrying on as long as it has. Malfoy had taken his anger in stride, and he hadn't had anything to report beyond what Voldemort had already learned.

Exactly as they'd planned.

Hermione still remembers the way he returned to their quarters late in the night after the party. The way the Dark Lord's vitriol had nearly left him in the ground, beaten to a pulp. She doesn't imagine she'll soon forget the consequences of the Dark Lord's temper.

And they'll be playing with fire with Thicknesse's murder.

"One can't help but notice," Yaxley continues, conversational yet leading, "the two of you have been... absent quite a lot lately. I sure hope there isn't anything going on that we ought to be aware of."

Malfoy snorts, cruel amusement dancing in his gaze. "And are you our keeper? Am I not allowed to enjoy time alone with my wife without lecherous eyes following our every step? Need I seek permission before doing anything in my own house? Before leaving the grounds on my own business?"

Despite his mild tone, Hermione can sense the warning tone beneath it.

Yaxley's upper lip curls with the makings of a sneer—but he must recognise it too. The razor sharp edge beneath the congenial. But there's something else within it as well—a coolly patronising suggestion. That the time they spend together is not for anyone else to witness.

She might blush if it weren't true. If she didn't know better to keep a lock on her emotions.

So Hermione only lifts her chin and allows a hint of a smile for her husband. Infuses a little heat into her eyes.

Yaxley shifts on the spot, called out, but eventually he dips his chin in deference. "Of course, Lieutenant."

She frequently suspects Yaxley's mental state is fractured. Of all the Death Eaters she sees with any regularity, Yaxley is the one who unnerves her the most outside of Voldemort himself. But even he reports to Malfoy although his words don't contain any true respect.

Sometimes Hermione wonders exactly how the man at her side earned so much of the Dark Lord's trust at such a young age. But she knows well enough. And she doesn't care to learn the ugly details of it—there isn't any sense in lingering on the past when they have such a different path ahead of them.

A path that doesn't include the sins they've committed before now.

Yaxley strides away from them without any further hesitation, and Malfoy stares after him for a long moment, eyes narrowed with sharp focus.

His face remains blank, chest lifting and falling with slow, easy breaths. His eyes slide to meet hers.

And under his breath, less than a whisper, he says, "He's going to be a problem."

"Yes." Locking her hand into the crook of his elbow, Hermione allows him to lead her onward. She offers him a thin smile with a low, "What do you have in mind?"

The look that crosses his face would chill her to the bone if they weren't on the same side now. But he hunted her for long enough that she recognises the gleam of murderous intent.

And she can't deny the slight thrill—doesn't want to.

Smoothing his hand along the small of her back, he drawls, straightening, "I'm certain we'll think of something."

Following a long, indulgent bath, Hermione slips into fresh knickers and a silk robe that doesn't quite reach her knees. Although there's nothing either of them can do about the situation now, nervous energy has quaked through her veins all day. She's fatigued, but knows she won't find sleep until they've heard anything.

She ties the robe, the cool fabric soothing on her bare flesh, and emerges into the sitting room.

Malfoy's on the sofa, feet propped on the coffee table and frames perched on his nose as he skims a letter. He freezes, gaze drifting slowly up the length of her until he reaches her stare.

He clears his throat. "Are you turning in for the night?"

"Soon," she murmurs, stepping closer so she nearly stands over him. "I may not sleep just yet, but I thought I would get ready for bed."

He smooths one hand along the back of her bare leg, drawing her close. Hermione stands with one knee between his legs, her core clenching at the gentle brush of his fingers against her inner thigh. She leans down, aware of the way her robe falls a little looser. The way his eyes slide down, as though tracking a hint of cleavage. Finding the delicate peak of her nipples against the silk.

She brushes a kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering for a moment while he palms her arse. Breathes a quiet, "Good night."

He doesn't respond, heated gaze following her as she slips back into her bedroom.

Draco doesn't wait for her to close the door before he tosses his letter aside and follows her into the room. A coy smile teases against Granger's lips as she assesses him, then turns to face the full length mirror.

"I wasn't sure if you might join me," she muses, catching his eyes in the reflection.

He allows a smirk, though he can see right through her. "It sounded like an invitation."

Smoothing a hand up her side, he catches her breast through the silk, weighing the flesh in his hand before giving a squeeze. She's bare beneath the fabric, and he brushes his thumb against her nipple.

Mischief lights her eyes. "It was."

Draco ducks in to brush a kiss against her jaw, standing behind her. "What's on the menu?"

Recognition flashes across her face as she sinks back against him, flush to his chest. "What do you care for?"

He considers the question, weighing her trust in him. The fact that she even offers causes a surge of arousal to rush through him.

You, he wants to say. Wants to bury his face between her legs and drink in her pussy until she's writhing under his touch. But he eyes her for a moment longer, the way she's so pliant and willing under his indolent touch. He tweaks her nipple hard and she moans, unreserved.

And maybe he wants to have a little fun first.

He doesn't always know what she does and doesn't like—he's still learning the ways her body receives his touch—but he knows well enough that she's willing to be honest with him, and that's empowering all on its own.

Draco reaches for the tie of her robe, tugging the silk bow and letting it fall open, exposing her bare breasts. Her red silk knickers. He groans against her neck, teasing her nipples with barely there touches.

"You knew exactly what you were doing," he whispers against her skin.

Desire threatens to burst through his skin, and he wants nothing more than to take her against the wall. But he keeps his touches light, leaving her breathless as she holds his gaze in the mirror. Sliding a hand down her stomach, towards her knickers—where he knows she's already soaking wet—he instead catches her hand.

He doesn't miss the flicker of question in her stare.

"Show me," he breathes, tightening his hold on her wrist and moving her hand between her legs.

In an instant, her understanding registers with a sharp intake of breath. She doesn't instantly respond, and Draco finds himself desperate for it.

He sucks on the shell of her ear. "I want to watch."

She releases a quiet whimper.

He lets go of her wrist, unwilling to force her if she doesn't want to. But she bites down on her lower lip and, not looking away from his stare, she brushes the gusset of her knickers. A harsh breath falls from her lips; her pupils blow wide with desire.

Draco doesn't dare so much as blink.

Her fingers begin to move, slow, tantalising circles against her clit. She slides her other hand slowly along her ribcage, palming one breast and squeezing the tender flesh. She presses a thumb against her nipple, then pinches it. Her breath hitches.

"Good," Draco murmurs, unwilling to interrupt though he can't resist pressing another kiss to her jaw. "Show me what you like best. How you get yourself off. Merlin, look at that gorgeous body."

A low groan breaks from her lips at the words, and she grinds against her own hand. Moving the fabric aside, she traces one finger along her slit then slides it between her folds, glistening with moisture.

Draco bites down on his bottom lip. He's painfully hard, and though he doesn't want to distract her, she presses her arse against him. The last thing he needs is to juice his own trousers.

She slides a second finger inside of her with a whimper, her eyelids fluttering shut only for a moment before sliding open to lock on his once more. Easing into a gentle rhythm, she curls her fingers inside her, pressing against her own clit with the heel of her palm.

Draco watches, his breaths falling quicker. His own fingers itch to reach for her.

"Make yourself come," he breathes, lips brushing her cheek. "Bring yourself off for me."

She releases another cry, as though spurred on by his words, and her pace increases. Her cheeks are flushed but she doesn't look away, holding his stare in the mirror’s reflection. Grinding against him again, she shifts, rolling her hips into her own palm, and he can see the moment when her orgasm hits.

She moans, fingers missing a beat, and tenses as pleasure wracks her form. She falters, fingers still buried inside her own cunt.

"That's it," Draco whispers, reverent against her skin. She sags against him and he bands an arm across her front, holding her against his chest. He drawls against her ear, "Another."

Her eyes snap open, still glassy with pleasure. For a moment, they only stare at each other, and he's certain she's going to say no. But she slides her fingers from her folds, slick with her own juices, and brushes them against her clit.

Draco catches her wrist and brings her fingers to his mouth. Holding her gaze in the mirror, he sucks her come from each of her fingers in turn, watching the way her eyes blow wide once more. Licking the delectable moisture from her fingers, he says again, "Another. Please."

He can hear the desperation in his voice, but he can't dredge forth even an ounce of shame. He wants nothing more than to watch her fall apart, again and again in his arms.

He'll watch her come all night if he can. See how much pleasure they can wring from her body.

She slides the silk knickers from her hips, letting them pool on the floor before kicking them aside. She wears nothing more than the short robe now, hanging useless from her shoulders.

"Touch me, then," she whispers, and brings his hand to her breast.

Draco bites down on her earlobe, pinches her nipples, basks in the groan he draws forth.

And she sets about herself again, her careful pace giving way to something a little more erratic, a little more wild. He marvels at her sensitivity, her courage, the way she draws pleasure from her own flesh for his indulgence.

"That's it," Draco purrs in her ear, teasing the sensitive peaks of her nipples. "Fuck, Granger, you're so damn hot."

A cry bursts from her lips as she comes again, her entire body seizing with the force of it, and Draco nearly comes at the way pleasure takes her. The harsh expulsion of breath; the furrow in her brow.

He needs this with a desperation that courses in his veins, hammers behind his ears, pulses with adrenaline.

Tearing the robe from her shoulders, he scoops her up into his arms and lays her onto the bed. She reaches for him, her eyes still glassy with the pleasure she's already wrought forth, but Draco pulls his shirt over his head with one hand, then releases his belt and yanks his jeans down.

"More," he says, asks, begs.

Granger gapes at him, without words, even as she rubs at his cock through his shorts. "I don't know—"

"Another." He lowers his chin, licks his lips. "Let me."

A smile curls her lips—something in between disbelief and pure, raw lust. "Okay."

Seeing her laid bare before him, he longs to worship at the altar of her flesh.

Before she can say anything more he spreads her legs wide and dives in, sucking on the tender flesh, drawing her clit between his lips. He laps at her, tasting the juices she brought forth by her own touch, and all at once he's ravenous for her. For the way cries tumble from her lips even now; the way her fingers tangle in his hair and tug so hard that the pain of it stings.

He thrusts two fingers into her, curling them against her walls, meeting that spot that he knows makes her crumble.

Draco wants to draw release from her again, to see how many times she can come. She begins to tense, her legs wrapping around him, and he softens his touch, circling his tongue against her clit, sucking on the flesh.

Merlin, he wants to bury himself in her. He never wants to stop watching her.

She comes with a sharp cry of his name, glorious from her lips, and she rides his tongue through her orgasm, hips bucking against him. Harsh, ragged breaths fall from her lips, a sheen of sweat on her brow, and she deflates into the bedding.

A soft, sated smile curls her lips.

Draco smirks up at her from between her legs and drawls, "Another."

At this, a disbelieving huff falls from her lips. "I don't have another."

He doesn't look away, holding her stare, and offers a bit of a smile. "Are you sure?"

Granger bites on her bottom lip and returns a lazy grin. "As much as this is wonderful," she murmurs, dragging her nails along his scalp, "I fear you've wrung me dry."

He presses a kiss to her inner thigh, then the other, writing a slow, indolent trail up her abdomen. She clenches beneath him, her knees knocking together as a quiet breath slides from her lungs. Sucking one nipple between his lips then the other, he breathes, "If you're sure."

When she hesitates, he smirks.

At this point, he wants anything she's willing to give, even if it means his own release doesn't come. Even if he needs to finish himself off in the loo.

He's delirious with the idea of drawing still more pleasure from her body.

But she reaches for him. Leaving him unsatisfied is not even a thought in her mind. She palms him through his shorts then pushes them from his hips, taking him fully into her hand.

Lacing her fingers into his hair, she drags his mouth to hers and murmurs, "You're welcome to try."

Then she slots him against her, and with a rakish grin, Draco slides into her.

"You," she gasps as he rolls his hips against hers, seeking salvation inside her searing heat, "are a constant surprise."

He draws her mouth against his in another heated kiss, their tongues tangling as she winds a leg around his hip. "I always want you to get off."

It isn't a lie—if she doesn't come, he doesn't want to either. He's addicted to it.

Knowing she's already sensitive, he moves slowly against her, stirring desire within them both despite that he feels like he won't last. Her pussy is so wet, so tight around him, and she meets him thrust for thrust, urging him deeper, harder, their breaths mingling and skin flush.

"Another?" he asks, smirking against her mouth. Brushes his thumb against her clit.

Amusement and surprise colour her tone as she whispers, "Yes. Fuck, Draco."

"Yeah," he groans, bringing their bodies together again and again. As he feels them both approach that peak, he opens his mind to hers. Finds the current of power roving between them, and nudges against her magical core with his own. The feel of it is nearly enough to drive him to madness. "Give me one more."

She tightens around him at once, a bright cry tumbling from her lips, and her nails bite into his shoulders as she clutches him tight. A jumble of curses slide from her lips as yet another orgasm crashes through her, and this one he can feel too.

Unable to hold back, he welcomes his own release, the force of it blurring the edges of his vision with a star-speckled blackness. It's so intense he can't keep track of his own thoughts, his mind and body a mass of feeling, and for a moment, he can't tell himself distinct from her.

Her pleasure is his, and his own orgasm courses through her.

It's more than he ever imagined—more than he can handle.

They collapse in a heap of little more than magic and sensation, rapid breaths mingling as one. Draco doesn't know how much time passes before his eyes slide open, the pleasure at last dissipating, and his heart roars in his chest as he blinks at her.

Granger only stares at him, eyelids heavy, and Draco suspects she has no more words.

She shifts against him, her legs coiling with his, and her eyes flutter shut.

His heart races for long minutes as he draws her against his chest, pulling the blankets over them both. Almost as an afterthought—despite that it was his focus for most of the day—Draco casts a wordless summoning charm on his golden coin.

The face of it is warm when it hits his palm, and Granger blinks sleepy eyes open to stare at it when he reveals the message.

It's done. Phase two commence.

They share a glance, the significance of it burying itself deep within Draco's being. A slow, lazy smirk draws across his face as he slides into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading. The continued support on this fic means more than I can say, and your comments make me smile week after week. I hope you liked the chapter! (And how are we already at 150k??)

As always, hugs and love to my team, kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

Chapter 31

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The instant his mind stirs into wakefulness, Draco's struck with recollections of the night before. Hermione's tangled up around him, not a breath of air between them. He releases a slow exhale through his nose and sinks back into the pillow.

He doesn't know what time it is, but the morning light seeping in through her curtains is pale like the fresh moments following sunrise.

She stirs in his arms, arching her spine as she stretches out, and her eyes slide open to land on his. Stifling a yawn behind her palm, she murmurs, "Good morning." But to his surprise she doesn't try to extricate herself from his hold; she only burrows deeper into his chest.

Draco can't exactly pinpoint the moment when they started becoming closer. When trust started to form more easily.

When they began to choose each other.

And maybe it all stems back to a matter of necessity—or maybe it doesn't.

Maybe it's something else entirely.

"Morning." Draco sweeps a tangle of curls from her face, finding her eyes warm on him. He's so caught up in the quiet moment with her that the memory of Theo's message late at night registers only belatedly. He rolls onto his back, bringing her with him. "We have work to do."

Hermione hums against his chest, drumming her fingertips idly across his pectoral. "We do. Harry does, more like."

Because no one has inside access to Shacklebolt's ear like Harry Potter. And Draco can only hope he has the guts to take things further if the need arises. So many of their steps moving forward will be impacted by the way things play out now.

"Yeah," he murmurs, yanking a hand through his hair.

A curious glimmer shines in her eyes. "I had a nice time last night."

A grin spreads across his face. "Good."

He's of half a mind to pick up where they left off—to keep her in this bed until they're both thoroughly spent—but she presses a kiss to his chest. Trailing her fingers along his sides, she shifts her body from his, ghosting a line of kisses along his abdomen and lower. Draco watches her, his breaths falling a little quicker, and his insides clench when she reaches the line of his hips.

Watching her with parted lips, he takes a handful of her curls and forces her to look up at him. But she only gives him a wicked smile.

She takes his cock in her palm and laves her tongue the full length of the underside.

Draco's mouth goes dry, heart clamouring in his chest.

She presses a kiss to the head of him, dipping her tongue out to trace the slit.

"Fuck," Draco groans under his breath. Then a dart of searing heat burns his forearm and he tenses, with a more voracious, "Fuck."

Hermione pauses, pumping him slowly with her hand as she gazes up at him from between his legs. "What is it?" She must read the answer in his face, because she frowns. "Summons?"

Draco groans a spiteful, "Yes."

"Make him wait," she whispers, taking him between her lips. His eyelids slide shut, indulgent pleasure coiling tight in his core as she takes his cock deeper into her throat. She sucks him hard, swallowing. Then she comes off him with a pop and adds, "He can't expect you to drop everything every time he needs something."

"You'd be surprised," Draco drawls as she darts her tongue out to taste his length. He attempts to banish the thought from his mind, focusing on the heat of her mouth wrapped around him, but his Mark burns again, more painfully this time. The Dark Lord's anger is visceral even from a distance. He growls, "I am going to fucking kill him."

Sensing his distraction, Granger gives him a mocking pout. "That's the plan."

At the moment, it doesn't feel like enough. She shifts from him, amusement dancing in her stare, even as he summons his robes and mask from the next room. "I'm going to cut out his heart with my bare hands."

She laughs, eyeing him as he dresses. There's no hiding a raging erection, but as the thought of being tortured doesn't do anything for him, he hopes it will dissipate by the time he reaches the hall.

"Sorry," Draco mutters, catching her eye as he reaches for his mask. "I'll find out what he wants. I imagine he's heard about Thicknesse."

She sobers at the thought, reaching for a sheet to cover herself. "Then we're on the clock."

"Yeah." Draco grimaces. "Send a message to Potter."

Granger nods.

Then he ducks in, catching her mouth in a kiss. "I'll see you soon."

She deepens the kiss for a brief moment, and he can taste himself on her tongue. "We'll pick up where we left off."

At least he has something to look forward to after this.

The juxtaposition between waking to Hermione's mouth on his cock and facing the early morning rage of Lord Voldemort is stark.

Draco knows which he prefers.

"Pius Thicknesse has been killed," the Dark Lord hisses, his scarlet eyes aglow with the force of his fury.

Draco is incredibly grateful for his mask, because he doesn't know what his master expects of him. He remains rigid, hands clasped at his front. "I had no idea, My Lord. Who did it?"

"How would I know?" The words drip with cruelty, and Draco refrains from flinching. At any moment, he'll feel the sting of Voldemort's wrath in his own flesh.

He ducks his head. "What can I do?"

"Find out who is responsible," the Dark Lord grinds through his teeth. "And dispose of them."

"My Lord," Draco confirms. "I will get right on it."

Already, his mind spins with ideas. Framing and forgery. But he's expected this from the moment they arranged the plot.

He knows better than to speak, keeping himself as immobile as possible lest he invite Voldemort's fury unnecessarily.

"We will, of course, need to plant someone else."

Draco isn't surprised by this either. They're all expendable, even him—especially him, if his plans come to light—and Voldemort's only frustration in the matter is the fact that he will need to find another puppet to maintain his interests atop the Ministry.

The fact that he's been bested.

He'll certainly suspect the resistance's involvement, when Thicknesse's bias has been apparent for years.

"Who do you have in mind?" Draco asks, keeping his voice low and even. "Surely, the resistance will attempt to seat one of their own as Minister."

Voldemort scowls at him; he hasn't thought this far ahead yet. "I will let you know. And you will make it happen."

Ducking his chin, Draco fights a smile beneath his mask. "Yes, My Lord. Of course."

"And in the meantime, report in with the Ministry. It is imperative we know exactly what is at play while leadership is frail."

The Dark Lord's anger is banked in the wake of strategy, but Draco knows better. If he doesn't pay for this now, he will later. The irony of the situation rests in the fact that this, if not all the rest, is Draco's fault.

Some part of him basks in this—in seeing Voldemort unhinged over his own actions.

The danger in it is empowering. Like a step he's taken of his own free will, rather than at the hand of his cruel master. He desires this—the power it gives back after so many years without.

"I will go to the Ministry today," Draco demures. "And report back on anything I find."

"Yes," Voldemort hisses. "And whoever is responsible for this will pay."

He allows the smirk to colour his words. "They most certainly will."

A message sits on the face of her coin when Hermione emerges from the shower, a cloud of steam enveloping her as she reaches for a towel. With a quick glance into the bedroom to ensure Draco hasn't returned, she reads the short note.

Going to the Ministry. Check in with the others?

She reaches for her wand. In a quick series of spells, her hair dries into loose curls, and she shrugs on a robe.

Will do. Meet up later. House?

A long pause follows, and Hermione isn't certain how long his message waited for her. Perhaps he doesn't still have his coin handy, or he doesn't know what to answer. At last, a message comes through.

Your discretion. I don't need to tell you what's at stake.

A smile tugs at her lips.

Hermione can only imagine how Voldemort took the news of losing his puppet, but Draco communicating in full sentences is promising. Hopefully he hasn't taken too much of the Dark Lord's anger over this. There’s a strange amusement in the fact that this is the only time Draco has actually been responsible for the trouble.

Hesitating for a long moment, she stares at her coin.

She understands exactly well what could happen if the wrong people learn of the house. The Dark Lord would absolutely view it as an act of rebellion on Draco's part.

But although trust is hard to come by—and increasingly so, as the war worsens—she wants to believe she can still trust Harry and Neville with her life.

If nothing else, they all have enough dirt on each other at this point that any double crossing will take some consideration to pull off. All of them are involved, all of their hands dirty. And her friends are smart. Smart enough, she hopes, not to turn on her and Draco.

Draco will inform Theo, she's sure. Especially since Theo and Neville appear to be a unit these days. That isn't her business—but it's oddly reassuring from both sides.

Particularly when she considers that Neville might not be alive if not for Theo's leniency in his torture while he was kept at Malfoy Manor.

There's a strange sort of solace in the thought that they'll all go down together.

Decision made, she taps out a series of messages into her coin. After watching the clock for fifteen minutes, she checks her quarters for any sign of house elves, and Disapparates through the Malfoy wards.

It takes a convoluted series of Apparition jumps and stretches of walking to get Harry and Neville through the extensive wards, and a shiver of trepidation courses the length of her spine despite that she knows—hopes—she can trust them.

Once, she would have believed the sentiment without a second doubt.

The war has made cynics of them all.

They gaze around the small house, a combination of distrust and surprise on their faces, and Hermione watches them with a held breath.

"This is your new house," Harry says at last after clearing his throat. "Malfoy's house."

"A bit ratty, isn't it?" Neville adds.

Hermione nods, a little stilted. "It is. And, for the record, if either of you say a word about it to anyone we'll all be dead."

They both stare hard.

Harry breaks the tension with a sigh. "I think at this point we're all in this mess for better or worse. I may not trust everything Malfoy's done, but I know why he's doing what he's doing—and I know you trust him." His voice softens. "And I trust you."

"Yeah." Neville drags a hand along the back of his neck. "I guess it all makes sense, doesn't it? If we carry on with the status quo as it's been, nothing changes. And we're poised to lose this bloody war."

"Plus he's sleeping with Nott," Harry says, a teasing lilt to the words.

Neville fires him a scowl, though Hermione can sense the good-natured ribbing. "And if I thought he was going to betray me again I'd put a curse through him while he sleeps."

She doesn't doubt him. And that alone is enough of a reminder of how much everything has changed. How much is at stake.

"Okay." She releases a breath. "This is our house, yes. I've been gradually furnishing it, though it's still a little sparse. The most important part is that we're safe here to discuss what we need to."

The pair before her exchange a look, and Harry's gaze lands, unwavering, on her. "Maybe what we ought to discuss," he says baldly, "is how you got wrapped up in this to begin with. Because now we're all involved, and I'm still not fully convinced we're going to come out on top when you're considering the two powerful groups on either side of us."

Hermione hums at the assertion and leads them through the sitting room into the spare bedroom. She's taken the time to furnish the room with a table and chairs, affixing maps and tactical information to the walls.

They've designated it a war room of sorts.

"I wish I could say I was innocent in it all," she says at last. "But Draco can be very… persuasive."

Coercive, threatening, violent.

She doesn't need to tell them about any of that—especially Neville.

To her surprise, neither of them listen with any judgement as she supplies an abridged version of the story. The small exchanges of information—how he informed her of the raid leak. How he demanded she learn the identity of the Foray informant in return.

"How did you end up being Nott's handler, by the way?" Harry asks at that point.

Neville shrugs. "I was the only one he trusted. So I brought him to Cassius. For a long time, it was only the two of us who knew what Theo was up to."

As Hermione considers the logistics of everything that's happened, her coin warms in her pocket.

Ministry is a mess. I'll be there as soon as I can.

Drawing her wand, Hermione taps in a response.

Harry and Neville are here.

A long pause follows—long enough for nerves to prickle along her skin. She knows of his reticence to involve anyone else more than necessary—but he also knows they can't accomplish everything that needs to be done alone.

Finally, a response comes through again.

I'll bring Theo.

A small, absent smile rises to her lips at the easy response, and when she glances up again, both Harry and Neville are eyeing her with incredulous stares.

"You have got to tell us how this happened," Neville says, waving a hand in her direction. "You and Malfoy."

"I didn't have an option at the time," she clips, glancing at Harry. "Warrington pieced together that I was the one who leaked information about Foray and Harry warned me before they could track me down. Malfoy took me to the Manor—and we both knew if he didn't appear to have turned me to his side, the Dark Lord would have taken me out faster than I could blink. So we got married."

By careful omission, she doesn't mention the Black family bonds. She doesn't think Malfoy's even told Theo the full truth about the ritual—and it's a secret weapon they've kept close.

"And if we make it through all of this?" Harry asks. "Is the marriage permanent?"

Hermione nods, straightening her shoulders. "He... isn't all that bad." She wants to say something more. To assure them that Malfoy isn't the monster they came to know him as before. To convince them that he's been there for her when she needed someone.

She looks around the small house. It may look shoddy and sparsely furnished, but to the two of them, it represents so much more.

"Maybe he's grown on me," she adds, offering a hint of a smile. "But we've become a team all the same. If we make it through all of this and have to spend the rest of our lives together, well... there are worse ends to meet."

Harry still looks a little dubious, but at length, a smile spreads across his face. "It all makes so much more sense now. The way you two had so many run-ins but didn't kill each other."

Hermione knows her decision-making through all of this has been suspect, but she can't regret leaving him alive now. And she doesn't care to dwell on that any longer.

"Let's deal with some business," she says, taking a seat at the table. Following her lead, Harry and Neville pull up seats as well, their countenances sliding easily into alertness. "Thicknesse is out—were there any problems?"

"None," Neville says. "Theo and I took care of it late last night. Scans showed no one else in the area at the time. Thoroughly checked for any evidence we might have left behind."

"Okay." Hermione nods, staring at a map of magical London affixed to one wall. Her gaze lands on the outskirts—the factory district where she and Draco spent so much time caught up in duels. "And does Kingsley know?"

"He learned this morning," Harry says sharply. "Warrington heard about it before I was even awake—which shrinks our window in getting to Kings. But I managed to find him alone for a few minutes and it was enough to plant the seed. We'll have to see whether he takes the bait."

Any hint of the casual conversation between old friends from only minutes ago has vanished, replaced by the machinations of three soldiers caught up in too long a war.

"And do you suppose he'll go for it?"

Harry and Neville exchange a calculating glance.

"Hard to say," Neville says, leaning back in his seat as he gazes around the room. "I think Kingsley understands the situation more extensively than anyone. But he's been caught under Warrington's foot for too long. I'm sure he's weighing every angle as we speak."

"It's a shite situation," Harry says, dragging a hand through his hair, "because if Kingsley doesn't go for it this could all get so much worse."

Draco strides into the room as he's speaking, Theo on his heels. "I promise you it will," he drawls, a grim look on his face. "Which is why we need this to work."

Draco feels Granger's stare on him from the moment he enters the room, and he drags a chair into place at her side. Theo sits at his other side, next to Longbottom, and Draco surveys the small group for a moment. The few people in the world he can trust—and only one of them someone he might have guessed at only a few months ago.

"I've just heard from the Dark Lord," he says, rolling tension from his neck after an arduous morning. "And he's set to position someone else for the Minister's seat at the very moment."

"Do we want to know?" Theo asks, droll irreverence concealing the distress in his eyes.

"No," Draco returns, "but I'm going to tell you anyway because this situation just got a lot fucking worse and I don't want to stew in it alone."

Granger gives him a sidelong glance, then releases a sigh. "Let me guess."

"Yeah," Draco huffs under his breath, nudging her knee with his own under the table. "Yaxley."

A varied silence hangs over the group. Theo scowls at the table while Potter and Longbottom exchange a glance—but Draco supposes to them, a Death Eater is a Death Eater.

"For context," Draco adds, "this is not who any of us should want running the wizarding world. Thicknesse was a bloody picnic compared to Yaxley."

He can feel the tension radiating from Granger at his side, and he prods briefly against the magic between them. He doesn't care to voice what he knows she's thinking: that Yaxley has already grown suspicious of the two of them.

That he's already a problem even without this.

But he could feel the Dark Lord's rage in his own veins when he informed him of his selection for the Minister's seat. Never mind that Yaxley's halfway insane and would do his level best to drive the Ministry into the ground.

Because he's cruel, and that's all the Dark Lord—also insane and cruel—cares about.

Draco earned his own form of his master's respect through cruelty—but no more.

He won't say no to vengeance.

"I don't have any say in how this plays out, for the record," Draco says when no one else speaks. "If I try to persuade him otherwise, he'll grow suspicious."

"Not if," Theo says, "you tell him you want the seat."

The words catch Draco by surprise. Granger's gaze skirts up to land on his again. He reviles being caught off-guard.

"He would never put me into the Minister's seat," Draco says after a moment, though he hears the uncertainty in his own voice. "I'm too valuable as his boots on the ground."

Now he can hear the bitterness.

"Obviously he doesn't care any longer about keeping bias out of it," Granger says quietly, "if he wants one of his most ruthless Death Eaters to take the spot."

"Obviously," Longbottom echoes. "So if Kingsley doesn't go for it, all of this has been for nothing?"

His expression is stoic, but he was partly responsible for assassinating the Minister of Magic the night before. Draco can only imagine the magnitude of disarray in his thoughts.

He shoots Theo a glance and says, "Exactly right. Where are we at with Kingsley?"

"Undecided," Potter breaks in. "But he knows the stakes."

Draco nods, turning over the options in his mind. "Fair enough. Let me know the second you learn more." He eyes each of the circle in turn. "Anything else?"

"Might just be me," Longbottom says, folding his arms across a broad chest, "but Cassius has seemed off lately."

"Not just you," Potter replies. "I think he's reacting to the pressure. A few safehouses have taken significant losses in recent days, and the resistance is seeing numbers dwindle in a lot of areas. Fewer people willing to stand up against the Death Eaters these days."

Grimacing, Draco nods. "I'd like to see Warrington crumble. But all the more reason to prevent the Dark Lord from holding the Ministry. The last thing he needs right now is more power."

"Agreed," Granger says at his side. "What's the situation with the Ministry as of now?"

"Chaos," he replies with a bit of a smirk. Longbottom and Theo exchange a grin. "You'd think there's never been a Minister assassinated before. But, of course, we all know that's how Thicknesse came to power. They're arranging a bureaucratic structure in the interim before they can put together an election—though we can only imagine how fair it'll be. The Ministry's been corrupt as hell and in the Dark Lord's pocket for years. It sounds like other leadership positions are already beginning to scatter."

"So what are we going to do about Yaxley?" Potter asks.

"You," Draco replies, "just need to focus on Kingsley. I don't care what you have to do, but we need him to set his sights on the Ministry and abandon his role with the resistance. Tell him you've heard Yaxley's opposing him if you have to."

Potter nods once, ducking close to murmur something in Granger's ear.

"I think," she says out loud, casting Draco a glance. Her fingers brush his under the table. "We'll figure something out for Yaxley."

It's the least pleasant thing Draco's had to consider in a long while—and that's saying something, given the amount of unpleasant things he does. "Yeah," he says at last. "We'll deal with that."

He pulls her hand into his with a squeeze, drawing a measure of comfort from the contact. As though understanding, she tugs at the magical bond between them, and he allows her mind to brush against his. He wants to sink into it, to push all the rest of it away and ignore the new host of problems before them.

He settless back into his seat, gripping Granger's hand tighter, and drawls, "We know where we're at, so I guess that's it for now. And in case Hermione didn't mention, if any one of you gives up this house, I will come for your throats myself."

"You're good, mate," Potter says, rising to his feet, "It's not that nice of a house."

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. "It's a fine house." Granger slips her hand from his and rises, pulling each Potter and Longbottom into a brief embrace. Draco follows suit, clapping a hand to Theo's shoulder before he slips from the room with Longbottom.

At last, only Draco and Granger remain in the small room with its austerity and utilitarian furnishings, and he finds he can't stand it.

He leads her into the sitting room, yanking a hand through already messy hair.

"How bad was it?" she asks, turning to face him.

"It's fucked," he drawls, "which is, of course, what we were going for. The Ministry's been in such a state for years that there aren't contingencies in place to deal with this sort of thing. The Dark Lord is beside himself over the idea of losing power."

"It should never have been his power to begin with," she bites out.

Draco observes her for a moment, finding the fire in her eyes. "You were quiet in the meeting. How come?"

Her eyes open with surprise, brows high, and she shrugs. "I suppose I don't know how to deal with all of this. For years, I've been little more than a fighter. Harry and I used to call the shots, but that was a long time ago. Maybe we settled into a place where we kept our heads down and did as we were told. Strategy doesn't come as easily to me as it does to you."

Catching her arms, he draws her closer. "I haven't had a choice."

"You did," she returns quietly, "because you could have chosen to remain a low level Death Eater. Instead, you became his highest ranked lieutenant."

Draco considers the thought for a moment. "That doesn't mean I have a clue what I'm doing most of the time. Most of what I've done—and haven't done—has all been a matter of survival. I've learned to keep moving, keep planning, keep acting, because the alternative is nothing—and as far as the Dark Lord is concerned, doing nothing means we're useless."

Granger lifts her chin, eyes finding his. "All the same. I admire that you're always thinking ahead."

"Thank you." The words catch him off guard in a way he couldn't have anticipated. "I appreciate that. But I feel like I'm shooting blind so much of the time. I have no idea if any of this is going to work out. If you and I aren't just digging an even deeper hole that we'll never find our way out of. I don't know if this magic we're nurturing will be enough."

Vulnerability has never come easily to him, and even now, with the woman to whom he's bound his life. But some part of him knows she won't judge him for his thoughts and feelings, and it's oddly reassuring.

Reaching up, she brushes her fingertips along his jaw. Presses a kiss to his mouth.

Something like fire dances in her eyes when she draws back. "I don't know how all of this is going to turn out, either," she says with a quiet ferocity, "but I do know we're in it together. And I have faith in this. In us."

He stares at her, a sudden tightness taking hold in his chest like a vise around his heart. And Draco finds himself without words.

"As far as the magic goes," she says, eyes glassy. "I think by the time we need to strike a blow… we'll be ready."

Her determination galvanises his waning strength, and Draco nods. He releases a long breath.

For now, he'll borrow her faith—and hope it's enough.

Chapter End Notes

Hello, thank you all, as always, for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and that you're stoked for what's to come! It's been a rough week and all your kind comments on the last chapter made me smile xoxo

Alpha love to kyonomiko, and beta creds to sweetestsorrows.

Chapter 32

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

For years, the slow creep of complacency has been little more than a red flag.

Draco knows better than to ever allow his guard down. When he thinks he has a situation in hand, it only means it's time to double down.

All it takes is one misstep—one error in judgement, one word slipped—for everything to come crumbling down.

And the stakes have never been higher.

As a loyal lieutenant, Draco's become intimately familiar with the searing pain of the Dark Lord's wrath. Now, he's acting in treason. Following a plan of his own accord. Plotting the kidnap and murder of his own subordinates.

More than his own life will be forfeit if these machinations are discovered.

Although they all know what they're up against—the war has claimed too many lives already—Draco would see himself killed before Granger.

She's only here because of him.

An outsider in a foreign camp.

Some days Draco thinks he's paranoid. That he's gone mad, seeing shadows where none exist. But then he reminds himself of the cost of a single wrong move.

And he knows an easy death will be a mercy they won't be afforded if discovered.

He Apparates to the small house he purchased, feeling a rush of tension sink from his shoulders. Every time he arrives, he's struck by something new Granger has done to the home, some new furniture or artwork she's acquired, and he likes that he asked her to take on the task.

She spends so much time sequestered away at the manor with little else to occupy her time, and he suspects she appreciates having a project.

That doesn't surprise him.

What does surprise him is the way he feels when he appears in the small home. A tentative sort of peace he hasn't known in years, and it strikes him as innocuous. Unexpected, like there's more to the house than ragged carpets and peeling paint.

He's caught by surprise every time.

Maybe it's what the house stands for. Maybe it's the fact that, were Granger someone he selected for a proper marriage by some strange twist of fate or circumstance, this might be the way they would actually go about settling a home for themselves.

Of course, Draco can't think of a situation where that would have been the case. And certainly not where he would have purchased a mediocre house in such a condition.

It's the principle of it all the same.

In the way that this is what strikes him as important, above everything else that ought to take precedence in his life.

He sinks into the unfamiliar sofa—he doesn't know where it's come from, but he knows Granger well enough to trust that she hasn't done anything to risk their privacy or safety. He drops his head back against the cushion. Allows his eyes to slide shut.

It isn't anything overly fancy. A simple loveseat in pale sage green upholstery. The cushions aren't particularly soft, and he wouldn't even be able to lie down on it without his head or feet going over one edge. But some part of Draco that longs for an end—for a new start—covets this damned sofa.

Granger joins him a short white later, taking a seat at the opposite end without a word. They sit in silence for several minutes, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Draco is able to focus on the slow intake of his breath. The long, gentle release.

The air in this house feels different.

Draco supposes a lack of toxicity does that.

"What do you think?" Granger finally asks, her head rolling along the back of the cushion to face him.

Although she could be asking him such a vague question in regards to so many other topics, instinctively he knows she's referring to the sofa. Because he suspects this house means as much to her as it does to him.

In the slow, meaningful assembly of it.

Draco presses his fingertips into the cushion at his side. "It's good."

"Yeah," she says. "It's from the liquidation store."

He knows that one. Most of their new artwork came from the liquidation store in several trips so as to remain unnoticed. Easy transactions in Muggle cash; different times of day and days of the week. A different disguise each time.

Small costs for either of them to pay in order to have a place where they can fucking breathe.

Draco eyes the sofa another moment longer, brushing the fabric. "Should we fuck on it?"

"It's brand new." Her tone holds a hint of disapproval, but when she glances his way, her lips twitch.

For a long time, he didn't care about sex. And even when he did, he didn't. Because how could he possibly care about something so frivolous with the life he leads? For years, the only encounters he bothered to indulge were casual ones.

There's something about Granger—about the way that neither of them truly wanted to get married but did anyway. In the simplicity of necessity gone rogue.

That even though they don't have to, they do.

And even though their early discussions regarding the matter rather intentionally skirted over the topic, they've slid headfirst into a world where they don't question it anymore. Now, Draco thinks a lot more about sex.

He thinks about Granger's curves, the scintillating quirk of her mouth when he knows she's thinking about it. The way she breathes his name when he's buried deep inside her; the quiet cries that tumble from her lips when he brings her off.

"All the more reason," he says after a moment. He pictures her laid out on the new sofa, sage green and bare flesh, naked and willing beneath him.

Maybe it comes from the way they hunted each other like prey in the days before. And now he has her in ways he never could have imagined.

Maybe he's insatiable for her.

"What we need to do," she murmurs, "is discuss the matters before us: Thicknesse; Kingsley."

"Yaxley," Draco agrees.

But he doesn't miss the way her voice drops, growing a little breathier, and all it takes is his fingers curling around her wrist for her to shift closer.

"There's no way we can let him install Yaxley in the Minister's position." She swings one leg across his lap, straddling him, and her mouth falls open slightly when she settles herself against him. Merlin, Draco's already hard just thinking about her riding him on the new fucking sofa.

"Not a chance," he returns, a breath hitching in his throat. He palms her arse, manoeuvring her against his cock. "We'll need to take him out."

Granger's eyelids flutter. "It's a massive risk."

"It's a risk either way."

Eyes sliding open to meet his, she grinds against him, her pupils blown wide. "What are you thinking?"

Draco reaches for her, making quick work of the closure of her jeans. He searches for her clit through her knickers, gratified when a low moan slides from her throat. It makes his erection jolt.

He leans the side of his face against hers, drawing slow circles on the sensitive nerves. Even as he does it, he reaches for the thread of power between them with a tug. The Black lineage bonds. Granger sucks in a breath, but whether it's from the suggestion or his touch, he doesn't know.

She fumbles for his belt, grazing his cock through his jeans. "You can't kill him or the Dark Lord will know."

Draco bites down on her earlobe. "I can't use my own magic on him."

Her eyes land on him again as she catches his face between her hands. Heavy breaths fall against his lips in the moment before she captures his mouth in a quick, desperate kiss. "We don't know if the magic is strong enough. We could ask Neville—"

"Longbottom is not a hired assassin," Draco drawls, nudging her knickers aside to reach bare flesh. His upper lip curls with distaste. "And I want to be the one to put an end to Yaxley."

Merlin knows the man has made his years miserable. He's mad and cruel and those are the least of his issues. Especially now that Yaxley's grown suspicious, Draco cannot allow him to live.

Whatever Granger sees in his stare, she doesn't question it.

Peeling her jeans from her arse, he breathes against her mouth, "I would tear him apart with my bare hands before I would see him atop the Ministry."

She shifts on his lap, tossing her jeans to the floor, then wrenches his from his hips and frees his cock from his shorts. With heavy breaths, she drags her lace-covered pussy against his erection and Draco groans, feeling her wet heat on him.

"He'll die," she gasps, pulling her knickers to the side and teasing the tip of him with her entrance. "Even though it will be suspicious."

Draco stares at her. "Yes. It's the only way."

"Okay."

He could get off on her faith in him alone.

He pulls her down onto him hard.

Hermione stares at her coin, sucking in a breath as her heart leaps. "Kingsley's going for it," she breathes. Her eyes snap up to find Draco on the sitting room sofa. "He's stepping back from the resistance."

He smirks, a genuine brightness coming into his eyes. "Wish I could see Warrington's face right now."

Gnawing on her lower lip, she releases a snicker. "Same, honestly. What now? Kingsley will announce his intention to run for Minister—but so will Yaxley. The Dark Lord will be angry."

"Of course he will," Draco returns easily, "but he's always angry."

"He'll take it out on you."

He ducks his chin. "Yes."

By his easy affirmation, she knows he's expected this all along. But in her experience, he isn't one to shy away from physical pain if it means he accomplishes his goals.

"I'm coming with you," she clips. "When he finds out. Maybe he'll go easier on you."

"Not a chance."

Hermione scowls at him, folding her legs beneath her. "I'm not pulling you back from the brink of death again."

"No," he drawls, "you won't. Because you'll take the torture alongside me and we'll both end up a wreck. I need you to stay on the periphery of this in case I can't get myself together." His voice softens. "As much as I appreciate that you want to stand up for me. I can take it—I promise."

She frowns, hating the position all of this leaves her in. She's used to acting, to carrying her own weight in these things. For months now, she's had to watch Draco go off to fight, acting as the Dark Lord's intermediary between his forces, unable to do her part.

Realistically, she understands the situation. Any resistance fighters who see her at Draco's side will target her in an instant, and the Dark Lord would never send her to fight for him anyway. She suspects he still doesn't fully trust her presence in the manor.

It's a strange irony, when Draco's willing to take torture curses on a regular basis, but won't see her fight.

Hermione knows her benefit in this situation is behind the scenes. But still, it stings to watch him leave—never knowing if any given day will be the one he doesn't come back. If she'll be left with the mess of their half-formed plans to deal with on her own.

She doesn't know if she would be able to deal with it all alone.

Not alone, she has to remind herself. Harry, Neville, and Theo are involved now.

"I don't want to keep watching you take his shit," she grits out quietly.

Pursing his lips, Draco assesses her. "I need you to look at the big picture. This is our reality now, but it isn't going to be the case forever. I have to know you're okay if things go south and I need you."

"Fine." She presses her fingers to her temples, staving off a migraine. "What do we do now?"

Draco folds one ankle over his knee. "The Dark Lord expects me to run a campaign for Yaxley's election to Minister." He snorts. "But meanwhile, I'm plotting his demise."

"And we need to make it look like we support Yaxley's bid," she reasons. "Not Kingsley's."

"Right."

Grimacing at the complexity of it, she shakes her head. "What can we do to ensure Kingsley gets elected?"

He stares at the book in his lap for a long moment, then lifts his face with expectant brows. "What do you think we're going to do?"

Despite herself, a smile creeps across her face.

It's fucked up, Draco decides, that he knows how to mentally prepare himself for torture. The muscular relaxation; the mental disengagement. The way he channels into some part of him that can block it out a little easier.

He knew the Dark Lord would be upset over Thicknesse—and subsequently, Shacklebolt—but there are more important matters at stake.

It doesn't mean he's keen on facing down his master's Cruciatus curse.

But he'll take it. He even thinks he might deserve it this time. It's by his machinations that any of this is unfolding, after all—and he has to fight off a smirk at the thought.

One day all of this will be worth the pain. It's a desperate, naive thought, but he has no choice but to cling to some small scrap of the hope he's discovered. He can't handle the thought that all of this is for naught. That he'll end up dead—that Hermione will end up dead.

The first spell hits and searing pain roars through him, ripping through skin and muscle and wrenching at bone.

He knows this pain well, but it doesn't get any easier to withstand the initial blow.

Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to slide beneath his own mental walls, to seek shelter within himself against the storm raging in his flesh. A spark of magic hovers within him, and instinctively, he latches onto it.

All at once, he recognises the essence of it. Granger.

The magic is a comfort and a relief, and he sinks into it, surprised to find some of the pain dissipates. As though the magic has formed a protective shield around him. Some of the tension slides from him, and it's an effort to keep his face straight in light of it.

And as the torture carries on, Draco slips into oblivion.

He finds Granger in their sitting room, perched in an armchair with a book in her lap. "You're back," she says, glancing up from her page. She searches his face for a moment. "He didn't take it well?"

"No," Draco says, "he didn't. But—" He cuts himself off as he observes her. There's something pale about her, depleted, as though she's exerted a great amount of energy. Horror slams through him at the implication. He lowers his voice. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," she whispers, though she doesn't quite meet his eye. "I didn't do anything."

"What happened?" he asks, planting his hands to the arms of her chair and leaning in. "With the magic?"

"I don't know." She shakes her head. "I... felt something in the connection. I felt pain."

For a long moment, he only stares at her, brain whirring as he sorts through what she's saying. What she isn't saying. She stares back, something defiant tinged with the exhaustion, and Draco isn't certain he's breathing.

"What," he grits out, "did you do?"

"Nothing," she breathes. "I didn't even realise at first what was happening, and then—"

His fingers tighten on the arm of the chair, a surge of frustration rising within him. He recognises how irrational it is, but the very thought that she might have somehow reached into him, taken the pain away, strikes at the part of him that already loathes the situation he's forced her into.

Unable to verbalise the sentiment into words, he only asks, "Are you alright?"

Merlin, he can't even meet her eyes. He's used to the Dark Lord's wrath—but the thought of subjecting her to it makes him nauseous.

"Fine," she whispers, her eyelids fluttering shut. "It wasn't... that bad, I don't think."

Draco grips the back of her head, fingers digging into her curls, and tilts her face up towards him. Her eyes snap open to land on his once more. They're glassy and bloodshot.

"It was that bad," he says, guilt and shame roiling within him. The only thing he's been able to manage through all of this is to keep her relatively safe. "I haven't seen him that angry since the night of the party."

Her fingers curl around his wrist. "It's okay."

They stare at each other, and despite himself, curiosity grows within him as a seed. Until this point, they've tested the magic of the bonds in other ways, but they haven't been able to reach into each other in such a way. To truly draw from each other.

"I couldn't let you take it alone," she breathes.

The fact that she not only sensed the torture, but leeched it from him, absorbed it into herself, strikes a nerve within him.

"How did you do it?" he asks, voice shaky. Drifts his fingers along her cheek. Steels his resolve. "Tell me how."

When she nods, he watches the last of the strain leave her and her stare clears. "I'm not sure—it was so instinctive. But I think I can figure it out again."

"Good." He presses a kiss to her mouth, hoping she can taste the apology, the despair on his tongue. "Because we're going to need it."

The Ministry is in complete disarray.

In the days since he's last been here, what little structure existed appears to have collapsed. Draco smirks, grateful for the Death Eater mask concealing his features as he casts a sidelong glance to Theo at his side.

"Interesting," he drawls with as much affectation as he can muster in case anyone is listening in. "That this system is so shoddy all it takes is one little death for the entire thing to collapse."

Draco barely hears Theo's snort. "Interesting is one word for it."

Raising his volume, Draco says, "The Dark Lord is incredibly displeased."

A woman working at a desk nearby noticeably cringes.

"The problem will be resolved soon enough," Theo says with a definitive nod, his tone reassuring as though anyone around them actually wants another Death Eater running operations. "And everything will get back to normal."

It's all for show, of course. An exertion of the Dark Lord's power over those in wizarding society who don't care to stand against him. Those miserable half bloods and purebloods still working as cogs in the corrupted system but unwilling to actively join in the war.

Draco hates them. He envies them the option.

Even so, if he has his way it won't be Yaxley—or any other Death Eater—running the Ministry. It will be someone actually qualified for the position. Someone who might restore some semblance of order.

"Thank Merlin," Theo mutters under his breath, and Draco knows well enough the sentiment isn't about anything the Dark Lord has planned either. He walks along the aisle of desks, peering at several of the workers' desks, and Draco watches as most of them flinch away from his closeness. But none of them dare speak out.

The whole system is trash. The fact that anyone can still do paperwork while they're out on the streets fighting for their lives every week rankles him in a way that he should be used to by now.

These tactics are little more than intimidation. To ensure the people in between sides acknowledge and respect the Dark Lord's power—and don't dare rise against it. It's how they've kept the resistance relatively subdued despite the increasing cruelty of the Death Eaters.

As they proceed through the charade of examining the Ministry of Magic, Draco reaches for the seed of magic within him, finding it almost instantly. Through to the other side, he can feel Granger's signature, and he nuzzles against it.

A smile tugs at his lips when he feels her attention on the other side.

They've been working on pushing the magic even further, strengthening every element of it in preparation of what they have to do. The timing around Yaxley's demise will be suspicious no matter what happens, but Draco needs to ensure every other aspect of the hit goes off as planned.

It isn't a plan they can rush—at a point in time where every day matters.

Already, the Ministry's interim leadership is preparing for an election—and Draco's been keeping tabs on Shacklebolt through Potter as much as he's been watching Yaxley.

There isn't any way for it not to appear like an assassination. Not when his bid for Minister has already been announced. All Draco can do is make it look like a resistance take down.

But it has to be late enough in the proceedings that the Dark Lord won't have time to insert someone else.

All of it has brought Draco into this exact position multiple times since Thicknesse's murder, observing operations at the Ministry when he has a multitude of more important things to do.

"Nott," he snaps, straightening his shoulders. He rakes the Ministry employees with another hard stare through his mask. "Time to go."

The house Draco procured in London has a small garden, barren but well kept, and imbued with so many protective enchantments the air is thick to breathe. Hermione sits on a bench, eyeing an empty patch of earth but for a small skiff of snow, when Draco emerges from inside the house.

Her gaze slides to find him, unsurprised. As they've dialled deeper into the bonds between them, she finds she's aware of him more often than not, and when she focuses, she can determine his location. Sometimes, his mood.

"How are things proceeding?" she asks, turning her gaze back to the pale blue sky.

He drops down at her side, his back stiff, and rakes a hand through his hair. "As expected," he murmurs. "The Dark Lord believes he's got the upper hand, Yaxley believes he's about to be the next Minister for Magic, and they've got me running around like a dog serving their bidding." His upper lip curls with distaste. "It's a bloody circus, to be honest."

"According to Harry," Hermione replies, "Kingsley has made efforts to distance himself from the leadership of the resistance. I read an article in the Prophet this morning that he believes he can inspire more progress in the wizarding world without resistance affiliations."

"He's right," Draco drawls. "Especially when a significant and influential portion of the voting pool have connections to the dark side. But no one wants to see Yaxley atop the Ministry. Honestly, they're shooting themselves in the foot with him as a candidate."

Hermione shoots him a tentative look. "I'm honestly surprised he didn't try to make a bid for you as Minister."

For a long moment, Draco doesn't respond. Hermione knows better than to think he wouldn't have considered it even a little.

"I am too," he announces at last. "I'm too young, of course, and too prominent a Death Eater." He says the words with great distaste. "But I am surprised he didn't consider it."

"Would you have?"

"If he wanted me to run, I would have run." He gives a flippant shrug that belies the tension in his shoulders. "Would have made one hell of a mess, though. In a lot of ways, Yaxley's easier to clean up. And I don't want to be in power. If we ever make it through all of this... I don't want anything to do with any of it."

Her own response to the sentiment surprises her. For a long time, they've operated under the unspoken assumption that they aren't likely to survive to see the end of this. That they're simply trying to make things better for society moving on beyond them.

Merlin knows Hermione's hands will never be clean—and she can only imagine the blood on his.

"If we make it through," she breathes, "maybe we just leave."

Silence hangs between them, and she wonders if he's sorting through what that might mean. Their lives are irrevocably linked, and there's no way to walk away from the bonds. But it doesn't necessarily mean they need to stay in close proximity.

If they no longer have a common goal one day, would there be anything left tying them together?

Somehow, the thought makes her stomach twist into knots.

"Yeah," he says at last. "I guess we could."

Stretching his legs out before him, he squints up at the pale sky, hands folded across his middle. As the silence stretches on again, his eyelids droop, as though he can no longer fight to keep them open.

She remembers a time when he never would have trusted her like this. With his honesty. With his life.

Sighing, Hermione tucks closer, warmth filling her when he slips an arm around her shoulders. They so rarely find a quiet moment together that the easy touch startles her, but she allows herself the indulgence and settles into his hold.

"I don't know if any of this will ever feel like home again," she says quietly. She thinks of her parents, locked in an alternate reality across the world, and not for the first time, she's glad they don't know her anymore. Most of the time she doesn't even know herself. "Or if I'll feel comfortable staying."

If she's searching for a response, she doesn't know what she's hoping for him to say.

He releases a long sigh, adjusting his grip on her shoulders. "None of this has felt like home for as long as I can remember."

Hermione wants to voice something else—that at least they aren't alone. But she doesn't know how to say it without hinting at something else. Something deeper.

"We'll figure it out when the time comes," she says instead, biting down on her tongue. "And there's plenty ahead of us before any of that. If we even make it through everything that's to come."

"A big if," he drawls into her hair. "Sometimes I think it'll be for the best if I don't make it out anyway. What sort of a life is even waiting after everything I've done?"

She wants to refute his doubts, to promise something she has no right to do, but the words catch in her throat. Because she's wondered the same about herself too many times. She's been responsible for so many lives lost, and for a long time, she forgot what it was like to feel anything at all.

Her gaze slides to the blond at her side.

Even now, she doesn't know how to trust herself with emotions.

It's for the best, because there's no room for her heart with what has to come next.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading. It means the world to me to have you all along for the ride. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and see you next time xo

alpha and beta love to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

Chapter 33

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Prophet polls are showing Yaxley in the lead.

Draco scowls at Theo's message as the letters vanish from the surface of his coin.

Bloody cowards, the lot of them. Even if he weren't a Death Eater, he would have easily recognised Shacklebolt as the more reasonable option. It only takes one glance at Yaxley to know the man is incapable of looking after himself let alone all of wizarding Britain.

The irony doesn't escape him that he's pushed this swing in the polls by running increased Death Eater patrols through all of London and the other major magical communities across Britain. Anyone who doesn't want Death Eaters knocking on their door will voice their support for the Dark Lord's pick for candidate.

Whether they truly vote that way is a different matter altogether—but Draco can't allow that risk.

The election is only three days away.

Reaching for the thread of magic, Draco tracks Hermione, and smirks when he realises she's in the shower. She nudges back against his intrusion, annoyance mingling with amusement.

Their near-constant experimentation with the magic of the bonds has led to numerous revelations, and he digs within the connection for thoughts of her in the shower, naked and wet, and sends a surge of desire through the bond.

He waits, his heart beating a little quicker, until she reaches for the thread of magic, a seductive twining of her core with his own, and gives a tug.

An invitation.

Merlin knows they could both stand to take the edge off their nerves.

He grows hard almost in an instant. And leaps up from his seat.

If she hadn't come to know a different side of Draco Malfoy, Hermione might believe the hard-faced stoicism of the man before her. A shiver trawls the length of her spine when she thinks back on the days when they hunted each other down, when they were only ever one curse away from claiming the other's life.

When all she knew from him was cold indifference.

She can see it in him now, the cruel facade he erects when he needs it. The darkness within him that's landed him a position at the right hand of the most evil wizard in living memory. Hermione hates this side of him—but she needs the reminder.

For as much as they've grown to trust each other, this is far from over.

For days, she's coiled her magic within herself, allowing it to swell and overtake every other part of herself. Her skin vibrates with it, overflowing, and little by little, she's released the excess into Draco through the bonds.

The magic now flowing rampant between them is more than she's ever wound within herself at one time. More than she thought herself capable.

It is this magic—the carefully cultivated skill—that initially caught his eye.

And now they're going to need every shred of it they can gather.

Draco stands tall at her side, Death Eater robes on, mask propped atop dishevelled hair. His expression is empty, eyes deadened. Magic buzzes in the air between them, and she knows if he drew his wand, his hand wouldn’t waver. He's channelled into that part of him that exists only for survival. The part that's willing to do whatever it takes to make it through one more day.

The part that she can't help but feel drawn to.

Her own nerves quake.

Casting her a look, he lifts his left arm, rolling his sleeve to the elbow. He blows out a long breath.

Hermione gives an almost imperceptible nod.

In one smooth, practised movement, he drags the pad of his thumb along the snake and skull that mars his forearm, black as night, and they both wait with bated breath.

One minute passes—then two.

With a quiet whoosh of robes, Yaxley appears before them in the empty warehouse. The same one where Draco once kept Hermione prisoner in an effort to draw out the depths of her wandless magic. Where they met to negotiate Harry's release.

It only feels fitting now.

A furrow of confusion settles into the man's brow when he sees Hermione—in the same instant Draco waves a hand and builds a solid wall of anti-Disapparition wards.

Yaxley tenses, his gaze darting between them. He lifts his mask from his face with an ugly sneer.

Draco's face remains unreadable.

"What's this about, then?" Yaxley growls, looking between them. Hermione spots the instant when he grows uneasy, eyes tightening as he attempts to piece the situation together.

For weeks, Draco has spearheaded his campaign for Minister.

Finally Yaxley reaches for his wand, gritting his teeth. "Made some plans of your own then, have you?"

A mild, unamused smile touches Draco's lips. "I'm afraid so."

And when Yaxley fires the first spell, Draco lifts his hand. A flash of light bounces off the invisible shield and collides with the far wall.

Hermione's heart leaps, adrenaline racing in her veins at the prospect of a fight for the first time in months. She's accumulated so much raw magic she doesn't need her wand, and when Yaxley fires another spell at Draco, she releases a spear of magic at the man, capturing his hands and binding his wrists together.

He swears as the sudden movement twists his wrist; his wand drops to the ground with a thin clatter.

Wide-eyed, Yaxley turns to her. A sudden jolt of fear flashes across his face.

"You," Draco says quietly, "have underestimated my wife for too long."

Digging within herself for the pent-up rage she's kept beneath the surface for as long as she's been living in the Manor, Hermione shoots another spike of magic to lock his legs, her pulse roaring behind her ears.

Another bolt—and he freezes in place, immobile.

Still, magic pours from her in waves, overflowing the thread of the bonds and filling the air with a gentle sheen. She sucks in deep breaths, raw power coursing through her.

Trapped on the spot, Yaxley only stares at her, eyes wide with something between terror and reverence.

Hermione stares him down, lifting her hands.

Opening her palms, she releases the magic she's assembled together for days, letting it spool free in a sudden rush. It's a sight the likes of which she never could have imagined.

She catches Draco's eye at her side, his lips curving with an admiring smirk. "She's something else, isn't she?" The words are directed to Yaxley, but his eyes remain locked on her, flooding with desire.

A breath catches in her throat at the blatant heat in his stare, and she can't tear her gaze away as he catches the magic, funnelling it into himself through the bonds between them. It's far more magic than they need—enough to kill ten men if channelled in such a way, she suspects.

It slides into Draco's fingertips, alighting the veins in his arms, and the sight of it is intoxicating. The way his silver eyes glow with the raw threads of her magic.

Her stomach twists up, heart racing a desperate cadence in her chest.

"I know what you're thinking," Draco goes on, almost conversational, as he turns back to Yaxley. "I can't kill you without my master finding out."

Yaxley only stares back, still frozen and pinned to the spot.

Draco tightens his fist for a moment, shimmering with the glow of magic, and when he opens his palm—a slow, lazy unfurling—a surge of raw power follows. He smirks at the magic as it grows white hot, dancing with the hot lick of flames.

"But this isn't my magic."

As the magic builds, heat enveloping her like she's entrapped in a forge, Hermione's chest grows tight. Her vision darkens, the magic of the bonds drawing on her strength, her core magic. But still she holds strong, clinging to the bonds with all of her might.

Darkness creeps in behind her eyes, her breaths falling a little quicker.

Maybe Draco can feel it too, because his gaze slides to snag on hers. The sensation is reminiscent of the bonding ceremony—when the magic crept in and knocked them out.

But he shoots her a wink, a hint of wry amusement playing about his mouth.

Then without warning, he turns back towards Yaxley and releases the magic.

It hurls across the warehouse, a gleaming wave that narrows into a focused bolt of power.

The magic bursts cleanly through Yaxley's middle, and the life vanishes from his eyes before she can blink.

His body crumples to the floor, a hole drilled cleanly through his chest, the wound cauterised instantly around the edges.

Draco stares at her side, and the only indication he's even aware of what happened is a small, quiet intake of breath.

Chest lifting and falling with rapid breaths, Hermione reaches for his hand and his fingers link tightly with hers. She can't quite wrap her head around the moment—the intensity of the magic—the suddenness of Yaxley's death.

Her eyes linger on the gaping hole where the man's heart used to be.

All she can hear is her own heart hammering somewhere between her chest and throat. Excess magic still shimmers in the air, bright and joyous despite the insidious act it just performed.

And as she stares, gaping at the lifeless form, Draco clenches her hand again, and she can feel wisps of magic circle at his bidding.

The shimmering magic encircles Yaxley's body, and before her eyes he vanishes, dissolving into ash and dust before catching a breeze and sweeping through a window.

At last, Draco releases her hand and steps forward. He eyes the spot on the floor where Yaxley stood, but it could be any other spot on the floor. No evidence remains, the magic so thorough and instant not a drop of blood spilled.

Hermione finds herself without words as Draco toes the concrete floor. Then he lifts his gaze to hers.

"That worked," he drawls under his breath.

Suddenly, the implications strike her all at once.

The bonds worked. The coil of magic was more than enough. And in the prolonged silence, she can only surmise that Draco's actions didn't trigger the magical protection the Dark Mark affords Death Eaters at one another's hands.

Within herself, she can't find a shred of regret. Maybe she's been responsible for too many deaths that didn't register.

But this one is significant.

Draco continues to stare at the spot on the floor where Yaxley fell, and Hermione walks over, tentative.

"Are you alright?" she asks, thrown by his quiet contemplation.

He looks up, his expression unfamiliar.

"For years," he says softly, "I've been forced to kill. To end lives for no good reason at the bidding of a madman." He draws in a quiet breath, expelling a few remnants of magic from his fingertips. "This is the first time I've actually done it for myself. For us."

The words strike hard at her chest, and the look on his face makes him look less a hardened Death Eater and more a conflicted young man.

It's a side of him she doesn't know.

The side she might have come to know had they not been embroiled in war since they'd been teenagers.

She reaches for the dredges of pent up magic within herself and waves a hand to release the wards. Then she takes his hand, draws him close, and Apparates them both to the London house.

Fatigue crashes over her, a combination of the massive expulsion of magic, the strain on the bonds, and the release of adrenaline.

Draco holds tight to her hand, then turns to face her, pulling her against him. "We've just unlocked a new realm of trouble," he murmurs against her temple, pressing a kiss to her brow.

"We'll figure it out," she breathes, sinking into him. "We'll figure all of this out."

Blackness pulls once more at the corners of her vision—all magic has a cost. The drain grows stronger, drawing at all that remains of her magical core. The magic isn't friendly, and it isn't light, but it's vital, and today it's proven its worth.

Draco stares at her, his vision unfocused, lids fluttering, and she knows he's feeling it too. She slides his robes from his shoulders, tossing them over the chair.

She tugs him towards the single furnished bedroom in the house, slipping off her boots; he follows suit and settles beneath the covers, drawing her back to his chest, both of them still fully clothed.

And as the darkness seeps in, she succumbs in the comfort of his embrace.

They sleep for hours, and when Draco stirs, groggy and with a pounding headache, his entire body feels stiff. Hermione is sprawled across his chest, fully dressed.

He shifts her over, careful not to disturb her rest as he rises from the foot of the bed and stretches the stiffness from his muscles. He grapples for his coin, warm in his pocket, and finds several messages from Theo that appear one after the other.

How did it go?

Anything to share with the class?

Hello???

For fuck's sake, don't tell me you're dead.

He snorts at the last and taps a message into his coin.

I'm dead.

The dark magic of the bonds did a number on him after enacting their task, and Draco's head still spins—both at what happened and the aftermath of it.

The intensity of the magic, and the depth of it.

He can imagine Theo's eye roll when the next message appears on his coin.

Don't tease me like that. Obviously I'm still stuck with you. Did it work?

Although the answer hangs at the front of his mind, Draco slips the coin into his pocket and pours himself a glass of water. Did it work? It's as loaded a question as any, despite its simplicity.

Because the fact that the bonds worked to combine their magic, to channel Hermione's power into him, means that it has worked on so many levels. It means that his ultimate goal—putting an end to Lord Voldemort—is possible.

It means that all of this can be twined together with a fragile thread of hope.

That, for the first time in years, Draco can consider the thought that there might be an end to all of this.

He can't allow himself to think about it long or he doubts he'll find the fortitude to do what still needs to be done.

When he feels Hermione's presence, he sets down the glass. She walks up behind him, wrapping her arms around his middle and resting her face against his shoulder.

Draco takes her hand into his where it rests on his abdomen, and brings her knuckles to his mouth. "We did it."

"We did it," she echoes, the words muffled against his shirt.

For a long moment he basks in the quiet calm, a sense of peace niggling at the jagged edges of his soul. Maybe he doesn't even deserve this scrap of hope—but Merlin, it's been so long since he's felt anything close.

"The first step of many," he says, voicing one of the endless doubts that still live within him.

She tightens her hold. "One at a time." Releasing him, she rounds to face him, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "Are you alright? Truly."

He eyes her for a moment, her hair messy with sleep, a hint of makeup smudged at the corners of her eyes. Draco brushes a spot with the pad of his thumb, then drags it down to her lower lip.

She grazes his thumb with her teeth, eyes alight with a smile. Loops her tongue around the digit.

Draco longs to take her back to the bedroom, to relieve the sudden pressure in his groin. To celebrate this victory.

But his coin warms again and he curses, fumbling for it as he remembers he didn't respond.

??? Did it work?

Shaking his head, he taps in a message.

Yes.

Before his message even vanishes, another comes from Theo.

Good. Get back here—we've got work to do.

Rolling his eyes, Draco turns the coin towards Hermione. He smacks her on the arse, drawing a startled squeal, and drawls in her ear, "Later."

And Apparates them back to the manor.

When she thinks about it, the situation is infinitely more complicated now that Yaxley is dead.

The election for Minister is only two days away, and it's only a matter of time before anyone—namely Voldemort—realises Yaxley is in the wind. Literally.

As of now, only one registered candidate remains.

According to Harry, Kingsley is in good position for the role, though he refuses to reach out too often lest he raise suspicions with the former resistance leader.

None of this makes sense any more, and the further they all drift from any semblance of a side, the more convoluted everything grows.

With Flint and Yaxley both gone, and with Kingsley having absconded from the resistance, there are fewer key pieces in play—but still enough for everything to march on. As evidenced by the fact that Draco's currently engaged in a large-scale altercation.

It was the best way to play off Yaxley's death—because it's only a matter of time before Voldemort notices the man's absence and looks into the Dark Mark connection only to learn that he's gone.

Hermione doesn't know how she would manage all of these pieces if it were only her. She's never truly been the strategist, and she's grateful for Draco's mind in a lot of ways.

But at the present, she doesn't know where to go next.

She finds herself drifting the corridors of the manor, observing the Death Eaters as they skirt past. For the most part they allow her a wide berth because of Draco—and she appreciates that she rarely has to deal with them personally.

Ideally, they ought to dismantle resistance leadership. Kingsley was a great loss to Warrington's chain of command—but they need more. They need Warrington in the dust before the end.

Making her way back to her quarters, she prods at the connection with Draco.

Only for an instant, she feels his surprise. And then his magic curls around hers, teasing and seductive, and she presses her legs together. Despite the great length of time she hated the man, she can never quite get enough of him now.

She thinks of him, wrapped around her in bed, and funnels the thought down the length of the bond.

Cool amusement spiked with desire answers her.

Hermione bites down on her bottom lip, wracking her brain to test. Although he's caught up in a fight, he wouldn't be reacting to her if it were urgent or dangerous.

Accumulating a mental image at the front of her brain—herself nude but for black lace lingerie—she takes care to manoeuvre it through the connection. She fights a smile when his instant, unfiltered reaction cycles back towards her.

She digs within herself, assembling something even more salacious, and a quiet burst of laughter breaks free.

But before she can visualise anything into the bonds, a pop of Apparition alerts her to Draco's presence, and he fixes her with an unimpressed stare.

"And if I had been caught in a duel?" he purrs, leaning over her seat. His mouth twitches with a smirk. "Fucking tease."

Hermione grins up at him, looping a hand around the back of his neck and dragging his mouth to hers. He's still wearing his Death Eater robes, and she yanks the mask from the top of his head and tosses it aside.

"How did it go?" she asks, as he laves a trail of kisses along her neck, shifting her on the length of the sofa and climbing atop her.

"Boring," he muses against her skin, shrugging out of his robes. "Until my wife started sending me intrusive mental images." He glances up with a smirk. "So I left Theo in charge."

She grinds up against him, a heavy breath sliding from her lips when she meets his hard arousal through his trousers. "I can't imagine he was particularly happy."

"I don't care," Draco drawls, peeling her shirt over her head. "And he owes me several."

Hermione arches from the cushion as they make quick work of the remaining clothes between them. "In that case, Lieutenant," she breathes against his mouth, "how about you fuck me into this sofa?"

A teasing grin spreads across his face. "I fully intend to."

Hermione glances up at a tapping on the window to see an owl flapping its wings outside. She paces to the window, swinging it open, and the bird immediately swoops in. She's become so accustomed to seeing Draco’s name on any missives that she's surprised by her own name.

And even more surprised seeing her new surname in tight script: Hermione Malfoy.

Scanning the letter with several spells to ensure it isn't malicious, she opens the scroll, curiosity rising within her. The words are in a soft, feminine hand.

Hermione,

Pansy and I are going to lunch today and we wanted to see whether you would be available to join us?

Daphne

Hermione reads the letter three times before the simplicity of the request sinks in. She hasn't thought of anything so ordinary as meeting friends for lunch since her days at Hogwarts, and for a moment her head spins.

She thinks of what Draco said after the party, when Daphne and Pansy helped her prepare. That they were kept protected from the worst of the fighting. That for them, the war is an inconvenience but ultimately not something they concern themselves with.

Compared to what they did two days earlier, the juxtaposition is startling.

Draco walks into the room, one brow lifted, and without a word she shows him the letter. Watches his throat shift with a swallow. And she wonders whether he's thinking of the same thing.

"You could go if you want to," he says.

But the idea of leaving the safety of the manor and walking a public street is nerve wracking enough. Hermione can't imagine willingly going out and letting down her guard in such a way—even now. Especially now, when anyone who spots her from the resistance won't hesitate to harm her.

She shakes her head once, gnawing on her lower lip. "I'll invite them over instead, if that's alright with you."

A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth. "The elves will be thrilled to put something together for the three of you."

Hermione blows out a breath of relief.

A little more than an hour later, Pansy and Daphne come through the wards in their wing's receiving room—Draco wasn't keen on the idea of them traversing the entirety of the manor with so many Death Eaters about. The weather is seasonably warm, so the elves set out a lunch spread on the balcony of their quarters, the air kept comfortable by magic.

Despite her best efforts, Hermione immediately struggles.

When the pair helped her prepare for the party, they had a baseline of common ground to discuss. Now, face to face with the stark differences between her life and theirs, Hermione finds herself grappling for things to say.

She can't speak of her plans with Draco—and neither does she care to dig too deep into the subject of their marriage and its foundations. The last thing she needs is to slip up and let on that it's all an elaborate ruse.

Instead, she listens as Daphne and Pansy discuss the sorts of things that affect society women on the peripheral edge of a war.

And she can't relate with a damn thing.

The thought is disheartening, when the concept of having friends at the manor beyond her tentative connection with Draco was initially a promising one. She has to remind herself, not for the first time, that she isn't here to make friends.

It shouldn't matter if she gets along with Daphne and Pansy—if she has anything at all to contribute to their conversations.

But yet, it does.

As though sensing that she isn't certain how to properly engage in their conversation, they mostly speak to her, informing her of the things they deem important. Hermione takes some small measure of relief in it, able to grasp on and nod and smile as necessary.

Even around these two, with whom she feels relatively at ease, she has to be careful.

Everyone on this side of the wall believes her to be loyal to Draco through some combination of coercion or magic, and no matter that these two aren't involved in the fighting, she can't afford to let down her guard.

Their lunch isn't unenjoyable, but fatigue crests within her by the time they leave.

After, Hermione sinks into the sofa in the sitting room, allowing a moment of reprieve as her eyelids slide shut.

"That good?" Draco asks, settling down beside her.

"It was nice," she murmurs. "They're nice. I do like them."

As though sensing the but, he hums softly. "I like them, too. I was friends with them both at Hogwarts."

She recognises the but in his sentiment, too, and for a moment, they stare at each other, a mutual understanding passing between them.

"Please don't misunderstand," she breathes, darkness seeping in at the edges of her heart. "I am glad they aren't forced to fight. I wouldn't wish this life on anyone."

"But they don't get it," he says at last. "Not like you and I do."

"Yeah."

She feels guilty even saying anything, when no one else has reached out to her, and she can sense the women do genuinely want to make an effort. But somehow, she can sense he understands that, too.

"Maybe," he says softly, "it won't always be this way. Maybe one day we'll be able to enjoy things. To have lunch, or go to the shops, or open a damn book without thinking of all the ways in which everything could come falling down around us."

Hermione's voice drops to a whisper. "Today isn't that day."

"No," he says softly. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not even next month. But eventually."

It isn't much, but for now it's all they have. She allows her head to rest on his shoulder, nodding once. "Yeah."

And at least for now, they have each other.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate all of you so much, and I hope you're all doing well! Tomorrow is my fandom anniversary, so keep an eye out for a new dramione one shot <3

Cheers to my wonderful team, kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows, for their assistance on this fic.

Chapter 34

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

SHACKLEBOLT NAMED MINISTER FOR MAGIC

In an unusual turn of events, Kingsley Shacklebolt was elected Minister for Magic, uncontested, when his opponent Corban Yaxley failed to submit his final registration. Yaxley has been unavailable for a comment.

Draco snorts and tosses the newspaper aside without reading the entirety of the article. He doesn't need to know what else it says, nor does he care. All he cares about is the fact that Yaxley will never comment on the matter because the man is no longer alive.

Stirring a cube of sugar into his tea, he leans back in his seat at the breakfast nook.

He doesn't care about Shacklebolt either, aside from what he might do with the Ministry.

He supposes all of this affects him as far as the fact that the Dark Lord held him responsible to put Yaxley into the Minister's seat—but Voldemort's outrage is nothing new. Draco has been preparing himself for days for the punishment he'll likely receive from this news.

Taking a sip of tea, he peers through the window to the grounds below.

The more this plan with Granger advances, the more his machinations prove that the Dark Lord's Death Eater machine is not, in fact, infallible—and the more it emboldens him. Draco knows better than to grow sloppy—but there's a certain measure of solace in the idea that some of what they're doing has made an impact.

"Next steps," he drawls when Granger slips into her seat across from him. He swivels the newspaper to face her, lifting a brow. "Where do we turn next?"

"I've been wondering about that myself," she admits, skimming the headline, halfway distracted as she selects a slice of toast. A small, indulgent smile pulls at her lips. "You know, I always thought Kingsley would make a proper Minister for Magic. I'm actually quite content to see this."

Draco eyes her for a moment with amusement. "If he isn't taken out next week."

Hermione levels him with a stare. "You're not going to let that happen."

"Not if it's in my control," he concedes. "But I have a feeling this will officially demote me to the Dark Lord's bad books."

She releases a sigh and begins spreading a slice of toast with butter. "I've been worried about that. Honestly, he's lucky you still do anything he asks with the way he treats you."

"It's all with the long term in mind," Draco says quietly. It stings every time he's forced to keep his head down and take his master's punishments, but he knows better than to stir the waters. Especially not with everything he's planning now. The last thing he needs is to draw any unnecessary attention to his actions. "But I promise you, I don't care for it either."

Hermione sets down her knife, then her toast, and lifts her gaze back to his. "Do you think at some point you'll disengage from the Death Eaters entirely?"

His brows lift. "Maybe. But I've worked hard to gain his trust. I have an invaluable access point from here—and believe it or not, he treats me better than most of them."

"I understand that." She releases a sigh. "But I mean... you aren't planning on going down with the ship."

"No." Draco smirks. "I am not."

She reaches for the raspberry preserves, offering him a small smile. "Good. I'm glad to hear that."

"Why do you think we've been preparing the house?" He takes a bite of his toast when her eyes light up. "When things go south here—which they inevitably will—I intend to survive the fallout."

"Okay," she says, the word little more than an exhale. "For now then—next steps."

He's jerked from the conversation when his Mark begins to burn, and he drops his head back with a heavy exhale. "We’ll have to discuss this later. Time to atone for my sins I suppose."

Hermione snickers. "We don't have that long."

"Funny," he says, rising from his seat and shrugging his robes on. "I don't remember you being funny before."

"Back when you were trying to kill me?"

"No." He pauses, reaching for his mask. "Back at Hogwarts."

She fixes him with a look, as though she's trying to figure him out and can't quite manage it. "We never even tried to get along at Hogwarts. How would you have known even if I was?"

The words strike him in a way he doesn't expect. Maybe if he had, even once, made an effort to get on with the witch and her friends, his life might have been different. His entire trajectory could have taken an alternate route.

As if following the same train of thought, she sobers, her face falling blank. "Come back to me in one piece, please."

"I will." He ducks in, brushing a kiss to her lips.

Without allowing himself another glance back, he slips from the room, aware of his blood pulsing behind his ears. Despite all of the punishments Draco has taken before, this one feels different.

For one, this is for something he actually did. And that in itself provides a sort of liberty he wasn't expecting.

For another, his tolerance to put up with this bullshit grows thinner by the day. As he grows closer to Hermione, borrowing the scraps of her courage he finds along the way. As he fortifies the circle of operations, and comes to know the people he's working with—fighting for.

He thinks of his family. His mother. Even his father.

None of this makes sense anymore, and maybe Hermione's right. He should have walked from this ages ago, even if it meant his own life would be forfeit. Maybe he should demand better—but maybe the price is more than he's willing to pay.

He's never denied he's a selfish man, and he can't deny it now.

Even though he knows the likelihood of surviving any of this is thin, he can't help but want to stay alive.

Even if he doesn't deserve it.

He reaches the hall where Voldemort holds his court, chin held high and shoulders back. Sliding his mask down into place, he draws strength from the familiarity, the anonymity of it. And he doesn't know if any of it matters at all.

"My lord," he drawls, ducking his chin. A sneer curls his lip, concealed by the mask. "Your summons."

Voldemort turns cold red eyes on him. The room is empty, but that isn't surprising. The Dark Lord never cares for an audience when he's prepared to do his worst.

Maybe Draco is prepared for that, too. Maybe the worst his master can do is the end.

He didn't want to mention such a thing to Hermione. Hadn't wanted to see the fear on her face—and he knows with every certainty in his being that he won't allow her to leech his pain this time. Not if there's a chance he won't survive this.

"You told me you were going to make this happen," The Dark Lord hisses, seethes, a fire blazing in his eyes that would make a lesser man cower.

"Yes." Draco keeps his chin high. "I did. And your candidate fled."

The Dark Lord scowls at him. "He has vanished."

Draco doesn't respond, measuring his words carefully. A well-composed silence can speak as loud as any words, and if this is the difference between life and death, he isn't going to take this sitting down.

He reaches for the thread of magic almost instinctively, nudging against it. Hermione's gentle touch on the other side of the bond bolsters his waning courage—and he tries to think of what she would do.

It isn't even a consideration—he knows she would stand up for herself.

The strange, would-be-amusing irony in the situation is that this is the one thing he's to pay for that he was actually responsible for.

For only an instant, he allows himself to coil his magic tightly around hers, before he retreats, tunnelling into himself in preparation for the pain that will lance through him at any moment.

"Maybe," Draco drawls, coating his tone with as much flippancy as he can manage, "he didn't want to be the Minister for Magic."

"He is dead," Voldemort grounds out, anger flashing once more across his face. "And your insolence is not helping your case."

Draco refuses to shrink. Refuses to give in.

"If he is," Draco lies, "I am not responsible."

A long, tense silence hangs in the air, and Draco thinks he might drown in it if he tries. If he doesn't try.

The Dark Lord grips the arms of his seat with long, thin fingers, white-knuckled in their intensity. His voice is deadly quiet when he speaks again. "Are you not?"

"No." Draco bites his tongue on a stronger retort. The Dark Lord might simply kill him out of spite—and he still needs this position. Needs the intelligence he can gain and the trust he's earned through the years and too many hard decisions. "Did not several Death Eaters perish in battle this week? Perhaps someone from the resistance didn't want old Yaxley sitting on top of the Ministry."

He infuses dry irreverence into the words, as though he can't be bothered to care either way.

His heart beats a ferocious pace in his chest.

At that, Voldemort sits back a little, steepling his hands across his front. "Did you see Yaxley participate in the fighting yesterday?"

The lies come so easy at this point that they're second nature. "Yes. Several times."

"And at the end?"

Draco shrugs, resisting the urge to shift. "I didn't see him at the end. But you know how these things go. Anything could have happened—maybe the resistance captured him and took him as a prisoner. If you'd like me to ask around—"

"I do not," the Dark Lord hisses.

But some of the ire has deflated from his words, and Draco doesn't dare let out a breath. For all he knows, he's only prolonging the inevitable—but he's learned that the only way to slow Voldemort's ire is to throw him off his guard.

"Battles are messy, and we're often forced to clear out with haste. Anything could have happened to Yaxley. And if he is, in fact, dead, there is nothing I could have done to ensure his seat in the Ministry."

The Dark Lord scowls once more, but they both know he can't logically refute the claims.

It's at that moment that reality strikes. No matter how his master treats him, the trust he's built runs blood deep. He doesn't truly suspect Draco of treason—of Yaxley's murder.

Not yet.

Draco stands a little straighter when Voldemort doesn't respond—when he doesn't lift his wand.

"It seems to me," Draco goes on, "there's nothing to be gained from dwelling at this point. I will see what I can learn about Yaxley's death and report to you with what I find out. If, as I suspect, his loss is a casualty of war, there is little to be done now."

The only reason they're even in this war is because of the madman in front of him—but Draco suspects mentioning that detail will be taking things too far. He's lucky he hasn't taken half a dozen Cruciatus curses yet.

The Dark Lord's fingers twitch towards his wand, as though he has no other outlet for his pent up rage, but the anger visibly deflates from his countenance.

Draco sneers at the man he once admired.

Despite all of his efforts, the years of parading himself as something more than he truly is, he is still simply a man. Even with the extra layers of convoluted magical protection he wears like a cloak, he is no closer to being immortal than Draco himself—Potter and Longbottom saw to that years ago at the Battle of Hogwarts when they destroyed the last of his Horcruxes.

When the silence only stretches on, Voldemort's calculating glare resting on him, Draco feels the odd standstill settle in around him.

"I have a mission to undertake, My Lord," he announces at last. "On your orders."

As though reticent to let him walk away, Voldemort waves an idle, dismissive hand. "You will report back with what you learn. We will determine a different solution regarding the Ministry."

Draco ducks his chin, subservient as ever. "Of course we will, My Lord. They won't use this to gain an edge on us."

And he sweeps from the hall in a billow of robes before Voldemort can change his mind and bury a curse in his spine.

As he strides down the corridor, a private smile pulling at his mouth beneath the mask, he reaches for Hermione's end of the thread in a sudden move, coiling himself around her.

He feels the surprise, then the annoyance, and then something akin to relief. It's the last he latches onto, sending a frisson of his own down the line.

It isn't a battle won, but he'll take the small victories where he can.

Hermione scans the small office before her, gnawing on her lower lip as she waves her wand to manoeuvre several pieces of furniture. Second-hand bookshelves line one wall, piled high with some of her favourite tomes and others Draco gave her to smuggle out of the manor.

Some of his prized copies, no doubt. She doesn't even want to know how much the collection before her is worth. Several times the cost of the entire house.

She steps forward, reaching out to brush the spines of some of his oldest books, but catches herself and observes them from a respectful distance instead. Draco has been keen on completing the rest of the house, and she's spent several days in and out, transporting and installing furniture, restoring the walls with fresh paint, stocking the cupboards.

Just in case.

In the event things go sideways without warning and they need to leave the manor.

So they have a place to go. A contingency that grows more and more likely with every step they take down this path. But she can't bring herself to indulge fear or worry—only a mild but powerful sort of anticipation. Of conviction.

For so long, her strongest ability was that of compartmentalisation—of determining what is and isn't important, staving off the despair that threatens almost daily. Of keeping every little thing in its own damn box.

And she can't allow that crippling, paralysing terror that used to haunt her dreams.

All they can do now is take one step forward at a time, assess every angle, proceed with caution.

The galleon in her pocket warms against her leg and she draws it out. Draco has been investigating Yaxley’s disappearance—a thought that makes her want to laugh in a delirious sort of way—and she hasn't heard from him all day. She doesn't need—or want—to know what he's doing.

But she recognises the magical signature as Harry's.

Updates at the Ministry.

The message is vague enough that it could be positive or negative, and she ignores the spike of adrenaline in her heart as she taps a response with her wand.

House.

The last time Harry, Neville, and Theo were over, they attuned the wards of the house to recognise the three of them—effectively making each of them the only others who possess any awareness of its location or purpose. Hermione doesn't think she would trust anyone else beyond the three of them to know about their haven in the heart of London. Even so, the protections come with a wide assortment of spells that prevent them from sharing anything about it.

A few minutes later, the wards activate and she walks into the sitting room to find Harry and Neville standing before her, the latter holding a potted plant.

Neville flashes her a grin and places the pot squarely on a table near the window.

Hermione cocks a brow and observes its wide leaves. "Why am I not surprised you've brought a plant?"

"Because," Neville says, "I haven't had cause to get anyone a plant in years. It's a housewarming gift."

They all look around the still somewhat sparse room, and Hermione smiles all the same. "Thank you, Neville. Though I can't say whether it will be watered regularly."

Neville waves a hand. "It's imbued with spells, of course. It'll look after itself."

For some reason, the sentiment is just touching enough that she doesn't know what to say. It's such an innocuous gesture, but the sort of thing she hasn't had room to think about in so long. It revives thoughts of her mother and the way she kept Hermione's childhood home full of lush greenery.

Thoughts stir of what could one day be their reality. If they get through all of this.

"Thanks," she says again, a little softer, and finds she can't meet his gaze. "It's very considerate of you."

A somewhat uncomfortable silence follows, as if none of them know quite how to proceed from here. So Hermione blinks rapidly several times and turns to Harry. "You said you had news about the Ministry?"

"Yeah." Harry glances around. "Is Malfoy here?"

Hermione shakes her head, leading them from the sitting room into the spare room they've designated for war operations. "He's working. He might come by later but I haven't heard."

Dropping into one of the seats, Harry interlocks his hands across his middle and peers around. "Kingsley's settling into his new role amidst a string of controversy, as you might expect. The Yaxley supporters are calling foul play."

"As is the Dark Lord," Hermione adds.

Harry grimaces. "Right. I can imagine. Anyway—we're doing what we can to keep Kings in play for as long as possible. Warrington's still pissed at him for leaving resistance leadership, but they've thwarted two assassination attempts already. Small-time disgruntled civilians who, for whatever reason, really wanted to see old Corban in the seat."

"Why anyone would want that I can't imagine," Neville grumbles.

Hermione sighs, sorting through the report. "I suppose we were anticipating this. Interesting that Warrington's still supporting Kingsley though he's outside of the resistance. I guess he's just relieved a Death Eater didn't take hold of the Ministry again."

"Kingsley really is our best hope," Harry says. "Not just right now, but in the future. It's important we keep him atop the Ministry."

Nodding silently, Hermione leans back in her seat. She wishes Draco were there, if for no reason other than the expertise he can add to the conversation. They still haven't determined what exactly their next course of action should be.

"Where are we at now?" Neville asks, and the three of them glance up when Theo strolls into the room and drops into a seat at Neville's side.

When Hermione cocks a brow at him, he drawls, "Draco told me you were here."

Of course he would have felt the wards shift even from the manor. "How are things going?" she asks, uncertain whether she truly wants to know. Draco does some brutal work for the Dark Lord—it's how he managed to rise in the ranks—but even she doesn't care for the details.

"Things are... delicate," Theo says crisply. "But the longer he can distract the Dark Lord from what's really going on, the better."

Harry blows out a breath. "We need to start thinking about how all of this is going to come crumbling down. You obviously had no issues taking out Yaxley?"

When three sets of eyes land on her, Hermione hesitates. Only she and Draco know the extent of the marital bonds and how they connect their magic, and she's reluctant to bring it up. "No," she says, "no trouble."

She can feel Theo's eyes on her and knows what he's about to say before he opens his mouth. "Death Eaters can't attack Death Eaters without the Dark Lord finding out."

"There are workarounds," she replies softly, "and we found one. I promise you he doesn't know—Draco wouldn't still be alive if he did."

To her relief, none of them question the response.

Theo snorts, slinging an arm around the back of Neville's seat. "The fact that he's got Draco investigating who's responsible for Yaxley's death is fucking hilarious, actually."

Hermione snickers, and it's enough to break the somewhat subdued tension. Harry's gaze lingers on her—and she doesn’t know whether he’ll let this go so easily—but for now they're able to move past it.

"Resistance leadership," Neville says, reaching for a quill and marking out a sheet of blank parchment. "And Death Eater leadership. Let's figure out where we hit next."

By the time Draco manages to escape the manor, it's late in the afternoon. He's spent the majority of the day investigating a death he's responsible for—and the situation might make him laugh if it weren't so exhausting.

Apparating into the house, he freezes when he sees the sitting room full, boxes of Muggle takeaway spread on the coffee table.

"I see I wasn't invited to the party," he drawls, loping into the room and taking the empty seat at Hermione's side. His gaze drifts towards the window where a plant sits in a brightly patterned pot. "What the fuck is that?"

"It's a philodendron," Longbottom retorts.

Draco purses his lips, debating what exactly happened while he was busy working. "And what is it here for?"

"It's a housewarming gift," Hermione says, beaming at Longbottom.

"A gift."

"A gift for Hermione," Longbottom adds.

Cocking a brow, Draco stares at the man—though a part of him wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. "It's my house, too."

Hermione presses her shoulder against his, and though he's so riddled with stress and tension he wants to push the issue, he finds himself relaxing instinctively in her presence. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he forces the strain from his shoulders. "What have you lot been working on? Tell me you've determined something."

"There are options," Theo says carefully. "But nothing definitive."

Draco releases a loud sigh, irritation prickling at him once more. "We need definitive. We can't allow things to settle out as they are now. The only way to keep this moving forward is to keep both sides scrambling."

The situation has begun to wear him thin from every side, and he doesn't know how to manage anything that's going on anymore.

"What happened at the manor?" Hermione asks softly, reading his mood. She can probably feel his mood through the bonds—and he makes an effort to tamp down his frustration.

"Nothing," he bites out. "I've told the Dark Lord Yaxley fell in battle—it's the simplest way without trying to implicate anyone else from our side when he'll know that isn't the truth. If any Death Eater attacked Yaxley with their own wand, the Dark Lord would have known. So it has to be someone from the resistance—and the best way to make that realistic is to make him a target in battle. It isn't hard to imagine someone from the resistance didn't want to see him running the Ministry."

"Straightforward," Potter agrees. "So what's the issue?"

"The issue," Draco drawls, scrubbing at dry eyes, "is that he wants proof. No one saw Yaxley go down, though fortunately, several people claim they saw him—even though they didn't. But we all know how battles go."

The group hums their acquiescence. Plenty of chaos and too much activity happening at once.

"So I've spent the day acting like some sort of bloody Auror with nothing to show for it."

Hermione presses a partially full takeaway box and a plastic fork into his hands and he begins to eat without even caring what it is, suddenly realising he's famished.

"He'll let it go if he has bigger things to worry about," she murmurs.

"Which he does," Theo says, "because he's facing a Ministry run by a former resistance leader—and protected by a current resistance leader."

Draco mulls over the thought as he chews on some sort of breaded chicken. "Warrington is protecting Shacklebolt?" When Theo nods, Draco sighs. "I suppose it makes sense. Shacklebolt is the best chance at stability right now—but the Ministry's still a fucking mess. He'd be better off burning the whole thing down and starting over."

"The problem with all that, of course," Longbottom says, "is that Warrington's crumbling without Kingsley. The resistance hasn't been strong for a while, and if we do anything more to dismantle their leadership too soon, we'll run the risk of losing the Ministry to the Death Eaters again."

Closing his eyes, Draco drops his head against the back of the sofa. "And all of our efforts in getting Thicknesse out will be negated overnight."

"Right," says Hermione. "We're staring at two increasingly unstable houses of cards, wondering which to knock down first."

"Both." Draco rakes a hand through his hair. "They both have to fall."

A precarious silence takes the room.

Draco forces himself to eat, despite his vanishing appetite.

"I think the reason we're struggling," Theo says, breaking the silence, "is that both sides are structured in their leadership. This has all been falling into place for years. Warrington has plenty of people backing him up—safehouse leaders and the like." He glances at Neville, who nods to confirm. "And of course, the Dark Lord has his loyal lieutenants."

Draco snorts.

"It's really the heart of why we're doing things the way we are," Hermione reasons. "If you lop off the head of either side, another will grow back."

"We knew this would all be a convoluted fucking mess going in," Draco says with a sigh. "And that hasn't changed now that we're in the middle of it. What do you suggest?"

Another cool tension settles across the room, this one leading enough that it sets Draco's nerves on edge.

Finally, Potter says, "You know you're the Dark Lord's greatest asset."

The words strike like a physical blow, and he scans the four sets of eyes resting on him. He gulps down a suddenly dry bite of chicken. "You're suggesting I walk."

"Obviously it won't be easy," Hermione says, "but there are ways to ensure you can't be tracked, right?"

His gaze skirts down to his covered forearm, then he glances at Longbottom who's already staring at him. They took Flint's Mark before he left England—Draco can still hear the screams. "Yes." Propping his elbows on his knees, he mulls over the idea. "The problem is that, from the inside, I have connections to everything. We need to be very certain we're ready to give that up if I leave."

"We'll have to go about it in stages, I think," Potter says, eyes tightening. "Ensure you have everything you need and that all the appropriate protections are in place. Without you, the Dark Lord will be crippled. It will take time for him to bring someone else up to your level."

"Not necessarily," Draco interjects.

"There are others," Theo reasons, "but none he trusts like he does you."

He can't deny that. But still, the idea settles into an uncomfortable pit within him, and he can't begin to comprehend all the details that matter. His parents. Adequate protection for Hermione. Theo would need to leave, too. All the ways the Death Eaters might be able to find him—never mind the sudden lack of information.

"I understand that it will need to happen," he drawls. "Hermione and I have already discussed the eventuality. But we can't allow him the chance to rebuild. If I leave, it needs to be a checkmate."

They all stew on the idea for a moment, and Draco walks into the kitchen for a glass of water, allowing himself to contemplate the thought without everyone watching him.

He can't deny that he wants to leave. To get out from under the foot of the man who's abused him for so long. But he can't do any of that until they're absolutely positive they won't need anything else from the Death Eaters.

Pressing his hands onto the kitchen counter, he draws several deep breaths.

The idea of walking away holds so much promise he almost can't stand it. A thrill of exhilaration darts through him at the very thought—of ridding himself of the Dark Mark once and for all—of proceeding with his own life without a cruel master watching his every step.

But they aren't ready for that. And he needs to be sure the people he cares about are safe.

Hermione sidles up next to him, leaning against the counter.

"What do you think about this?" he asks without looking up.

"It's complicated. And obviously we aren't there just yet. But no one can deny it won't be a strong blow."

"If I'm leaving," he says under his breath, "I'm taking the entire inner circle out before I go."

She doesn't reply for a long moment, her shoulder brushing against his. Desperation and indecision course through him in equal measures, and he draws strength from her easy presence.

"Do you want to go?" she asks at last.

"More than you'd fucking believe." The words come out hoarse, drawn from some dark, hidden place within him.

She nods once. "Then we'll get you out as soon as it makes sense."

His heart tightens in his chest and he looks up. "Okay."

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading. I feel like I just repeat myself every week, but I cannot say how much it means to me to have you all reading along. Your comments consistently brighten my day. xoxo

Alpha and beta hearts to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

Chapter 35

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

A new plan slowly begins to slide into place, and it's both terrifying and a relief. It's the biggest step so far—even more so than taking out the Minister for Magic—and Hermione regularly questions whether they're doing the right thing.

Before they can take out the Dark Lord or Cassius Warrington, they have to dismantle everything else beneath them.

It was the plan all along, but things have shifted and twisted up as problems have arisen; as they’ve been forced to respond. And now, they're faced with the heart of the matter again. That both sides need to fall.

Battles have grown increasingly volatile, even more casualties stacking up, and Hermione suspects both leaders are throwing caution to the wind.

The Dark Lord has always been unhinged, but with his loss of the Ministry, he's desperate now too.

Maybe if they're lucky, the two sides will whittle each other down to the barest of bones.

Draco has no qualms about taking out any of his fellow Death Eaters before he goes—with the notable exceptions of Theo, who's more than ready to leave as well, and his father, who's rarely around the manor to begin with.

As soon as they're ready to sear the Dark Mark from his arm, Draco is prepared to do whatever he needs to get out.

Hermione has no doubt about that—and knows he could likely do it now with the magic of the bonds. But they have to ensure everything is prepared, because there's no going back from such an explosive exit.

The more delicate side of the matter is that Warrington, almost inadvertently, has done the wizarding world a favour by keeping Kingsley Shacklebolt alive. If they take out Warrington or the resistance's remaining strength too soon, Voldemort will seize the opportunity in an instant—and then install someone like Yaxley or worse.

She and the others have taken to meeting at the London house as often as they can, usually in small groups to exchange information without drawing undue attention.

And for the first time since Draco mentioned his plans, they have the early stages of momentum in their favour. Both sides are scrambling to cling to power, and both sides are slowly sinking into the mire.

It's what they've hoped for, but it's hard to see through the dust and smoke.

Draco has taken to his new ambition with a particular voracity she hasn't seen from him, as if now that he has an exit strategy he won't rest until he accomplishes it.

Hermione, for her part, can only hope they all make it through alive.

Right now, there are too many variables in place, and she can only stand to manage so many pieces at once.

She glances up from a sheet of notes on the bed to find Draco hovering in the doorway to her room at the manor. Although they've maintained separate rooms, they haven't spent a night apart in weeks. Even so, he still acts as though he doesn't have free reign over the entirety of their quarters.

"What is it?" she asks, setting her quill on the nightstand.

His chest sinks with a sigh, and he drifts into the room, observing the notes before her. "I don't know. I can't help but think we're missing something."

"I'm sure we're missing plenty of things," she returns.

Draco sits on the edge of the bed, meeting her stare. "And I have a feeling that everything is going to go wrong."

A smile curls her lips despite the seriousness of the conversation. "I think things are absolutely going to go wrong. But we're trying to control as much as we can."

He clenches his jaw. "I can't stand the thought of anything happening to you."

The words sink in with a slow, resonating force, and the amusement drops from her face. The raw vulnerability in his stare isn't something he shares with her often, and she doesn't immediately know how to respond.

She reaches for his hand, drawing it into hers and twisting their fingers together. "We both know there's no way to avoid every possible issue. And we’ve known from the start that there's a good chance we won't make it through this."

Draco thins his lips. "I think you should go." He holds up a hand before she can refute, a denial already on the tip of her tongue. "Just while Theo and I are getting out. It's going to be... messy. Longbottom can help with removing the Marks—he already knows how."

"Absolutely not," she whispers. "We're in this together. I'm not leaving you to deal with everything on your own without the strength of the bonds." A breath hitches in her throat at his unflinching stare. "Do you think I want to deal with all of this if you don't make it?"

The words slide from her throat, ragged and with a sort of feeble hopelessness she doesn't recognise.

Draco releases a slow, measured breath. "I don't care if I make it out, if it means the plan comes to fruition. I care that you survive."

"That isn't acceptable," she snaps.

"If I get into trouble," he fires back, "the easiest way to make me suffer will be through you!"

The words settle into a sudden and uneasy silence.

Moisture stings at her eyes but she refuses to give in to tears.

"If you don't know by now that I can look after myself," she breathes, "then I guess we don't understand each other half as well as I thought."

Draco's jaw tightens. "How can you say that after everything? Of course I know you can."

"Then don't try and shove me off like some bloody damsel who needs protecting."

Nerves prickle along her skin, and she hates the way she defaults to this. Anger and defensiveness and a need to prove herself.

Realistically, she knows Draco respects her and her capabilities—but she can't stand the thought of leaving him to deal with this alone. Of walking away, hiding out, uncertain whether she'll ever see him again.

No part of this arrangement has been safe. And they knew from the start none of this would carry any guarantees.

"I'd sooner die at your side," she says, reaching for his hand, "than live through this alone."

A long exhale slides from his lips. "Don't say that. If one of us deserves to survive, it's you."

"I don't think that's true." She offers him a sad smile. "I've done too much to truly find peace."

He squeezes her hand. "I think we all have."

Hermione allows her eyelids to fall shut, a sudden wall of fatigue slamming into her. Physical, mental, emotional. Feelings she's repressed for months and years breaking through. "Maybe all I want from this is for others to have the future we were never given." She slumps against the bed frame, feeling some part of her that's fought for so long collapse.

Draco stares at her for a long moment, and when she meets his gaze, she can't bear what she finds there. "I don't need to make it through this," he says at last, little more than a whisper. "And I think you're the only reason I'm still fighting."

Despair seizes her heart at his words, and the tears break from her eyes unbidden, sliding down her cheeks. But within herself she finds no words.

Reaching deep for some scrap of logic, for the pragmatism on which she's prided herself, she shakes her head. Banishes the melancholy than threatens. "And what if you need to access the bonds? I'm not going to leave you without that protection. Not when that's the whole point of all this. You need to get out—and you'll need the bonds to do so."

"I can get out without them," he returns softly.

Hermione knows exactly what that means. That it won't matter what happens to him—that by then he won't care if the Dark Lord knows. It'll be likely he doesn't leave quietly.

"Why would you?" she asks, keeping her voice as steady as she can manage, "when you could have them accessible?"

He fixes her with a stern look, but if he thinks she's going to take any of this lying down he doesn't know her very well. The thought stings all over again—that they haven't grown together in the ways she's started to think.

"Maybe I'll be able to access your side of the power at a distance. We already can to a certain extent—and we can work on it."

"I refuse," she breathes, the words sliding from her lips without any consideration. "I'm not leaving you behind."

Merlin, if the version of herself from a few months ago could hear her now—she would suspect she’d been Imperiused or cursed in some other way. Manipulated or threatened into saying such things.

But she has faced altogether too much with the man at her side to walk away now.

"We are in this together," she grits out, low and desperate, and squeezes his hand hard. "And you're not doing this alone now."

With a forced nonchalance she doesn't believe for a second, he drawls, "And if I don't make it out? If I leave you in danger as a result?"

Tears prickle at the back of her eyes again and she clings to his hand like a lifeline. "Then I guess you'll just have to make it out. I know you've done a lot of things you aren't proud of, Draco, but so have I. And neither of us would have made it this far without that self-preservation you're so fond of." She meets his eyes, unflinching. "Don't go turning selfless on me now."

She watches the moment her words click, when his stare hardens, his shoulders going rigid. A hint of something like bemusement crosses his face. "I don't want to die, Hermione. And I'm not going to do anything intentionally heroic. I'm not Potter."

She jabs him in the ribs.

His face sobers. "I just don't want to see you hurt. And I don't want to put you in the way of harm."

Despite herself, she smiles at the sincerity behind his words. "I seem to recall you hurting me more in the last year or so than anyone else."

"Shut up," he mutters, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "You're not as clever as you think. And that goes both ways."

Then he's kissing her, hands roving her body, trailing his lips along her throat. "I'm not going to let you get hurt again," he murmurs against her skin, raking her collarbone with his teeth. "And I don't care what I have to do—how many people I have to murder—to keep you safe. I'm not going to lose you."

In any rational world, the words should terrify her.

Heat flares in her veins.

In a twisted, convoluted sense, it's the most romantic thing he's ever said to her. And maybe she's too far gone, too, because she only draws him closer until no space remains.

Draco glances up from a letter on the desk, slips his reading glasses off, and scrubs at his dry eyes. "What do you think about a small trip?"

"A trip," Hermione deadpans from the sofa. "What do you mean, a trip?"

Setting his quill down, he carefully measures his words. He flicks a glance through the room to ensure there are no house elves in their quarters. He may run the manor these days, but one person's authority still threatens his own on that front. "I mean a few days away."

Her eyes tighten. "You're going to have to elaborate. Or have you missed the part where we're caught up in a war?"

Carefully folding his letter in half, then into quarters, he pours a small pool of wax onto the closure and seals it with his Malfoy signet ring. "Hard to miss that," he drawls with wry bemusement. "But yet—it occurs to me we never took a honeymoon. A few days will hardly cover it, of course, but it feels like the perfect time."

Hermione gapes at him a moment longer, and he can see partial comprehension in her stare—as though she knows he can't speak freely but can't quite piece together his intent.

Draco rises from his seat and crosses the room, handing the letter to his owl perched near the open window.

She offers him a banal smile as they both watch the bird's departure with a flutter of wings. "And where did you have in mind?"

"Spain." Draco turns to her with a mild glance from across the sitting room. "I thought we might visit Spain."

He sees the moment when her suspicion gives way to understanding, and she stares through the window where the owl vanished—carrying a letter to his mother in Andalusia. When he turns back to Hermione, she offers him a winning smile.

"Spain sounds lovely."

Theo prepares the two of them a Portkey set to leave the following morning, as soon as Draco receives a response via owl from Narcissa Malfoy. She's delighted to hear from him, and of course, she would be happy to play host for the two of them for a couple of days.

Most of the time, Draco trusts the manor wards to keep his business contained, but he doesn't want to let on to the details of this arrangement to his father—or anyone who could be persuaded to tell his father.

Almost without any necessity of explanation on his part, Hermione pieced together his intent to warn his mother of his plans for defection. After years spent mangling his own soul for the cause of keeping his family safe, the last thing Draco needs is for things to go south now. For Voldemort to target his mother to spite his own actions.

And it certainly isn't anything he can safely convey through a letter.

Although Voldemort wasn't thrilled about the prospect of Draco leaving for a few days—especially on the tail of Yaxley's death and with the Ministry in a state of upheaval—he offered a begrudging acceptance of the matter.

It was all Draco needed in order to convince Hermione they were going.

If he's truly honest, the prospect of leaving the wartorn terrain of London, even for a few days, has buoyed his spirits in a way he didn't expect. Even more so, the chance to spend some time with Hermione that doesn't revolve around schemes and plots and death.

Although they'll be staying on the Malfoy property, the land and outbuildings sprawl far enough that it will almost feel like they're alone.

"I don't know what to bring," Hermione says, eyes wide when he peers through the doorway into her closet. "I haven't been on a trip since I was still in Hogwarts."

The admission is sobering, when he realises the same is true of him. Suddenly, the casual throwaway of a simple few days away feels heavier.

"We're only going for a few days," he says, slipping into the closet and leaning against the wall. "A few sets of clothes—basic toiletries. Mother keeps a couple elves, so they'll provide anything else you need."

"Okay." Hermione gnaws her bottom lip before turning to him with a self-deprecating eye roll. "Tell me why this makes me nervous? When the idea of leaving London for a few days should be so much less stressful than everything else we're up against?"

There's something to be said, Draco thinks, about the fact that she can be honest with him about trivial matters. That they've somehow reached a point where they can open up to each other about things other than basic survival.

Releasing a sigh, he takes a step closer and wraps a hand around her waist. "Because this is new." He meets her eyes, roving his thumb along her hip through her shirt. "And we're so used to something vastly different."

"I've met your parents before," she murmurs, and to his astonishment, her cheeks turn pink with a flush. "I don't know why I'm so anxious."

Despite himself, amusement lifts the corner of his mouth. "Maybe," he murmurs, ducking in to brush a kiss to her mouth, "it matters more to you now."

He doesn't dare voice the underlying sentiment. That he matters more to her now. It feels horribly presumptuous, even though the shift between them over time has been noticeable.

Weighing his next words, he feels his own chest tighten. "Maybe one day, I'll have the chance to meet your parents. And I'll probably be just as nervous."

Her brows lift in surprise, and a myriad of emotions play out across her face. He knows about her parents, of course—he learned everything there was to know about her while they were chasing each other—but he hasn't found the right time to mention it.

And now it feels like too much time has passed.

The sentiment hangs like an elephant in the room with them.

Finally she chokes out a quiet, "My parents don't remember me." She doesn't shift her gaze from his, though her eyes take on a glassy sheen. "I removed myself from their memories before leaving with Harry and Ron after sixth year."

"I know," Draco admits, ducking his chin. "I was tracking you, remember?" He lets the words wash over her, wondering if he's fucked something up in a way that trying to kill her didn't accomplish. "But there are ways to undo a spell like that."

Hermione draws in a shaky breath. "I don't think I will. I've... debated it, of course. Tried to view the situation from every angle. But every time I think about it, all I can think of is how disappointed they would be in me. I... I've killed so many people. They wouldn't understand."

"We've all had to do things we hate in order to survive," he murmurs, drawing her instinctively into his chest. Tension wracks her form before she relaxes. "Don't you think they would be happy to see you after so long?"

"I don't know," she whispers when he releases her and steps back. "I don't... I've tried not to think about it too much. There isn't room for sentiment and nostalgia when I’ve spent so long fighting to live."

Draco understands that all too well. He swipes the pad of his thumb beneath her eye. "You don't need to make any decisions right now."

Maybe he can see why a weekend to visit his family is more nerve-wracking for her than either of them anticipated. He wishes he were better at this—at soothing her nerves. But he has no experience in caring for a woman. Not truly.

And Hermione isn’t like he ever imagined.

She doesn't answer, staring for long moments at the contents of her closet.

"We have to leave in twenty minutes," he murmurs at last. "And for the record, my mother can't wait to see you again.

Then he slips from the room, leaving her alone to the task.

Realistically, having seen Malfoy Manor, Hermione shouldn't be surprised by the size of the estate in Spain. In the sprawling countryside outside of Granada, the property spans as far as she can see, open land speckled with various buildings.

Although autumn has begun to hang on the air in England, the air in Spain is warm and inviting.

Several things strike Hermione all at once.

She hasn't left England in years—and some part of her has longed for even a brief respite from the unending ravages of war. The last time she took a proper holiday was with her parents before she started her sixth year at Hogwarts.

The thought stings, even despite the distance from it. Maybe it's because of the way she tore the old wound open when Draco asked about it. When he asked whether she wanted to restore their memories.

It's something she hasn't allowed herself to think of in ages—and most of the time she's afraid of what they would think about who she's become. Hermione can handle the thought of them alone across the world without any memory of her—she's forced herself to come to terms with that reality.

What she doesn't think she can handle is their disappointment.

She and Draco will be staying in one of the peripheral carriage houses on the estate, but she can see he's keen to take care of the first order of business they're here for. So once they drop off their belongings in the light, airy house—Hermione almost can't wrap her head around the thought of staying here for a few days while the war carries on at home—they make for the main villa.

According to Narcissa, Lucius has been checking in on another property in France—and keeping an eye on the situation in England from a distance.

Exactly as Draco hoped.

She hasn't summoned the courage to ask about his relationship with his father, but she can piece together enough of the fraught shards on her own.

He wants to share his plans only with Narcissa—and that speaks volumes in itself.

When they broach the threshold into the villa, Hermione is struck all over again at the vastness of his wealth. The foyer alone is almost as large as her family's home—and her parents were financially successful in their own right.

She isn't certain whether they still practise dentistry in Brisbane—she's never found the time or the nerve to visit.

"Draco," Narcissa exclaims, greeting them in lieu of an elf. She beams between them. "And Hermione—how wonderful to see you both."

"Mother," Draco returns crisply, clasping her by the arm and ducking in to press a kiss to her cheek. "You as well."

Although Hermione has always considered Narcissa imposing in character, she's physically dwarfed by Draco's taller, broader stature. Still, Hermione feels herself shrink when the woman's blue eyes land on her.

"Thank you for having us," Hermione says quietly, lowering her chin. The thought that Narcissa Malfoy is her mother-in-law still strikes her as oddly surreal.

Amusement dances in the woman's expression when her eyes flit to Draco and back. "Of course, dear—all of this is yours now too, remember?"

She hasn't been able to forget. But some part of Hermione still can't quite parse the thought that Draco's material possessions are hers as well. She doesn't even feel right accepting that she has to spend his money—although she has very little of her own and no form of employment.

She offers as true a smile as she can manage. "The villa is beautiful."

Narcissa's answering smile is mild but genuine, and she gestures towards the adjoining room. "I've had the elves prepare tea in the parlour, if you'll join me."

Draco straightens, any familiar sentimentality vanishing in an instant—replaced by the cold-faced lieutenant. "Thank you. We have plenty to discuss and little time."

With a derisive sound in the back of her throat, Narcissa leads them into a bright, airy room filled with windows. "I am your mother, not one of those maggots you command." Hermione's eyes widen at the blatant disrespect, but she doesn't speak. "You don't need to speak so formally—and your father shouldn't return for the duration of your stay here."

At the confirmation, Draco deflates a little, softening into a version of himself that's as relaxed as she ever sees him.

Not for the first time, she wonders at the relationship between the pair.

"Then I'll be as blunt as possible," Draco drawls, the three of them settling at a table while a house elf prepares three cups of tea. After the elf vanishes with a small pop, he turns back to Narcissa. "I don't know what you have or haven't pieced together about the nature of our relationship and the driving factors behind it."

Narcissa's eyes dart to Hermione, wry amusement lifting her lips. "Enough that this visit doesn't surprise me."

Beneath the table, Draco drops a hand to Hermione's knee with a gentle squeeze. She rests a hand atop his, twining their fingers.

"We are about to be in trouble," he says, matter-of-fact as though he's commenting on the weather. "And it is imperative that you prepare for such an eventuality."

"The wards on this villa are already incredibly comprehensive," Narcissa returns without missing a beat. "Surely you detected them when you arrived."

"Strengthen them." Draco's level gaze doesn't leave his mother. "Enact blood wards. I can do it while we're here."

His mother lifts a brow. "What sort of trouble?"

"The sort," Draco begins with caution, "where the full force of the Dark Lord's wrath is about to land on us—and on this family."

Narcissa takes a sip of tea, her hands steady as she rests her cup back on its saucer. At last, she looks up, eyes settling on Hermione before sliding back to her son. "I knew I did something right in raising you," she says quietly, and Draco's hand tightens in Hermione's hold. "Very well, then. I presume your father isn't aware?"

"Not yet," Draco drawls, "and I don't know whether I can trust his loyalties at this point. I will need you to keep quiet about the reasoning for all of this."

With a pensive nod, Narcissa says, "I hope this means you're finally getting out."

"Once things are prepared," Draco says, "and everything is aligned the way we need—yes."

Because Merlin knows they have to be entirely certain. There are a lot of benefits to Draco remaining within the Dark Lord's inner circle—at his right hand. But Hermione doesn't know how much longer she can stand to watch him dragged through the mud.

Even so, she’s surprised by the palpable relief in Draco's tone.

"Thank Merlin," Narcissa says in a quiet huff. But just as suddenly, a furrow knits her brow. "Do be careful."

Hermione nods, hoping to convey reassurance. "Everything needs to go smoothly in order to get out alive—and we won't act until everything is as prepared as possible."

"When I met you," Narcissa goes on, turning to face Hermione, "and I learned the two of you had wed, I could only hope there was something else at play. I am so incredibly relieved to learn my instincts were correct."

Hermione remembers some of the earliest words Narcissa spoke to her, when they met for tea in the gardens.

He'll slide headfirst into his own ruin.

She grips Draco's hand tighter beneath the table.

Despair mars his features. "I've done so many despicable things in his service," he breathes out, staring hard at his untouched cup of tea. "I suppose I've reached the end of my rope." His gaze lifts to meet Hermione's. "But I don't think I ever would have made a move on my own."

Hermione offers him all she can dredge forth of a smile. "We're doing what we can now."

Narcissa beams at the pair of them. "Wonderful. And you will protect each other."

The words aren't phrased as a question, but Hermione detects the sentiment all the same. Releasing a breath, she nods. "We'll do our best."

Everyone present knows there are no guarantees in any of this. None Hermione can offer—and none Narcissa can expect.

But if the sincerity doesn't bleed through her words, she'll be surprised.

Narcissa nods, her eyes glassy, and says, "Draco says you are staying on the grounds for a few days—I do hope you'll join me for dinner."

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading. I hope you're all doing well xo

Alpha and beta hugs to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows respectively.

Chapter 36

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

For the first time in as long as he can remember—longer, most likely, given the general annoyance he felt towards many of his classmates at Hogwarts—Draco finds himself around only people he likes.

Every part of the situation in Spain leaves him with an odd feeling of discontent. The way his days instantly turn from the matter of battle strategies to trivialities and small, insignificant details that he might once have cared about.

It's a reminder of his past, and he's not certain he cares for it.

Hermione is on the expansive grounds, far enough away that he can't quite catch sight of her, and though he knows she's safe here—they're all safe here, thanks to the elaborate blood wards he installed without hesitation—he can't force his heart rate to settle.

He understands why, and he appreciates the consideration. But caution has been ingrained in him for far too long.

His mother sits across the table from him, sipping tea, picking at a tray of dessert squares, and for a moment, he only stares at the surreality of it.

It's a stark thought that he might never readjust to society.

That, after everything he's done, everything that's happened since he was fifteen years old, he might never move past it even if the war comes to an end.

"You and Hermione seem far more comfortable with each other than you did the last time I saw you," Narcissa says, a casual intonation beneath the words that belies the utter interest in her face.

"Subtle," Draco drawls. "If you'll recall, the last time you saw us together we were also in a hall surrounded by Death Eaters at a party thrown by the Dark Lord."

Narcissa doesn't waver, a small, indulgent smile on her lips. "That isn't what I meant."

He knows exactly what she means. That was the first night he and Hermione properly kissed. His thoughts drift, only for a moment, to the way she helped him after the Dark Lord punished him for disobedience.

The way he fucked her into the wall after.

"Yes, well." Draco stirs a lump of sugar into his teacup, eyes flitting towards the direction where Hermione vanished. They've been at the villa in Spain for two days now, and they've spent most of their time together. He appreciates the time to visit with his mother, even though it feels worlds away from everything else on his mind. "I suppose we've come to rely on each other."

Something akin to smugness crosses his mother's face, and Draco barely resists the urge to roll his eyes.

If nothing else, his mother doesn't treat him like a lieutenant of the Death Eaters, and he appreciates her for it.

"More than reliance, as far as I can tell."

Draco shoots her a look. "It's a number of things."

His mother's knowing glance might drive him up the wall if not for the utter relief in being able to spend a few days here away from the crumbling remains of his life in England.

"Well," Narcissa says demurely, "I for one am glad of it. However the relationship originated—and I imagine there were numerous considerations, none of which involved romance—I am pleased, Draco. She is a wonderful match for you."

The words catch him off guard, as does the sudden tightness in his chest. He ducks his chin in acquiescence. "I think you're right. Nothing was truly meant to come of this beyond our original motives. But..." He trails off, unwilling to delve too deep into it. "I think so, too. And for some reason, she doesn't mind me either."

"Of course she doesn't." Narcissa takes another idle sip of tea. "No matter what else, Draco, you keep the person you always were contained. And maybe she's never seen that side of you before, but it doesn't mean she shouldn't."

His eyes fall shut for a moment, and Draco forces out a breath. "Things aren't any better in England, Mother. In fact, they've grown worse than you probably realise. We don't have room for anything else."

He doesn't have the time—the mental bandwidth—to sit around and play husband when lives are on the line.

"That doesn't mean you can't nurture your marriage."

Draco grinds his jaw, biting back several retorts that fly instantly to the tip of his tongue. It's rich for Narcissa Malfoy to talk to him about marriage, when she stood by for much of his youth and watched his father steer him towards this path.

But he doesn't hold any of that against her—he never has, really.

Not when he knows how entirely responsible Lucius Malfoy was.

Some part of him weakens under his mother's penetrating blue gaze, and he releases a heavy breath, rolling some of the ubiquitous strain from his shoulders. "I admit it's nice to get away from everything for a while."

"You know you're welcome here any time." Her casual tone, once again, falls short of its intention. "You both are."

"And you know I have responsibilities that tie me to England." He casts her a pointed glance, suppressing the sting in his chest at the thought. "I cannot simply walk away."

He bites his tongue, again, on a remark against his father, who spends most of his time elsewhere despite maintaining a position in the inner circle.

The air grows tense as he recalls his main purpose for visiting Spain in the first place. He knows by his mother's calculated silence she's thinking of the same.

"When the time is right," Draco says, lowering his voice on instinct, "that will no longer be the case."

Narcissa selects another square from the platter, but Draco's stomach has been a pit of nausea since leaving England. "I know you're more than capable of looking after yourself," she says, "and, I imagine, so is Hermione. But it does not stop a mother from worrying while you're caught in that dreadful war."

He flashes her a thin, disingenuous smile; it isn't a topic he wants to continue discussing. "We've had to be after this long."

Her mouth draws tight with a scowl, and as she opens her mouth to say something more, Hermione drifts closer.

The part of Draco that's been fraught with tension for as long as she's been out of sight eases.

He nudges the empty seat next to him with his boot, shifting it away from the table. He catches her gaze as she approaches, a hint of a smile on her lips.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," she says even as she slips into the seat.

"Not at all," Draco drawls, "though we were talking about you."

Idle humour crosses her face. "Not all bad, I hope."

"None, in fact," Narcissa says, beaming at Hermione, and Draco's struck by the fact that his mother rarely likes anyone.

He spent most of his adolescence wondering what it would take to find a woman his mother approved of. The irony that he didn't even have to look strikes him with a sudden jolt of amusement.

A smirk tugs at his mouth as he reaches for the teapot to pour her a cup and he drawls, "It's not often that my mother grants her approval so easily. You ought to be pleased."

Hermione's smile widens, and she reaches for a cucumber sandwich. "I am," she muses, taking a bite. "And I'm quite fond of her as well."

When they share a look, Draco wonders just what exactly he's gotten himself into. And whether, one day, he might have cause for concern.

It feels strange to breathe.

Although he knew leaving London in itself would feel odd, Draco expected he would feel a greater sense of urgency to return. If not for the fact that they still have so much unfinished business back at home, he might be tempted to stay away forever.

As it is now, their visit in Spain feels altogether too short.

He's grown used to Hermione's bright smiles; the way she's released some of the tension she wears around her, almost ubiquitous. They've spent the past two days lounging, basking in the sun, reading and resting and enjoying such simple things Draco hasn't had time for in years.

It's sobering to think of what they have to return to—and a part of him has already started to despair in it though they have one day left. But if anything, the break away has furthered his resolve that the war needs to end.

A small part of him wants to survive after all. To explore the life that might one day wait for them if they make it through this together.

But a larger part doesn't dare to hope, and quashes that side of him that wants a forever with her.

He collapses into bed at Hermione's side where she's reading a book, legs stretched out on the mattress in front of her.

"Yes?" she asks, mouth twitching. "What is it?"

"Let's go somewhere for a while."

"Elaborate on somewhere," she says distractedly as she finishes her page then marks her spot and closes the book. "We've been hesitant to leave the warded grounds."

Draco tugs her down on the bed to lie next to him. "I mean on the grounds. We don't need to go anywhere else. There are trails we haven't explored yet."

The villa only encompasses a small portion of the grounds, and even with the outbuildings—including the carriage house where they've set up temporary residence—the rest of the estate encompasses vast swaths of wilderness.

"Trails," she echoes with a hint of disbelief, entwining their legs atop the covers. "You don't strike me as the hiking type."

"I'm not," he murmurs against her mouth, drawing her into a kiss. "But I don't want to go back home without making the best of our time away. It is beautiful here, and I think you'd like it."

If he's honest, he wants to see her reaction to everything. Ever since they married—since he started to see her as something other than an adversary—their lives have been fraught with chaos and fear. He wants this time away to be something different between the two of them. Something worth remembering.

She indulges him, sinking into the kiss and opening her mouth to his. A soft moan slides from her lips when she grinds her hips against his. "If you think so, then who am I to argue?"

"We could always stay in instead," he drawls, reaching for her shirt. When she doesn't resist, he tugs it over her head, squeezing one breast through the thin lace of her bra. He plants a kiss to the curve of her cleavage, then drags his tongue along her peaked nipple through the fabric. "If you're more inclined to that."

Hermione arches from the bed with a breathy laugh. She reaches for his trousers, rubbing at his hardening cock. "I imagine we have time for both."

Warmth has come so much easier between them while they've been in Spain. Relaxation and ease and the way he hasn't forced himself to restrict his own enjoyment. It feels strange without so many demands on his time, and he groans when she winds a leg around his hip, bringing him flush against her.

Some part of him loves the idea of fucking her in the middle of the day because they have nowhere else to be.

He releases the clasp of her bra, taking her skin fully into his mouth as he reaches for her jeans. "I think," he murmurs, fixating on the sensitive skin and the way she melts beneath him, "you're right."

Hermione releases his belt, tugging his jeans and shorts from his hips in one movement, and takes his cock into her palm.

A smirk drags at his mouth. "You're going to be the death of me," he breathes into her midriff as he trails a line of kisses downward.

"A better way to go than most," she whispers, pushing down her own knickers.

When he reaches the apex of her thighs, he breathes her in, eyelids fluttering. He darts his tongue out to taste her arousal, laving a strip from her core to her clit. She bows from the bed with a cry, fingers tugging his hair while he licks and sucks at her, drawing pleasure from her skin as he indulges in the intoxicating taste of her.

Sliding his tongue into her cunt, he groans at her wetness, his erection almost painful. "You're so damned wet," he growls, driving two fingers between her walls as he returns a teasing assault to her clit.

"All for you," she gasps, shifting her hips closer to his mouth. A breathy string of expletives falls from her lips, and he looks up to catch the lazy grin on her face.

His chest tightens at the words and he redoubles his efforts, drawing her orgasm forth with a bright cry of his name. And when she reaches for him again, aligning him at her core—as he slides in, burying himself in her tight heat, he makes a silent vow.

And he doesn't care what it takes or what it costs him. He'll give her the world, even if he has to tear it from the sky himself.

As Draco predicted prior to their mid-afternoon distraction, Hermione loves the walking trails. The expansive views are gorgeous in their purity, the raw beauty of nature—and she can't complain about the company either.

Since arriving in Spain, they've been acting less like soldiers and more like the young adults they are, exploring each other and drawing every ounce of enjoyment they can from the time away.

For the first time since they decided to work together—no matter how forced the situation became at the time—she's allowed herself to indulge those butterflies without regard for the rest. The way she's come to feel about him—the energy that sometimes flows between them. How respect and trust has grown from the most feeble of seeds.

Draco shoots her a sidelong glance as they reach the crest of a hill, his fingers brushing her elbow. For a moment, their eyes lock; a smile plays about her lips. "Let's take a rest."

He settles himself on the ground, leaning against a large rock, and Hermione stares, baffled, before joining him. With a smirk, he rummages in his satchel and withdraws a bottle of whisky.

Grinning, she shifts closer until their sides press together, and he slings an arm around her shoulders with a great sigh.

"This is nice," he says quietly as he cracks the seal on the bottle. He gazes out into the distance, a vibrant sun beginning to duck lower on the hilly terrain. His face sobers. "Getting away from everything for a while."

Hermione nods, taking a swig when he hands her the bottle. "It's startling," she adds. "We've been caught up in war for so long that sometimes it's hard to remember the whole world isn't dealing with the trouble like we are."

As she speaks the words, the truth of it hits her. That there's no easy way out of this war—and even now, it only becomes more volatile. Both sides grow continuously more aggressive, clinging to shreds of power as they dissipate on thin air.

"We could just say fuck it all," Draco muses. "Never go back."

Although it would be the easy way out, it surprises her to hear the words fall from his lips. He's given up more than even she has in the course of this war—he's fought even harder for his own desires.

And the conversation reminds her of one she shared with Harry, before everything began to crumble.

Some part of her desperately longs to agree.

"If I said we could," she breathes. "If I said we should run and forget the rest—would you?"

He hesitates, taking a deep swig from the bottle. Hermione finds herself anxious for his answer—because even now, he continues to surprise her. If she had any lingering doubts that he's no longer the cowardly boy he was, this one moment in time would assuage them all.

"No," he says at last. "I don't think I could. Not after everything we've already committed. We would spend the rest of our lives—or at least until everything crumbles and ends some other way—on the run. That's if we don't end up hunted down for sport."

"Yeah." Hermione swipes the whisky and takes a swig, the liquid searing her throat on the way down. "Don't know that I could live with myself anyway."

Draco snorts, a low, amused sound. "Everything we've done, and that's the limit."

Glancing at him, she realises he's right. That for as long as she's sworn there's no part left of her worth saving, maybe she still has something.

And he does, too.

She reaches for his hand, giving his fingers a squeeze, and he entwines their fingers. For a long moment, they sit in silence, sipping his bottle of whisky until a gentle warmth overtakes her thoughts. Hermione drops her head against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut as a warm wind grazes her face.

"You know," Draco says quietly as the comfortable silence coils around them, "back when we were at school, I always preferred flying over anything. It was the only way I could find peace—when everything started to fall apart."

Hermione freezes, unblinking, unmoving. He hasn't broached the topic of their Hogwarts years since they married, and the topic catches her off guard.

He releases a long breath. "I can't remember the last time I've been for a fly now. Since I had time to indulge in anything personal."

Shifting at his side, she reaches for the whisky bottle, but her grip only tightens on the neck when he speaks again.

"It was all so trivial, looking back on it now. But... I don't know. I guess I thought if only I did what he wanted—if I did this one task, that would be it. My family would be safe, he would let me live, and his focus would switch to someone else instead." Despair knits his brow as he gazes out towards the horizon. A golden sun dances ahead of them, burnishing his hair and the sharp lines of his face. His voice drops to little more than a whisper, and Hermione realises she isn't breathing. "One task turned to two. And then another. And another... and another."

He lets the sentiment drop off, the memories haunting his eyes.

"You did what you had to do," Hermione murmurs, trying to recall the boy he had been in sixth year. "And you're still alive. Your parents are still alive."

Raking a hand through his hair, he drops it to the ground at his side—and she isn't certain whether she saw a tremble in his fingers.

"It only got worse and worse," he adds, a cold bitterness in his voice. "The missions... the threats. And I figured, what was one more life when my hands were already coated in so much blood. A dozen more? What was my soul shattering when it meant I would survive another day? When I was gaining his trust—fighting for it. Maybe if he trusted me, I told myself, I wouldn't get dealt the worst of it any more. Fuck, I—" He draws a gasping breath, staring hard at the ground. "I was so bloody naive."

Several moments pass before Hermione realises silent tears slide down her cheeks. He's never spoken of this. Not once has he talked about his rise through the Death Eaters—and it occurs to her she never allowed herself to think of what horrors he must have faced. Been forced to submit to.

Hermione doesn't even know where to begin; what she can possibly say.

But he carries on, as though allowing the words to be wrenched from the pit in his soul. As if it's cathartic. "I knew better," he mutters. "I think I knew where it was all leading. But so long as he didn't want me dead... I don't know, Hermione. I don't know how I ended up here."

His eyes finally slide to her, grey and deadened and desolate, and she can see the fatigue more plainly than ever.

So many useless platitudes hang on the tip of her tongue. Empty words—words she can't force herself to speak.

So she stares at him for a long moment, not bothering to quell the tears as they trace paths down her cheeks, and she breathes, "You are worth saving." She swipes a tear. "This isn't where your story ends, Draco Malfoy. There is more than this. I promise."

"That isn't a promise you can make," he says hoarsely.

Lifting a hand to his face, she shakes her head. "I don't care. I'm making it anyway."

His lips part, eyes glossy and bloodshot, and he grips her hand like a vise. Like he's lost at sea and she's the only thing connecting him to solid ground.

Holding her gaze, he whispers, "I love you."

She sucks in a sharp intake of breath. "What?"

He assesses her for a moment, eyes tightening. "I never expected any of this to happen months ago when all of this started. For the two of us to... grow close like we have."

The words spin around her mind, not quite settling into place, and she's intensely aware of her heart beating. Adrenaline courses a thudding rhythm behind her ears.

Draco brings the back of her hand to his mouth, resting his lips for a moment against her knuckles. Then a wry smirk curls his lips and he drawls, "Trust me, I didn't think I was even capable."

A watery laugh bursts forth from deep within her. "You prat," she whispers, a smile tugging at her mouth. "You are the last person I ever thought I would fall for. But… I'm in love with you, too."

The golden sun glints in his irises, warming the usual cool grey, and for a long moment, he only smiles at her while her heart beats and beats.

"It takes a lot for me to trust someone," he says quietly, "and I trust you with everything I am. Everything I've ever been... and Merlin willing, everything I might one day become."

Tears spill from her eyes again. Tears of sadness, of despair, of a tingling, desperate sort of hope.

The moment is so far from any plane of existence she's known for most of her life, and no part of her can comprehend the series of events that have led to this point. She gives his hand a tight squeeze.

"Then I need you to know," she breathes, "that you've given me reason to fight again. To survive all of this. Because maybe one day this war won't be our reality anymore." She gazes out upon the early hints of sunset, settles into that part of herself that has longed for the peace of the past few days. "And I want to explore a life with you where we aren't fighting for our lives every damn day."

"I want that too," he says quietly, and Hermione wonders if it's the first time he's admitted to himself that he truly wants to survive this war. A furrow knits the skin between his brows, as if the thought has finally taken root. As if it's profound. "And if this is it... if this is the only way our paths ever would have crossed—the only way we end up together... I need you to know I would do it all over again. Would endure all of it, sacrifice every shred of my soul, if it means I find you in the end."

Drawing a careful breath, she meets his gaze. His face is open and vulnerable in a way she's never seen, as though he has no intention to guard himself from her. As if he means everything he's saying, and it's only in this place, with the two of them together and alone, that he feels comfortable to say it.

It strengthens every facet of her resolve that's waned.

"We're going to make it through this," she says, bringing their joined hands close to her heart. "I don't care what it takes, or what we have to do. We're going to survive whatever stands in our way together."

Draco clenches his jaw. "Yes we are."

She wants to cry; to break down into the sum of her shattered parts, to give in to the tumult of emotions building within her.

"Together," she repeats in a whisper. "Because I refuse to face what comes next alone."

"Witch," he huffs, and it sounds like affection. It sounds like a promise. He cups a hand to the back of her neck, drawing their mouths together. "I'll be right here."

His lips are salty with her tears, and when they draw apart, a teasing smile spreads across his face.

And a bright laugh breaks from her lips, from her soul.

It's something she never saw coming—but it's beautiful.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for reading. This was one of my favourite chapters to write, and I hope you enjoyed it too. See you next week xo

Alpha and beta love to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

Chapter 37

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Returning to England feels different than he expected. For three days, Draco's been allowed to ignore the immediacy of the war in favour of spending time with Hermione and his mother in relative peace.

Going home now feels especially stark.

But he's buoyed by the time spent away, by the admissions and the realisations, and the thought that not only does he want to make it through all of this, but he needs to.

Because he won't leave Hermione to face the rest of this alone again.

In light of what he needs to do next, the thought is especially unnerving.

While they were away, the rest of their small team were quiet on the coins, and Draco doesn’t know whether it's because nothing of note happened, or because the rest of them decided to give him and Hermione some time.

He isn't certain he wants to know.

But he draws his coin all the same when they return to Malfoy Manor, watching Hermione retreat into her room. Unbidden, a smile draws itself on his face, and he forces himself to focus.

He bared his soul to her in a way he hadn't even anticipated in Spain, and he doesn't regret it—but he can't allow a distraction. Not now—not when everything hangs on the edge of a knife.

And so much of what happens next depends on them.

Within an hour, he finds himself in the London house with a full war room ahead of him, and steels himself for the reports as Theo, Potter, and Longbottom settle into their seats at the table. On his right, Hermione takes his hand beneath the table.

Propping his elbow on the table, he rests his face on his palm and drawls, "Spill."

Longbottom flashes him a grin. "Welcome home, you two. Spain seems to have agreed with you."

Surprised, Draco glances at Granger; she offers him a soft smile in return.

"This," Potter says, waving between them, "is strange to witness."

Draco cocks a brow.

"What they aren't saying," Theo interrupts with a snicker, "is that things have been... quiet. Too quiet. If anything major happened, we would have informed you. But, nothing."

He dislikes this more than if they'd reported a major attack. He's learned little from the Death Eaters either, and a frisson of unease crawls along his spine. The only reason for things to be subdued is that one or both sides are planning something major.

Theo's still acting as a double agent through Foray, and Potter and Longbottom are straddling both lines.

If anything is in the works, one of them ought to know about it.

"It's minor," Longbottom says, as though as an afterthought, "but they've been shuffling some of the resistance safehouses. I was originally relocated to the same house where Harry lives—where Hermione used to live—after you lot released me from your torture cell."

If Draco feels a spasm of guilt, he suppresses it just as quickly. "All of that was on the Dark Lord's orders."

Longbottom rolls his eyes. "Whatever you say."

"Technically," Theo drawls, "it was. And Draco didn't know of any connection between us at the time."

"Okay, but—"

"Who's moved in instead?" Hermione asks, breaking up the imminent argument. "Into Warrington's house?"

Potter's face is a little too innocent-looking as he says, "Luna's come over."

When she barely refrains from smiling—and shoots Draco a covert glance—he smirks. "Ah," she says, "that must be nice for you."

Her voice contains entirely too much enthusiasm for what Draco suspects is a mild change at best, and he watches colour flush into Potter's cheeks as he offers a flippant shrug.

"It's alright, yeah."

"Lovegood," Draco huffs. "Really?"

Scowling at him, Potter folds his arms. "It's not like, a thing. Or something."

Theo and Longbottom exchange a glance; Hermione presses her lips together to withhold a smile. All of it leaves Draco feeling as though he's on the edge of something he isn't meant to understand—and he's perfectly fine without knowing the details of this particular arrangement.

"Anyway," Potter says, in an obvious bid to change the subject, "it always means something when they shuffle everyone around."

"Right," Longbottom agrees. "When they were assembling my team on that mission from Hell that you intercepted, they moved us all into the same safehouse for preparations."

Hermione hums, her expression shifting as she shoots him a look. "Sometimes," she begins, measuring her thoughts carefully, "I got the impression they were moving us around so no one ever really had a full picture of how the resistance forces truly looked. Like they didn't want anyone to know what was actually going on at the highest levels."

"That is absolutely a thing Cassius does," Longbottom adds. "It keeps the leaders with all the power—and keeps all the rest of us guessing."

Draco listens to the rest of them, mulling over the information in the back of his mind. With a grimace, he says, "Warrington really is a piece of shit, isn't he?"

"Rich, given who your leader is," Potter snickers.

"Which is why," Draco says with a pointed look, "we're getting rid of both of them. Isn't it?"

Longbottom drifts from his seat, pacing the short length of the room as though he can't quite contain his energy. "Thing is," he says, "no one even knows exactly what Warrington's up to. Each safehouse has its own leadership, but they all ultimately report to Warrington. And he's shady as anyone I've ever known."

"How exactly did this prat end up in charge?" Draco drawls. The more they speak about the inner workings of the resistance, the more his skin crawls. "As far as I recall, he was an arsehole at Hogwarts."

"And he's still one now," Theo says. "All of my interactions with him have been suspect at best."

"He took charge," Potter says, and they all fall silent at the tone of his voice. "After the Battle of Hogwarts—when everything went shit up for the Order and those who survived the Battle of Hogwarts scattered on the wind—there was no one holding things together." He glances away, clenching his jaw together, and Draco reads the sentiment on his face. That he might have continued to act as a leader of sorts.

That if Harry Potter had stepped up, again, for the hundredth time, the Order of the Phoenix may have pulled itself back together.

"Instead," Hermione says quietly with an idle glance at Harry, "a lot of people left. The resistance formed of those who remained—many of whom lacked the original integrity of the Order. But we learned early on that there was nothing for it. There was no way to fight fire with wind. Not when the gusts kept blowing right back at us."

"I remember," Draco murmurs. Those early days feel like a dream now—a nightmare. He hadn't been in a high ranking role, and didn't possess half as much of the Dark Lord's trust. He'd been simply another Death Eater, another disposable pair of boots on the ground.

Without as much stake in the game, he hadn't paid as much attention.

"Hierarchies formed," Longbottom says as the group falls into a stilted tension, as though all of them are reflecting on what happened all those years ago. What could have happened, had things gone differently. "I think a lot of it ended up as a matter of who didn't want to take responsibility for everything that was going wrong."

Hermione releases a sigh, and four sets of eyes swivel to land on her. "As far as I remember, Warrington more or less took control. He kept us focused even though it wasn't the same target any of us had been looking at before. He kept us functional—and for a while, it was good. It was better. Fighters started to rise, and we started to train properly. It was enough for us to hold our own against the Death Eaters."

"It was enough," Potter adds, "until it wasn't."

Draco sifts through every detail, teasing the edges until they meld into a coherent narrative. It's an easier place to operate from—logic and strategy and the part of him that knows how to dissect the bigger picture.

"So what you're saying," he murmurs at last, eyes skimming the group and landing on Hermione, "is that we need to figure out what the resistance is planning."

"Yeah," she breathes. "I think that's what we need to do."

In the days that follow, Hermione's life falls into delineations across a line.

And the line, arbitrary though she tells herself it is, follows their trip to Spain.

She hasn't had room for sentimentality or emotion in years—and she's always told herself it follows in her duty to the cause. Growing up, her cause was Harry. And now, since she was eighteen, her cause has been the resistance. Fighting the war—playing her role. Doing as she's told.

Exhaustion encompasses every move she makes now.

That part she's kept concealed, buried, entrapped within herself longs to break free. To feel.

All she can think of is Draco and what he shared with her in Spain. That he trusts her with his past—his future.

That he loves her.

It's enough to bring her to tears even now as she allows herself the indulgence of recollection. It isn't something she ever imagined. Not love. Not him.

She’s never been in love before, and some trivial part of her wants to explore the depths of everything she's tried to ignore. The same part that longs for a deeper connection with Harry and Neville. To know Theo better. To dream that she might one day find her parents again.

For so long she's operated from a place of desperation and immediacy that she hasn't known how to think of anything else.

The floodwaters caught up to her in Spain, and she's drowning.

"What are you doing?"

Draco sinks into the sofa beside her, jarring her from her thoughts, and a prickle of shame crawls up her spine. She's released so many of the instincts that have kept her alive, and she knows better than to let herself be caught off her guard.

"I don't know," she admits, staring hard at the opposite wall, adorned with a painting they picked up on one of their rare outings into Muggle London together. It's a somewhat abstract take on two people silhouetted against a night sky, and it spoke to something within her when she saw it—and in the several minutes that passed before she could tear herself away from it, Draco purchased it. "I think I'm struggling."

The words slide from her lips before she can reign them in.

Draco's brows lift in surprise. "Struggling with what?"

She can't look at him; can't force herself to meet his gaze. Not without knowing if she'll find judgement, understanding, or confusion.

Hermione shakes her head, and the sofa shifts when he moves closer. His thigh presses against her own.

"I struggle too, sometimes," he says softly. "And I get it."

All at once, an urge to cry swells within her, and her eyes burn hot. "It's so much," she whispers. It's too broad and too fine a point all at once, and she shakes her head. "Trying to survive. Trying to live."

"Never knowing what tomorrow will bring or if you'll even see it," Draco murmurs, "but feeling a bone-deep longing to find out."

"Yes," she whispers, "exactly like that."

And all at once she's eclipsed, flooded by emotions that she's fought so hard to repress. And she reaches for his hand, clinging to him like he's her only chance at salvation, at a chance at something else. And Hermione, all at once, can't stand it.

She hates this life, but it's the only one she knows.

"It's too much," she says, shaking her head. Tears spike at the corners of her eyes, and she doesn't know how to stop them when they begin to spill down her cheeks. "I've tried so hard for so long."

"I know you have," Draco murmurs, and he doesn't let go of her hand. Doesn't speak over her.

"I've tried to be strong," she breathes.

"I know."

But in the end, all it comes down to is the truth laid bare before her. That for all she's done, for as hard as she's fought, there's nothing more to it. She's caught in a war she can't get out of, and her chances of survival are slim.

She will never see that other life she longs for with such a visceral desperation that she can't stand it.

"I don't know what to do anymore," she murmurs, tightening her grip on his hand.

And for a long moment, Draco doesn't speak. He only offers a quiet, consistent comfort in the small sitting room of the house they've assembled together. The only hint that some other life might possibly exist.

And she longs for it so badly, but all the while she knows it will never happen.

"Here's what I think," Draco says at last, the words soft and patient. His thumb strokes the back of her knuckles, and his voice is enough to soothe her tears. "I think we're doing the best we can. We're fighting—even when the fight grows to be too much. And we're trapped in a situation that was always too much for us. Always, Hermione. This should never have been our fight to begin with, and not for so damn long."

She doesn't speak, his words hanging over her in a way she can't quite comprehend, and she doesn't know what she might say even if she could manage it.

"I think we're going to continue doing our best," he says, "because we have no other options. We have to see this through—and the only way to do that is to keep fighting, keep pushing, even when we can't, even when we have no strength and no energy and we don't know where to go or which way is up."

He releases a long breath, his grip on her hand never wavering.

"Yeah," she whispers, swiping at her tears with her free hand.

"You," Draco says, and his tone is soft, reverent, "are amazing. And I have admired you for longer than I could even admit to myself. You've been so strong and so brave, and it eats me alive to see you struggling with this."

Before she can even open her mouth to speak—before she can turn the sentiment on him—he continues.

"And I think," he says, then adds, "I know this isn't going to be the end for us. No matter what the future holds. It may not look as we intend it to look—but this is what we have in front of us right now."

He lets the words hang between them, his grey eyes finally locking on hers.

"And maybe there are some parts of this that aren't so terrible," he says at last. "For instance, we never would have come to know each other had not all of this transpired."

She clasps his hand as tight as she can manage, bringing his knuckles to her lips.

He goes on. "And we would never have discovered the truth about ourselves. That we're stronger than we think. That even when we think there's nothing left and we can't keep going—we do. Because it's all we know. And it's just survival. And maybe it's shit that this is the hand we've been dealt, but it's what we have."

He stares hard at her, and she can scarcely see him through the blur of her tears.

"I wish we could get through this," she breathes at last. "I want to live an actual life with you."

"We can." He stares at the painting on the opposite wall, a rueful twist to his mouth. "Remember that day when we purchased this painting?"

"Yes," she gasps, slumping a little into her seat, into him. "I remember. Of course I remember."

"And all that mattered was what we were doing. Just us." He fixes her with a hard stare, his eyes beseeching. "We can build a life where we can do things like that—things that shouldn't matter, but they do all the same. This house is the home we built together. And our friends—"

She chokes on a sob at the word—at the thought of their friends. Because even if it wasn't always the case at the start, they have friends together. Maybe he sees Harry and Neville as friends of a sort now—comrades and confidants if nothing else. And Theo of course—who, against all odds, is still with them in this fight.

"Those are the friends we've chosen," he says softly. "Not the people that were forced on us by some arbitrary mechanism in this war. People we actually want to be around—people we can talk to. People we can trust."

When she looks closer, his eyes are a little glassy too, and she doesn't know what to make of that. Doesn't know how to deal with this version of Draco Malfoy who sees her—who looks straight into all of her flaws and still wants her all the same.

She doesn't know how to deal with any of this.

But this, maybe just this if nothing else, is something they have together.

Maybe that's enough just for now.

Maybe, if she lets herself, she can borrow his faith—his patience—the fragile shards of his hope that there might be something else for them one day. His belief that even now, their life is worth something.

She doesn't know what to say, and even when he releases his grip on her hand, she can't find it in herself to move. But he rises, standing over her, peering into her eyes. He smooths a curl out of her face, tucking it behind her ear.

Hermione wants to smile, and she almost does, but some part of her can't quite manage it. "Thank you," she whispers, holding his stare, searching for everything she might discover in the depths of his eyes.

"Start gathering that magic," he murmurs, ducking in to press a kiss to her mouth. "Because we've got some changes to make soon."

Melting into him, she laces her fingers into his pale hair, the kiss intensifying as she draws him closer. "You need to get out," she says, drawing back to meet his gaze again. "I don't want to see you continue to struggle."

"We've already agreed I'll get out when the time is right," he says, wrapping a hand around her wrist and tugging her to her feet. "And there are still things I need to do while I have access to everything."

"No." She shakes her head, twisting her wrist to catch his hand again. "Fuck the inner circle. If you're ready to get out, get out."

For a long moment, he stares at her—as though he's debating the idea. And it only serves to strengthen her resolve.

A sudden burst of fear darts through her. The longer he resists, the longer he stays embroiled within the Death Eater network—never mind squarely atop it—his life is at risk. They're all at risk, but Draco's the one who actively puts himself on the line day in and day out.

She's never hated it more.

"Please," she murmurs, lacing their fingers, "don't stay on my account. We can figure things out from outside. It's not worth it, Draco."

Her words drop to a whisper, and his expression falters enough for her to see how badly he wants it. How he wants to walk away, to burn that blasted Mark from his arm, and never again act as though he's loyal to a sociopath.

"Collect your magic," he only says again, as though the words are physically painful to speak aloud. "We're going to need every scrap of it we can get."

Hermione can still remember the way the magic tore through her when he used only a sliver of it on Yaxley. How much magic still danced in the marital bonds between them before dissipating into the air. A shudder crawls along her spine at the thought of what he intends to do.

Of how many Death Eaters he plans to take out with him.

Despite herself, amusement draws at one corner of her mouth, and she kisses him again, deeper, drawing him tight against her.

"I'll support you whatever you decide," she breathes against his lips, "as long as you're as safe as you can manage. Because I can't do this without you."

"I know." He draws back, brushing his thumbs along her cheekbones. "But I have to do what I can to bring it all down around him."

Hermione nods, drawing a deep breath of strength and fortification from deep within her. She allows her face to tilt into his palm, her eyelids fluttering in his quiet comfort.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

He doesn't respond for several breaths, and when she slides her eyes open, she finds him staring at her, his expression unreadable. "You don't have to be strong all the time," he says softly. "I know it's the world we live in, and we haven't had a choice but to learn to carry everything in order to survive. But if you can't carry it all—if you have to let down the load sometimes—I'm here."

Planting a hand against his and coiling her fingers around his larger ones, she nods again. "Okay."

Amusement sparkles in his eyes. "Okay." He glances down at his forearm with a sigh, his eyes tightening at the corners. "I have a summons. Do you want to come back with me?"

"Yeah. Okay."

"We're going to figure this out."

"Yeah." She forces a bland smile but it's all she can muster when exhaustion has seized every part of her in her despair. She physically shrugs it out, rolling the strain from her neck and straightening her shoulders. Draco's lips curl with a smirk as she pulls herself together. "I'll come along."

They've been spending too much time away from the manor, and they can't draw attention to their prolonged absence—especially Draco, when he still commands the Dark Lord's forces.

"I have to arrange an ambush," he adds, glancing at his watch. "So I'll likely be tied up into the evening."

The way he speaks as though he's arranging a meeting at the office spurs a dark, delirious burst of humour, and she claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

Draco smirks, heat in his eyes, and he tugs her hand into his. "Keep yourself busy for a while and we'll have dinner together?"

Without waiting for a response, he pulls them both into Apparition, landing in their private quarters in the manor. He stares at her a moment longer before unclasping their hands. He strides for his room and a moment later emerges, shrugging on his robes.

"Okay," she murmurs, peering through the window at the grounds. "Maybe I'll go for a walk."

"Perfect." Swooping in, he plants a kiss to her mouth. "Keep your coin on you—I'll update you as I can."

"Always." She watches as he affixes his mask into place with a roll of his eyes, and moments later, he sweeps from the room, leaving her alone in the sudden silence.

Hermione releases a long, ragged breath. Scrubs at her eyes.

For as much as she sometimes longs to indulge the despair in her soul, she can't succumb to it. Not when they've come so far—when they're getting closer by the day. Taking Draco's suggestion, she begins spooling a narrow coil of power, winding it tightly within herself in preparation of the coming days and weeks when she may need it.

Draco's amusement shines through his power when it prods briefly against hers, detecting it, before he vanishes again from the connection.

She grabs a cloak and makes for the grounds.

When Draco arrives at the hall where the Dark Lord keeps court, a strange energy hangs in the room. Close to a dozen Death Eaters loiter in conversation, and every set of eyes swivels to land on him when he arrives.

His skin prickles with a perceived threat—and he knows better than to ignore his instincts.

"My Lord," he muses, bowing his head as he approaches the dais. "What can I do for you? The final details for tomorrow's ambush aren't yet prepared."

"Indeed." Voldemort rests his elbow on the armrest and props his chin in his palm. "That is not why I have called you here."

Draco swallows, never more grateful for his mask. Enforcing his Occlumency shields, he keeps his face carefully blank even beneath the metal.

Moments later, he can feel the prod of the Dark Lord's Legilimency and he bristles. His master knows better than to think he can break into Draco's mind for any purpose—but this doesn't bode well.

He keeps a careful catalogue in the back of his mind of the Death Eaters along the periphery of the room.

Years of fighting and narrow misses have taught him to always be prepared—and almost absently, he finds himself reaching for the thread of magic between him and Hermione. The pool of magic is nearly empty after their time spent without concern in Spain.

"We have a leak," Voldemort purrs, though his red eyes flash with fury. "Someone from within the Death Eaters—within the inner circle. Do you know anything about that?"

The words sound more accusatory than he cares for, and Draco straightens on the spot. His brain whirs and spins, flying over shreds of information for the best course of action.

If anyone's been leaking information, of course, it's Theo. Though he knows everything Theo has provided to Longbottom as a Foray operative, and they've been very cautious to straddle a precarious line.

Flint.

"I have caught wind of such a thing," Draco drawls, his voice carefully level. As though he can't imagine anything less droll. "And though my investigation is incomplete, I do believe someone is passing information to the resistance."

Voldemort's face tightens with anger, his fingers curling around the armrest. "And? Who is it?"

Draco shrugs. "I can't say for certain. But prior to his death, I noticed Flint engaged in suspicious activity more than once."

"Flint," the Dark Lord repeats. "Marcus Flint."

With a nod, Draco folds his hands across his front. "I can certainly look further into it. But as he's dead now, I imagine that issue is resolved."

Unless the Dark Lord learns he isn't dead—unless Flint is still somehow involved with the resistance. Draco's active mind sorts through each possibility—and though he allowed Flint to go to the continent and live with his family, Draco isn't above throwing him to the wolves if it means Theo survives instead.

Voldemort's eyes narrow. "Flint died weeks ago. This is more recent."

"Then perhaps," Draco murmurs, "the ship has another leak."

When the room falls still around him, he resists the urge to look around—to move at all. His intuition prickles in a way that leaves him with a chill.

Instinctively, he tightens his focus on his side of the bonds, yanking the thread connecting him to Hermione tight. Distantly, he can feel her recognition on the other side, but he doesn't let go. The magic stretches between them, so taut it's almost painful on his consciousness, but he doesn't dare let go.

He has no other way to communicate with her without reaching for his coin.

Voldemort stares at him, unblinking—and a sudden torrent of unadulterated fear shoots through him.

Fear for Hermione; for his mother. For Theo.

"Indeed," Voldemort says, the word cold and crisp. "Though some would have me believe this leak is, in fact, you."

Draco lifts his chin. "That's preposterous, My Lord."

If Voldemort had concrete proof, Draco would already be dead. It's the mantra cycling through his head over and over, a menial loop that's drowned out by the force of adrenaline racing beneath his skin.

He tightens his hold on the bonds, reaching for the small amount of magic Hermione has spooled together. He can feel her alarm, her concern, and he conveys only as much as he can manage.

When Voldemort cocks a brow, Draco slides a gaze towards the group of Death Eaters, none of whom makes any attempt to pretend as though they aren't listening in.

"I don't know who has been making these unfounded accusations," Draco drawls, "but I can assure you, it's nothing but lies. Perhaps the real traitor is spreading misinformation to conceal their own wrongdoings."

When Voldemort falters, head tilting with consideration, Draco meets him with a hard stare.

He's been the Dark Lord's most faithful for years—the only one he trusts with all of his plans. Somehow the thought offers little solace in the face of this surprise.

Draco hates surprises.

His mind sorts over everything, every bit of information, every step they've taken, and he can't determine where something might have slipped. How someone could have guessed at something.

He would already be dead if the Dark Lord has proof.

"It has come to my attention," the Dark Lord says after a long, drawn out pause, "that you may have been keeping information from me. My very best lieutenant—or are you?"

"I am." Draco bows his head. "Of course I am, My Lord." Beneath his mask, his upper lip curls with disdain. "Have I not carried out your wishes for years?"

"For the most part, yes, you have." The Dark Lord assesses him, remarkably lucid. "Although there have been certain... instances where you have not."

He has to be referring to Hermione. Draco wouldn't be surprised—it's the only time he's even slightly bent the Dark Lord's wishes in as long as he can remember. Still, he lowers his head. "I am not sure what you mean."

If Voldemort has already made up his mind—if he's chosen to follow some tip rather than trust Draco himself, there's nothing to be done for it. Because when he makes up his mind, only blood and pain follow.

And Draco isn't willing to stick around for that.

"As it turns out," the Dark Lord purrs, "I think you do. There are more than a few here who do not think that Miss Granger is as attuned to your will as you may have them believe. That she may have motives of her own for being here. That she is the leak."

Draco tenses, his shoulders tightening, and his grip on the magical tether between himself and Hermione grows painful. He scours the wards on his quarters, enforcing them with the magic afforded him as the present leader of the household. Although he can sense Hermione's presence in the manor, she's alone. Not even the elves can reach her now.

He can sense, in this moment, that this is it. That the Dark Lord won’t hear anything more.

Draco has been on the other side of too many conversations like this.

And if he falls, they'll go after Hermione next.

Instinctively, he thinks to reach for his wand despite that the magic coiling within his core is so much more powerful.

Hermione is frantic on the other end, pushing her magic into him as though she anticipates he might need it, and despite himself, a resigned smile tugs at his mouth.

"It's unfortunate that you think so," he says, the words deadened and dark from his own lips. He stares down the Dark Lord through his mask, unblinking.

He twists the power with a thrum within him, magic coursing through his veins and pushing to escape.

He's always said, when he goes, he's taking them out first.

And if this is it, he's taking his chance.

Tossing his mask to the floor, he allows a smirk to curl his lips. "Perhaps you've underestimated me for too long."

All he registers in the sudden tension that surrounds him is the look on Voldemort's face.

Draco reaches into the magic, yanks a mental fistful of it to the surface, and screams into the bond with every ounce of himself.

GET OUT.

He opens his hand, the magic gathering across his palm and at his fingertips. He's highly aware of the mere handful of seconds he has before the spells start to fly—and it's only by the surprise of this moment that he's on his feet.

So attuned to the bonding magic, he feels a flicker on Hermione's end as the wards flutter. She's left the manor.

And as the room brightens with magic, a blinding and aggressive neon green, he releases.

Magic roars through the room, incinerating each of the death spells on track for his heart. It obliterates every one of the Death Eaters in one breath.

Draco doesn't have to look as they slump to the ground, dead.

He can feel the raw, unhindered power as it courses through him, a rush in his veins. Magic surges like fire, limited in quantity though it is, and he fixates only on Hermione at the other end.

She's safe—she's alive.

He knows better than to hope the magic penetrated through the many layers of magical warding the Dark Lord keeps on his presence at all times.

Knows better than to think he will have the time to burn through them.

As the smoke clears and every remaining Death Eater in the room is dead, the scream of wrath from Voldemort's lips is chilling.

For only an instant, Draco looks at his former master. He allows hatred to burn in his eyes, knowing the magic alights him from within.

And before Voldemort can fire a spell, he's gone.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for sticking out this journey with me. It means more than I can say xo

Chapter 38

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

When Draco lands in the London house, adrenaline quakes in his veins.

"Thank Merlin," Hermione huffs, rushing towards him. She inspects him with wide eyes, running her hands along his arms. "What happened?"

Draco meets her dire expression with a grimace. "It was... it didn't go well."

"No shit," she says, humourless, shaking her head. She wraps her arms across her front, and Draco can see the way her hands shake. "Did you… are you out?"

Although raw magic still races through him—the visual of his fallen Death Eaters in a heap near the wall—he hasn't sorted through any of it.

"I guess I am," he says, feeling a little dumbfounded as the words settle in. "I wasn't ready to—" Pressing his eyes shut, he draws a long breath. "We weren't prepared."

"What we are is alive," she breathes, clasping his hands in both of hers. "And the rest doesn't matter right now. What happened?"

Draco massages his temple, already feeling the strain of the magic burn through him. Recalling how exhausted he was after Yaxley, he doesn't know how long he'll have before the magic takes his energy in exchange.

"I had to get out," he drawls with a wince as his head begins to pound. "I had to use the magic."

"How many?"

Her level head right now is the only reason Draco hasn't collapsed.

"Ten, I think," he says, rubbing his head. "He said there was a leak—that they suspected we were up to something—that you were giving information to the resistance and—"

"And so we have another issue," Hermione said with a dark look. "Voldemort?"

"Too many layers of protection," Draco says. "He's so heavily shielded. I would have needed time I didn't have—even with the power of the bonds."

"It wasn't enough."

The quiet devastation in her words is nearly enough to undo him.

"Not this time," Draco says quietly, "but if we'd been more prepared... we'll be more prepared next time."

Drawing a breath, she nods, taking a look around the house. "At least we have this house."

In this aspect, at least, they were appropriately prepared. For weeks, they've been bringing in food, clothes, and other necessities. Some from the manor, and others from elsewhere so as not to draw too much attention.

He supposes it's all for naught now.

So long as the house stays protected.

"Did you reach out to Theo?" he asks, yanking a hand through his hair. The magic, though dissipated from his system, is beginning to darken the edges of his vision.

"I sent messages to all three of them as soon as I felt your warning through the bonds," she murmurs. "Before, even. It wasn't difficult to notice that something was wrong. Harry said he and Neville will come by as soon as they can escape. I haven't received a response from Theo yet."

Draco's heart still throbs a dull rhythm in his chest. In a matter of minutes, everything he worked towards for five years shattered at his feet.

And all he knows is relief.

As though reading his thoughts, Hermione gives a bit of a wry smile. "I would have liked to see the look on his face when you took out ten Death Eaters in one hit."

"They were the only ones in the room," Draco grumbles. "I would have taken more out if I could."

Face sobering, she takes a step closer. "You're out. That's all I care about."

But he can't allow himself the privilege. "I've ruined our best connection with the Death Eaters."

"You're alive."

As he takes in her relief, the sheen to her eyes—the way her body sinks without the strain she carries so often—he feels himself deflate a little, too. The last of the magic subsides, taking with it his adrenaline.

There was so much he still had to do. He's abandoned his family's manor to the wiles of a madman—but his mother is safe. His wife is safe.

He's out.

Every element of the life he's known for the past five years has been yanked from beneath him in one swift, surprising moment. And it occurs to him he doesn't know what to do next.

"Okay," he says, managing a tight nod. His vision swims, his entire body weakening in the wake of such a massive expulsion of magic. They've known from the beginning that the ritual magic has a cost—and it's one he's more than willing to pay. "I think I'm—"

As he sways on the spot, Hermione steps forward to reach for him. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm—"

His brain slides into darkness.

Hermione paces the house's small sitting room, keeping one eye firmly on Draco's prone form—passed out on the sofa where she levitated him when he blacked out—and the other on her coin.

According to Harry's latest message, he and Neville are tied up in meetings—and after three notes sent to Theo's coin she's starting to worry. None of them ever go anywhere without their coins readily accessible, and she hasn't heard from Neville whether he's been in contact with Theo.

So she's left to wait.

Her head spins with everything Draco shared. With the fact that he escaped with his life—and took out several Death Eaters before he went.

Nerves skitter across her skin, and she can't stand still for the endless whir in her brain. The quake in her hands.

She tries not to think of everything they left behind at the manor. Of the house elves, left alone in a house with a wrathful Dark Lord. And all she thinks of instead is Draco.

Although they had more plans before he was set to abscond the Death Eaters, she can't bring herself to regret that they're out now. She can only imagine the relief Draco will feel when he's had time to process the fact that he's truly free from the master who's made his life a living hell for so long.

Everything else, they'll have to figure out on their own. They've made it this far, and for now, she'll have to try and borrow faith from someone else. That they can keep going without an inside link to the Death Eaters.

It's only a matter of time before Voldemort will try to track Draco using the Dark Mark—she wouldn't be surprised if he's already somehow using it to harm him through the dark magic in his bloodstream, and for the moment, she's grateful Draco's unconscious.

But she doesn't know how to remove it herself. The only ones who know are Draco and Neville—the idea offers little comfort when Neville hasn't responded to her last two messages.

At length, Draco stirs on the sofa with a quiet groan, and she's shocked to see over an hour has passed since he Apparated into the house, robes bedraggled and eyes wild.

Hermione perches on the cushion, reaching for his hand. "We need to get that Mark out of your skin."

"Damn right we do," he grumbles, scrubbing at his eyes. "It's burning."

"Summons?"

He sits up, squeezing his eyes shut, but more lucid than he was in the moments before falling unconscious. "Fury." Then he releases a low laugh. "He won't summon me. Not after that. The next time I see him, it'll be with a wand to my face."

"If he bothers to leave the manor," she murmurs idly, pressing her palm flat to his forehead. "You're very warm."

"I feel okay." He pats his pockets for his coin, frowning when he sees the blank face of it. Then his eyes snap up to her. "You seem fine. Are you feeling alright?"

"Fine." She offers a nod, gnawing on her lower lip. "I wasn't impacted by the magic nearly as much as you were. Maybe because I was already in London when you used it. Or because you took my side of the bonds over to you."

Draco grimaces at that, but turns back to his coin.

Hermione draws a breath, steeling herself for the words that hang heaviest on her heart. "Harry and Neville are coming by shortly. I still haven't heard from Theo."

"You haven't," he echoes, freezing on the sofa. "Not once?"

She shakes her head. Her heart is trapped in a sickly vise at the thought that something might have happened to Theo—after all he's done to straddle the line between both sides. And she can't imagine how Draco might take it.

Grappling for his wand, Draco sends a string of messages into his coin, the words fading in such rapid succession she couldn't read them even if she tried.

Her heart sinks as she takes in the furrow of his brows, the slump in his shoulders while he stares at the continuously blank face. An awkward silence falls over the sitting room, and Hermione finds herself staring once more at the painting across from the sofa.

So much has changed since that morning—it feels like days have passed rather than hours.

"He's okay," she hears herself saying, though her voice sounds disconnected. "He's going to be okay."

"If he was picked up before he managed to get out," Draco says, his voice a dull deadpan, "he's already dead."

"Theo's clever."

"Everyone knows he and I are friends."

It's the dismay in his voice—the utter defeat—that causes her soul to sink. Draco knows the inner workings of the Death Eaters better than anyone, and the resignation radiating from every part of him twists her stomach into knots.

When he drops his face into his palm, burying it from her view, Hermione can't find the words she longs desperately to speak. She sinks into the sofa cushion next to him, her shoulder pressing against his, and finds mild solace when he rests his other hand on her knee with a gentle squeeze.

She's lost friends before—they all have. But this part—waiting, hoping, wondering if they'll ever hear from him—doesn't get easier even though she's done it before. And maybe for Draco, who's been in a position of power on the winning side for so long, this feeling isn't familiar.

Melancholy creeps into the space between them, and she gives herself to the thought that he doesn't want to speak—he doesn't need her empty platitudes because they both know nothing will change the situation. Either Theo is alive or he isn't. If he's been captured, he's as good as dead, and Draco knows that as well as anyone.

If he isn't dead, he might wish for it sooner than later.

Hermione can sense this is exactly why Draco has taken the news so hard. Because for so long, he was the one to put captives through their paces—to watch the light fade from their eyes.

"After what I did," he says hoarsely, "I'll wish for death for him."

"I know." The words are callous and honest, and she knows Draco doesn't need coddling. Even so, her heart breaks for him, deflated at her side.

"Okay." Straightening, he scrubs at his eyes, shakes his head, rolls out his shoulders. The strain is barely concealed below the surface, but his expression falls stoic once more—she recognises the effort well. "Okay. We need to figure this out. The most urgent matters first."

"The Dark Mark," Hermione says, reaching for his forearm. "Otherwise you'll be tracked, right?"

"The wards on this house are strong enough to misdirect—but eventually, they might try to brute force their way through. The tracking spell won't be any more specific than London. But if I ever want to leave this house..."

"Right." She nods once, reaching for her wand, and forces a thick swallow. "How do we remove it?"

Draco's eyes land on her. "It's not pretty. About four times less so than receiving it."

She doesn't even want to know what that means—what that procedure must be like. "Fine. Just tell me how."

"Longbottom can do it. He has before."

"Draco," Hermione says, thinning her lips. "Tell me how."

Yanking a hand through his hair, Draco looks away from the blackened form on his arm. "It's a matter of drawing the magic from the skin, whilst simultaneously burning it."

She keeps her face carefully blank despite the graphic mental images swimming through her mind. "Fine. What's the incantation?" Then she hesitates, frowning. "Do you want a pain suppressing potion or something?"

His eyelids flutter shut. "Probably for the best if you want me functional at any point in the next day."

A shudder crawls along her spine. "Noted." Rising from the sofa, she rummages through the cupboard and withdraws a small vial. She's more thankful than ever for Draco's foresight in not only purchasing this house, but for the way they've slowly furnished and prepared it to live in.

She plants the vial into his palm, startling when he curls their fingers together around it. "Thank you," he says in a quiet voice.

Uncertain whether he's referring to the potion, she hesitates. "For?"

"For this," he says quietly. "For supporting me. For your trust in me when I needed you to get out of the manor."

She blinks at him, touched. "To be fair, your grip on the magic was so tight I almost couldn't stand it. You were practically screaming at me that something was wrong."

"And," he says, closing his eyes, "I appreciate that you didn't try to come after me."

For a moment, she doesn't answer. Doesn't know how to answer—when her first instinct was exactly that. It took everything within her to leave him alone in the manor, and she shoved as much of her magic through the bonds as she could in hopes that he could utilise it. Since she felt his initial prod against the magic—and then the sharp tug that followed—she was on high alert.

"Well," she says, glancing away. "I suppose I couldn't very well make you worry about anything else."

His eyes settle on her. "That's why I'm thanking you. Because I would have wanted to keep you safe."

She can read between the lines—that he would have put her safety ahead of his own. She gives his hand a squeeze and reaches again for his forearm. "I'm going to need you to talk me through this."

With a grimace, he reaches for the stopper on the vial just as a crack of Apparition sounds in the kitchen. They both jump at the sound, their nerves on edge, and Hermione feels a surge of relief when she sees Harry and Neville—and a wash of disappointment that it isn't Theo.

Draco rises from his seat, intercepting them as he says, "Have you heard from Theo?"

Neville's jaw is tight. "No. I thought you would have."

Hermione's heart sinks like a rock into the pit of her stomach. "None of us have. I sent a message to all three of you as soon as I received Draco's warning."

"So he just hasn't checked in," Neville grits through his teeth. His hazel eyes flash in a way she hasn't seen.

"I mean," Draco snaps, "he would have fucking checked in."

The sentiment sits between the group, ugly and out of place, and Hermione tugs at her hair. "So Draco's out—Theo's not. That's where we're at."

"Properly out?" Harry asks, while Draco and Neville sneer at each other. "Like, for good?"

Waving a flippant hand, Draco drawls, "I certainly won't be invited back for holiday dinner, if that's what you're asking."

Instantly she detects the irreverence he wears as a cloak—as a means of protecting himself. The snide remarks—the coldness in his eyes. When she reaches for his mind, his Occlumency shields are as tight as she's ever found them, and he doesn't oblige her gentle nudge.

"He killed a number of Death Eaters on his way out," Hermione elaborates. "But the Dark Lord suspects he's behind the leaks to the resistance—or more specifically, he seems to suspect me."

The awkward tension only grows, and neither Draco nor Neville says anything.

Harry shoots Hermione a look. She nudges his toe with her own.

The air feels like an impending implosion.

"So he's just fucking caged up in your fucking dungeons or something?" Neville roars at once, as angry as she's ever seen him.

Draco scowls, the skin around his eyes tight, and Hermione sees his fingers twitch towards his wand. "I don't know where he is, Longbottom."

"He's either there or dead!" Neville throws up his hands, pacing on the spot for a moment. "Don't act like you don't know exactly where he is."

As much as Hermione wants to intercede, to offer some sort of placation, she knows it's true. Everyone in the room is viscerally aware of the circumstances. Either the Death Eaters captured him—likely for information or bait—or they were angry enough to kill him for his association with Draco. And her.

Draco's saying something in return, but she can't wrap her head around the words. Everything turns into a dull buzz.

A cold lump of guilt curdles in her stomach.

"This is my fault." The words slide from her lips, little more than a whisper, but both Draco and Neville cease in their argument. She manages a swallow, though her tongue tastes like sandpaper in her mouth. "If Theo's been captured or killed over this—to punish Draco or… I don't know. It's because of me. Because I wasn't convincing enough."

"No one is blaming you for anything." Harry offers the gentle words, but they glance off her skin and fade into nothing. "And to be honest, Hermione, I don't think anyone doubts your devotion to Malfoy."

The words strike her in a different place entirely, and she can't quite bring herself to meet Draco's eyes.

Draco rakes a hand through his hair and sighs. "It's my fault. If anyone's at fault here, we all know it's me. Longbottom's right."

The admission does little to stay Neville's frustration, though some of the fight seeps from them both. Neville, who knows the pain of being locked in the Malfoy Manor dungeons for weeks on end. Who knows the despair and the never ending misery found at the end of a Death Eater's wand.

And this will be so much more personal.

She thinks again of Theo. And again, with a prickle of shame, she hopes he's dead.

"Theo doesn't have the fortitude," Draco says, apologetic, like the words are wrenched unwillingly from him. He winces, squeezing his eyes shut. "If he's tortured... if they try to get information from him."

"He'll break," Neville adds.

The two of them share a look, and Hermione can only imagine what passes between them in the moment. Draco purses his lips and says, "No one holds out like you did. I've never seen it before."

If she isn't making things up, she might detect a note of apology in his voice. Of regret— something akin to a twisted form of admiration.

"To be fair," Neville replies, "no one throws a Cruciatus like you do."

"Can't tell if that's meant to be a compliment or not," Harry quips.

It's enough to lighten the atmosphere, but only to a point of stability. Jamming his hands in his pockets, Draco sinks back against the wall.

"If this were any mission under my command," he says, "I know what I would say."

They all know exactly what protocol should suggest. That they count Theo as missing in action at best—a total loss at worst. But that they proceed according to plan regardless.

"Bullshit," Hermione huffs, folding her arms. "We're not leaving Theo behind."

"And if he's dead?" Draco drawls, but the words don't contain derision—merely a questioning of fact. "How much are we willing to invest? Days? More lives?"

"I'm going after him," Neville snaps. "I don't care what the fuck you all do. Theo was there for me when I didn't have anyone else. I'm not letting him go through the same damn thing alone."

"That's if he's alive," Harry adds quietly.

It's a big if, and Hermione doesn't know how much they'll be willing to hinge on the hope that Theo is still alive. Hours have passed, and she no longer has any doubt that he's been caught. That some Death Eaters must have found him in the moments after Draco's summons—or maybe it was even before.

Maybe the summons was a ruse altogether, and they didn't foresee any way Draco could escape the manor.

Her stomach curdles at the knowledge that Draco used the bonds in front of the Dark Lord. That their element of surprise is gone.

"So we go after Theo, then," Draco says, and she can sense the cogs whirring in his mind. "Meaning we have to break into a Death Eater stronghold. The wards will still be attuned to me unless the Dark Lord has brought in my father to alter them. A possibility, but unlikely at this point. And that's if my father decides he wants me dead." When he hesitates, no one speaks, each of them prepared to listen. "Once we're in the manor, we have to avoid detection—easier said than done, but not impossible. We get to the dungeons—disarm or kill the guards—break Theo out."

Hermione sucks in a breath.

"Keep in mind," Draco goes on, "it's almost a guarantee we'll be tracked from the moment we cross the wards. He may not have control to alter them, but he can find ways to tie into them."

"Into blood wards?" Neville asks.

Draco grimaces. "It's possible but unpleasant. Regardless—all of this ignores the thought that, if Theo is being held down there, it is absolutely a trap. So even if we get to him and manage to free him from whatever sort of spells are undoubtedly keeping him there, we'll be walking into some sort of disaster we likely won't escape from."

The four of them share an uneasy look, and Hermione's heart clenches at the realisation that they're missing a vital member of the small group.

"So," Draco concludes, "we have no idea what we'd be walking into, or if we'll make it out, or if Theo is even still alive. Shall we decide if this is a course of action we want to pursue?"

The tension that falls over the small room is enough to suffocate, and Hermione knows they're all thinking the same thing. They've all fought in this war long enough to know the simple truth of the matter—but they've all thrown caution to the wind enough times to know that they still have to think it over.

Logically, it doesn't make any sense.

The situation Draco has laid before them is bleak at best, and they all know they'll be running a great number of risks by even attempting a recovery.

"I'm not leaving him alone," Neville says at last, quiet and resigned. "And I don't care if anyone comes with me. I don't care if I don't make it out."

Hermione bites her tongue on a retort, her eyes stinging. He's always been one of the bravest and most loyal people she knows—and she doesn't have it in her to try and convince him otherwise. Not when she knows how torn up she is about it.

Harry shifts on the spot, folding his arms as his eyes slide between Neville and Hermione, and then land on Draco. "On a scale of one to ten—how difficult will this be?"

Draco purses his lips and offers a soft, "Nine."

"So it isn't a certainty we'll all die," Harry said dryly. "That's reassuring."

"There's a very good chance we'll be walking into our deaths," Draco replies, and his tone is entirely too offhand for such a dire statement.

One of the things Hermione hates the most about war is deciding who lives and who dies. Ending lives—and sparing them. She's never wanted the pressure, the responsibility, but for years she's been forced into it. Kill or be killed. If she wants to live, it means others must die.

She's so tired of making the decisions that aren't hers.

This isn't one she knows how to make. Releasing a long breath, she toes the floor, and every part of her wishes they didn't need to have this conversation.

"How did they catch Theo anyway?" she asks. "I sent a message to his coin the instant I knew something was wrong. They just—how could they have had time?"

She knows the answer—she's already turned it over in her mind. That it was all a setup, and Voldemort never had any intentions of hearing out his highest lieutenant. Maybe they'd been too obvious after all.

She doesn't know if she'll ever forgive her role in this if Theo dies.

But for all they know, he's already dead.

"Is he dead?" she asks when no one else speaks, though she knows none of them can give her the answer.

"Without being attuned to the manor wards," Draco says, "I have no way of detecting his magical signature. And if he's in the dungeons, it's irrelevant because the wards down there dampen any magical signatures."

"Is there a chance he's still alive?" she asks instead, and it feels like a wholly different question.

"Yes."

Pressing her eyes shut, she draws in a deep breath.

They have so many plans—so many hopes for a future where the wizarding world isn't torn apart by war. So many things that they'll never accomplish if they make this attempt and fail.

But within her heart, she doesn't want to be the soldier the resistance trained her to be. She longs for something different—for a different person she might one day become.

"Theo would come for any one of us." The words slip from her tongue before she can stop them, and she can feel both Harry and Draco's eyes land on her at once. She swallows, straightening her shoulders. "And you all know it."

Despite everything Theo's done, she knows it to be true.

"If Neville and Hermione are going, I'm going," Harry says with a mild shrug. As though that's all the consideration such a decision merits. Hermione wants to draw him into a hug but she's nauseated with worry.

Draco shoots her a sidelong glance, his mouth curved into wry amusement. "There are two people in this world I would die for," he says with a sigh. "And if one of them is set on dying in an attempt to save the other, who am I to say otherwise?"

Hermione reaches for his hand, giving his fingers a tight squeeze.

"You're the master lieutenant and head of the house in question." Harry turns to Draco with a cocked brow. "Why don't you devise a plan for us where that doesn't happen?"

Lips twitching, Draco lowers his chin. "I will do my best."

A strange combination of grief and anticipation gnaws at her insides, but Hermione refuses to surrender to the former. By allowing her grief and indulging in it, she accepts the fact that they may never see Theo again. And no part of her is ready to deal with that.

For Draco, and for his oldest friend, she's willing to do this.

"Fine," Neville says gruffly, though his jaw is rigid as though he's attempting to stow his emotions. "You're the one who knows all of this shit the best. Let's get started."

Releasing a breath, Hermione watches as Draco and Neville make towards the war room, already falling into talk of strategy and espionage, and it's a lot better than watching them fight.

"If it's not one thing," Harry says at her side, "it's another."

Hermione shoots him a grateful smile. "Thanks, Harry. I know you have the least stake in Theo's life out of any of us."

"But you don't," Harry says, nodding, "and Neville doesn't. And maybe... I don't know. Maybe I'm tired of being the arsehole they wanted me to be and it's time to just be Harry again."

This time, she does draw him into an embrace, and tears prickle at her eyes. "I always liked Harry best."

When they separate, a crooked grin spreads across his face. "We've survived some pretty low odds before. Surely we can pull it off once more for a friend."

When the tears slide down her cheeks, she doesn't stop them. Because for the first time in years, he really is the Harry she grew up with again.

"I think maybe we can," she murmurs. "And if we don't, at least we'll die doing the right thing for once."

He snickers, green eyes bright. "Cheers to that."

Chapter End Notes

Here we go - I hope you're all enjoying the ride! Thank you for reading xo

Chapter 39

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The situation is, as far as Draco can tell, an absolute fuck-up.

With the primary task at hand altered from the wider course of action—taking apart the resistance piece by piece—to the urgent necessity of rescuing Theodore Nott, Draco's mind no longer knows which way is up.

He's desperate for something he doesn't think he will achieve, fuelled by Longbottom's desperation in the face of something he definitely won't achieve on his own.

Draco hates it.

In his heart, he knows he's responsible for this—knows he'll never forgive himself if he doesn't at least try to save Theo. But if he's truly honest, he knows he won't forgive himself if he fails, either. Even knowing it's the most likely outcome.

He's the only reason Theo's still been involved with the Death Eaters, despite the fact that they discovered him as an informant months ago.

In the days that follow, as they piece together a half-hearted plot for rescuing his friend, Draco grows more nauseous, more chilled on a soul-deep level, more emphatic about the fact that this isn't going to go well. No matter his knowledge of the manor, or how much time and effort they put into a plan—time Theo doesn't have—there's no making up for the fact that they'll be storming a mansion that is, at any given point, filled with dozens of Death Eaters.

Not to mention the Dark Lord himself.

And they're walking into a trap. He's positive of it.

It's what he would do, were he presented with a traitor's best friend on a platter.

The whole situation doesn't sit well with him, even after long hours laid awake in the night thinking. There was no reason Theo shouldn't have had time to get out as soon as Hermione sent him a message unless they'd planned all of it from the start.

Someone reported him—and Hermione—for something, and he may never know the truth. May never know whose head he's owed.

But it's the fact that the Dark Lord believed them over him that doesn't sit well. Certainly, Draco hasn't been inwardly loyal for a long time—longer than he'd even been willing to admit to himself initially when he decided he wanted out—but outwardly, he's been the ideal servant.

He's perfected the art of absorbing his master's anger.

Realistically, he shouldn't care. He's escaped, and he never has to force himself back into the cage of servitude again.

Once they'd laid the groundwork for a rescue plan, Longbottom finally agreed to perform the spell that would sear the Dark Mark from Draco's flesh—and it was as excruciating as he imagined, even with several concoctions to douse the pain.

It isn't that he didn't think Hermione capable of performing the spell, of watching the agony tear him apart—but simply that he didn't want her to witness it.

It took hours, as the dark magic worked its way from his skin, the black ink of the spell gradually fading to a light grey, before enough of the misery subsided for Draco to regain any shred of coherency.

Hermione had been waiting for him with tea and a warm bed—and at the end of the day, that's all he could have asked for.

Even now, days later, she's scarcely left his side, leaving only twice on supply runs with Potter. He and Longbottom have been by as often as possible with news and updates, and Draco's mind can hardly manage it all at once.

Hermione's in the sitting room as he pores over the plans in the war room, isolating himself as though it may possibly atone for what he's done—for how he's dragged Theo into the crossfire.

He runs the pad of his thumb along his forearm, gazing upon the now pale and unmarked skin. Scar tissue lines his arm, a residual effect of the spell, but if that's the cost of his freedom, he'll take it any day.

It isn't as if he isn't already riddled with scars.

The plan isn't sound, and it isn't thorough. It's cobbled together and rushed by hands that will be clumsy in their execution.

Because this is entirely too personal for all of them—even for Potter, who has little interest in Theo's life, only in the lives of the people going after him. Raking a hand through his hair, Draco pores over the details again.

Again.

Makes a tweak.

Adjusts the timing.

Turns the wards over in his brain.

The only benefit he can determine that they possess is that he still has the means to access and alter the wards. He can get them onto the grounds without triggering them—but it doesn't mean the Dark Lord hasn't installed other means of detection by now. In fact, Draco would be surprised if he hasn't.

The other benefit is, of course, that he's been commanding the man's forces for years. But right now that doesn't feel like much, when none of them are allies any longer.

They have to operate on the assumption that their presence will be known from the moment they arrive—which is Draco's very least favourite way to coordinate a mission.

It means they may need to brute force their way through—a plan that will most certainly end up with all of them dead.

He and Hermione have been carefully collecting magic for days, since they escaped the manor and he used all they'd accumulated in taking out ten Death Eaters at once. He can feel the tug on her side of the magic almost persistently, sudden swells of power coursing through him that ring foreign in his own core. It's grown almost uncomfortable, but still it continues to amass.

He knows better than to think the Dark Lord didn't notice the magic he used—and the fact that he used it on his own comrades without consequence.

Knows better than to think Lord Voldemort hasn't fixated on his bonded magic this entire time. That he hasn’t already begun to strengthen the magical protections he wears like a cloak.

In his need to get out of the manor alive, Draco gave up their best weapon.

Because in the moment he was outnumbered, and if he'd given any of them time to react he would be dead. Without the Black lineage magic, he would be dead.

If they need to use it again, to collect Theo and escape alive, he'll use every damn drop.

If it means he has to level the manor to ash.

"You're running yourself ragged, you know." Hermione's soft voice breaks through his fog, and he glances up to find her watching him. He's been so focused, so exhausted in his grief, he didn't even notice her approach.

Had it been months ago, she would have thrown a spell at him—and probably hit.

"I don't have a choice," he says, his own voice hollow to his ears. "We need to figure this out."

"And have you?"

She walks into the room, perching on the seat next to him, but he can read the reticence in her face. The caution. The fear.

He grimaces, waving an absent hand over the mess of papers before him. Blueprints of the manor, lists of the spells he's imbued it with personally—and other protections they may be walking into. Failed iterations of the plan on torn, folded sheets of parchment.

He releases a sigh. "No. Not yet."

And every minute he lets slip past is another minute where Theo could be dying alone. Where he could be breaking under the force of the torture he's surely being subjected to.

The thought makes him want to toss the absent contents of his stomach—because he hasn't found it in himself to eat properly in days.

He knows exactly how hard he would go on a prisoner like Theo, if he wanted to break him for information about himself. And he knows Voldemort will be desperate for any shred of information on him.

If they haven't already broken Theo.

If his body hasn't already been disposed of.

He forces a thick swallow, blinking the images from his mind, each one more gruesome than the last.

"Can I get you some tea?" Hermione rests a hand on his knee with gentle strokes. "Some breakfast? Some sleep?"

Draco shakes his head, scrubbing at his eyes as though he might possibly banish the bone-deep weariness he feels. His brain floats in a haze, every muscle still aching from the aftermath of the spell Longbottom used.

"I don't need anything," he clips. "Thank you."

"You do," she says pointedly. "We all want to rescue Theo, Draco. But you're no use to anyone like this—least of all him. We need you operating at peak efficiency if we want to survive this mission."

It's the hard, unyielding words—coupled with her soft, tentative tone—that stir him to reality. She knows him better than to offer sympathy.

He's been holed up in the war room for days, barely sleeping, barely eating—and her words click in the back of his mind.

Leaning back in his seat, he releases a sigh. "You're right."

Hermione's hand shifts to take his own, their fingers lacing instinctively, and his gaze drifts down to stare at their locked hands. "Come on," she breathes. "Get out of this room for a while. You'll feel better when you come back to it fresh."

He allows her to tug him to his feet.

Sips a cup of tea while she sets a plate in front of him, a muffin and some chunks of fruit.

Picks at the food while she sits with him at the kitchen table.

And when she drags him to bed and pulls him flush against her, he fully looks at her for the first time. Her eyes are glassy and bloodshot, as if she's been crying—as if she hasn't been sleeping well either. He can read the exhaustion in her face.

Brushing a curl out of her face, he presses a kiss to her mouth.

His mind has been racing for days, torn between one element of the situation and another, and he can't help the way he just wants to shut it all out. To focus on something other than pain and death and misery.

They make slow, meandering work of the clothes between them, intentional touches and gasping kisses. His body responds, instincts flaring to life, when she moves atop him, capturing his lips in a kiss as she sinks down onto him. She rides him slow, indolent, cheeks damp, a gentle furrow on her brow as though she needs this as much as he does.

Breathy cries slide from her lips as she takes him deeper, harder, rolling her hips against his, and he loses himself in her, desperate for something else other than this.

And when she spills over the edge he follows her—he'll always follow her—and she leans in, her tears wet on his own cheeks. "I love you," she whispers into his skin. "We're going to figure this out," she kisses into his eyelids. "We'll get him back," she murmurs into his neck as he draws her as close as he can manage.

Draco doesn't have any words, his heart a jumbled mass of muscle and function in his chest, but as he finally drifts into a restless sleep, he knows he's at once both broken and whole.

As the days progress, they run thin on time to spend theorising and planning. They don't even know if Theo's still alive, and if he is, Hermione can only imagine his condition. Draco insists he can hold out—but they all grow increasingly on edge.

Between Draco and Neville alternately getting along to stategise and clawing at each other's throats over the ordeal, she's ready for a definitive answer. One way or the other.

The plan isn't as sound as it could be, but there's little more within their control. The unmitigated risks won't be resolved even if they wait three months—and Theo will definitely be dead by then.

Neville and Harry have been by as often as they can get away, though they frequently report unsettling news from within the resistance. And without their information direct from the Death Eaters, they have to guess at the rest of it.

A few things seem apparent.

The Death Eaters have grown even more aggressive—likely a form of fallout from Draco's betrayal. There's even been talk of spotting Voldemort at a recent confrontation, though no one can guess as to how certain that is.

The resistance have responded in kind—leading to a dangerous escalation of a war that's been more than dangerous for years already.

Neville stalks into the London house one afternoon, a deep scowl on his face as his eyes track Draco.

"I have an idea," he says, though he sounds miserable over it. "It's neither safe nor a guarantee, but it might help us to know what we're facing at the Manor."

Draco lifts both brows and nods. "What is it?"

Reaching into his pocket, Neville draws out a thick, ancient-looking tome, shrunken to fit in his palm. He hands the book to Draco as though he doesn't want to touch it longer than necessary, and Hermione might be tempted to laugh if not for the look on each of their faces.

With a wandless wave, Draco expands the book to its full size. It's a book of dark magic spells as far as she can tell, and he skims the Latin on the cover.

"Mental Manipulations," he murmurs, eyes flicking back up to Neville's. "What do you intend to do with this?"

Neville jams aggressive hands into his pockets. "Page one hundred-eighty-three."

The entire book is in Latin, and though Hermione's certain Neville must have used a translation spell, Draco reads the page without any trouble. He releases a long breath, the bridge of his nose wrinkling in disapproval. "This is idiotic—"

"Will it work?" Neville grits out.

Draco turns back to the page, pursing his lips, and Hermione shifts on the spot, debating whether she ought to nudge her way into his brain to learn what the page says. It shouldn't be any wonder that he's fluent in ancient Latin, but even so her stomach flops a little when he turns the page to continue reading.

"It's insane," Draco says at last, setting the book on the table. "Where did you even come across this?"

Neville's gaze slants to Hermione. "You aren't the only one with a crusty old library." He means Grimmauld Place, she's certain of it—but she can't blame him for wanting to keep certain things private. "I knew spells like this one existed, of course, but there was a better chance you would agree if I had a concrete incantation."

With a sigh, Draco turns to Hermione. "It's a mental invasion spell. A means to view someone's mind without their consent and from a distance—but it's unstable and unsafe. If done improperly, both the invader and the target could be permanently damaged."

"Like scrying?" she asks, gnawing her lower lip.

"Yes and no," Draco says. "It's... more direct. The spell would throw someone from their body into Theo's. And without proper understanding of the magic, they might never make it back."

That same, unpleasant look takes over Neville's face. "I'll do it."

"As if you will," Draco snarls.

"We need to know if he's still alive and in one piece."

A tense silence slides over the three of them, and Hermione can sense both Neville's determination and Draco's hesitation. Her own head spins with the implications—of what they might find on the other side of the spell if something has already happened to Theo.

Draco grits his teeth. "And if he's not? If you fling yourself into a dead man?"

Neville only straightens on the spot, and Hermione braces herself for another of the increasingly frequent arguments between the two. "Then at least we'll know."

"We'll know," Draco agrees, his tone harsh, "but you'll be stuck suspended in between. You can't occupy a non-functioning brain."

Hermione sucks in a breath.

The risks are higher than she initially imagined.

"The spell doesn't say that," Neville says.

"I'm saying that," Draco snaps back. "If you want to run the risk of killing yourself over this—which, I promise you, Theo would not want—then fine. But I sure hope you've considered what you're doing."

"Surely there's another way," Hermione cuts in, gaze skirting between them. The last thing she wants is for them to lose Neville, too. And Draco's right—it isn't what Theo would want. "Another way to determine if Theo is still alive? Someone else we could view?"

"Not without breaking into the manor," Neville huffs.

“It would be like threading a needle,” Draco says with a wave of one hand, “to view anyone else. One slip and they would detect our presence, giving up everything.”

Another of those awkward silence characterises the room, and Hermione glances at her coin. She hasn't heard from Harry all day, and while the plan to rescue Theo has mostly lain between Draco and Neville, she can't help but wonder what he thinks of the plan.

Whether he helped Neville find the spell.

Draco presses his eyes shut, scrubbing at his brow, then shakes his head. "Obviously, we want to know if Theo's alive. But we need you alive, Longbottom."

"And if he's dead," Neville says evenly, his tone carrying none of the emotion that drove him in the immediate aftermath of Theo's capture, "then we'll know and we don't have to go through with this plan at all. If it works and we reach Theo, we'll learn where he's being held, what state he's in, the behaviour of his captors—"

"I know." Draco scrunches up his face, then glances at Hermione. He reaches for her hand, and she quickly entwines their fingers. "What do you think?"

Hermione sifts through the options, feeling his magic play against hers.

Neville's spell, so long as they perform it properly, could give them concrete information about Theo. Unless he's dead.

"So we risk now to mitigate the risk during a rescue attempt," she says quietly. "But if this goes wrong, we could lose Neville."

Neville nods, his gaze locking on hers. "I just need an anchor."

"Fuck," Draco huffs, drawing the syllable long. "You're going to do this with or without me."

"Yes." Neville doesn't hesitate, nor does his stance falter. "Face it, Malfoy—our current plan has zero room for error, and even then there's a good chance something will go wrong. At least this way, we'll know if it's all for nothing."

Hermione glances at the fine, Latin script on yellowed parchment. "If you don't have an anchor?"

"Without an anchor, he's less likely to make it back to his own mind," Draco breaks in, a sneer curling his lip. "Though it seems Longbottom doesn't care about that. Bloody Gryffindor to the end."

Neville stiffens. "That's right."

The air simmers with tension, with barely controlled magic, and Hermione can sense that Neville isn't going to back down. That for all that he's posed it as a suggestion, he's going ahead with this plan regardless.

And Draco, whose breadth of dark magic is more extensive than any of them, will make a better anchor than if Neville were to turn to Harry next.

She can tell the moment when Draco reaches the same conclusion. When his magic curls against her own with a quiet resignation.

"Fine," he clips with a lingering hint of aggression. "I'll anchor you. But I'm not dealing with Theo's anger if you don't make it back and we manage to rescue him anyway. And I really fucking need your help getting him back, so I swear to Merlin if you die—"

"If I die I won't have to worry about whatever you're about to threaten me with."

Neville's mouth twitches.

Hermione blows out a breath, shaking her head. "You're both mad over this, but it really would benefit us to know if Theo's alright."

Draco shoots her a wry look, drawing his wand. He refocuses his attention on the book, skimming the spell with a low whistle. "This spell really is a piece of fucking work. Magic like this hasn't been practised in centuries."

"Says the man who enacted an ancient marriage ritual that hasn't been used in ages," Neville says under his breath.

Snapping his gaze up, Draco eyes Neville with derision. Then he cocks a brow and drawls, "Fair point. Regardless, this will take some setup." He reaches for a sheet of parchment, scrawling a list of items. "We have some of the basic materials here in the potions station, but you're going to need to track down the rest."

Hermione catches a glimpse of some obscure ingredients as he hands Neville the list, but Neville only skims the list and pockets the parchment. "Fine. I'll be back soon."

Without another word, he vanishes.

And the look Draco offers her—part derision, part annoyance—brings a nervous laugh forth from that part of her that's opted for humour over despair.

Less than two hours later, Longbottom strides back into the room, jaw clenched and a box of miscellaneous items in one arm. As Draco skims the box's contents, he has to admit he's impressed, when he didn't even know where he would have found one or two of the rare items.

But even as the thought crosses his mind, Draco isn't surprised.

Not when Longbottom's eyes blaze with retribution.

There isn't anything he can do or say to talk the man out of this ill-advised plan—Draco can see as much on his face. But though he's loath to admit it when Longbottom's become a valuable teammate of sorts, the dangers this plan presents are almost worth the risk.

If they can determine Theo's status or whereabouts. If they can somehow use what they might learn to improve their plan.

And if Theo's already dead—and Longbottom attempts to visit an empty vessel—Draco will regret the endeavour on multiple counts.

Without any delay, Longbottom begins unloading the box of items into the small kitchen table while Hermione watches from a safe distance away, gnawing at her lower lip.

"I'm going to need your Latin knowledge," he says gruffly, shooting Draco a glance. "Because I need to be sure this is exactly right and I can't trust a translator spell."

Raking a hand through his hair, Draco steps towards the table, idly aligning a series of candles. An Asp Encircle, a rare magical orb, sits near his fingers. Though Draco wants to reach for it—feels an implicit longing to touch it—he quashes the urge. Such an object is as dangerous as it is mysterious, and he knows better than to mess with things when he doesn't fully understand them.

He can still remember his grandfather Abraxas' stories about the orbs.

"Where the fuck did you get that?" Draco asks, withdrawing his hand as he peers at the deep purple swirls shifting across its surface.

"Don't worry about it," Longbottom says brusquely, and if it were anything else Draco might take affront at his tone. But he knows if it were him and he'd acquired such a thing on short notice, he likely wouldn't want to talk about it either.

Shifting closer, Hermione reaches a hand towards it without concern, and Draco catches her wrist on instinct.

He shoots her a look, grip tightening, and her eyes flutter several times in rapid succession as she sucks in a breath. "Don't touch that," Draco says under his breath, heart leaping into his throat, and she turns wide eyes on him.

Carefully withdrawing her hand from his, she clasps them together and rests them across her middle.

"At any rate," Draco says, drawing the tome closer towards him, "you need the Asp Encircle at the centre, the candles along the perimeter equidistant from one another, and..." He trails off, flipping the page and skimming the Latin. Some of it is too faded or disjointed to understand, and it takes several times through. "Bezoar?"

Longbottom brandishes the item, placing it in the configuration where Draco directs, along with the rest of the items from the box. He hesitates as he draws out a knitted jumper that Draco recognises as Theo's, and frowns as he trails his fingers along the soft knit. Finally he draws his wand, carefully levitating the Asp into the middle without making contact.

Draco sucks in a breath when a wave of ancient dark magic washes over him. Hermione shifts on the spot next to him, lips pursed and eyes fixed on the array. For a long moment, then three of them stare at the Asp Encircle.

"Are we sure this is a good idea?" she asks quietly.

"No," Draco returns instantly. "In fact, we know it isn't."

"And yet," Longbottom says, rolling up his sleeves, "we're doing it anyway. If you're backing out, tell me now and I'll wait until Harry is available to anchor me."

Draco rolls his eyes. "I'm not backing out. We could use the information."

A part of him doesn't want to see the look on Hermione's face—at the massive number of ways this could go wrong. Dark magic is never for trifling, and something ancient like this sets even him on edge. But it's Longbottom's decision to put himself at risk like this.

"Okay," Hermione says, as if steeling herself with the same knowledge.

They're all adults here. They've all fought in a war long enough to understand the consequences of their actions.

The dangers involved in pursuing obscure magic.

Draco can feel Hermione nudge against the bonds between them—a stark reminder of their own explorations—and he accepts the thread she offers. Longbottom will be the one engaging in the highest risk here, but as the anchor, Draco will need to keep his guard up the entire time. He won’t object to the magical boost.

"Fine," Draco says with a huff, turning back to the spell. He observes the display of items before them, double checking everything is exactly as it should be. "When you're ready, cast the spell and place your palm on the Asp."

Hermione sucks in a breath, and Draco can't blame her. The orb exudes discomfort and unease, the unctuous energy of it settling against his own magical core like an oily coating.

When Longbottom steps closer to the array, wand clenched tightly in one hand, Draco channels into his own power. He twines the thread of Hermione's power around his own, strengthening the magical rope he'll provide as Longbottom's anchor.

A means for him to find the path back to his own body and mind once the spell is through.

None of them have anything more to say. No additional words of caution, when they all know exactly how wrong this could go. That this could cost Longbottom his life—that things could go wrong in other ways.

But without dwelling, the man looks each of them in the eye, growls a low, "Fuck it," and casts the spell.

The instant his hand meets the Asp Encircle, Draco feels a wrench at his magical core like a hook beneath his navel. As though he's been drawn into Apparition but only made it halfway. It's more unpleasant than painful, but the magic twists around his own like a parasite drawing at every shred of his strength.

Draco's grateful for Hermione's power bolstering his own—and his gaze slides to Longbottom.

His eyes are gently closed, his hand plastered to the Asp, shoulders slumped.

Slow, measured breaths fall from his lips, chest rising and falling with each breath, and it's the only way Draco can tell he's alive. He extends his magic towards the Asp, against every nerve and every instinct, and reaches for Longbottom's presence with the guiding rope of magic.

At the edges of his conscience, he finds Longbottom's soul, and the sensation is as disorienting as it is disturbing.

As the anchor, he has no power if things go wrong. But he has enough control over the matter to slow them down.

Tracking Longbottom's vague, blurry presence, he focuses all of his intent on one sharp point. He can still feel Hermione at his side, her arm brushing his as though it's as much contact as she's willing to give.

Because none of them knows exactly how this magic will react.

He can't reach for her—doesn't dare. His vision begins to spin as his eyes land again on the Asp, on Longbottom's hand seared to the smooth surface of it. Of the smoky purple wisps swirling within.

A sharp jolt draws on the anchor between them, and he stutters a step towards the Asp.

"What's happening?" Hermione asks, a whispered breath, the first words spoken since Longbottom cast the spell and vanished into himself.

"He's searching," Draco returns, unspooling more magical rope and reaching into Hermione's side of the bonds to anchor himself even deeper. "Reaching for Theo."

A tense silence hangs between them. "Is this a good sign?"

Draco releases a breath. "He hasn't collapsed yet."

Seconds spread into minutes, his entire body wracked with tension. At length, he reaches for Hermione's hand at his side, clenching it tight within his own. He knows her silence well—borne of disapproval and fear—but they all know that this is the best way to determine whether Theo's still alive.

Another tug pulls on the far end of the anchor, hitching Draco's body another unwitting step forward. Hermione's hand tightens around his.

"There," he hisses, simultaneous waves of despair and relief washing over him. "He's made contact."

Because within himself, on the other end of the rope, he can sense Theo's magical signature. But it's disrupted, corrupted, a shell of his friend. Anger and frustration threaten, and he can sense Longbottom's fury.

"Theo?" Hermione breathes.

Draco nods once. "He's alive. But it isn't good."

He clings tighter to the anchor, knowing now that Longbottom can make it safely back if they're careful. The first hurdle was finding Theo's conscious mind—but they aren't out of the water just yet. He will still need to navigate the apparent mess of Theo's soul—as well as the treacherous journey back to the Asp.

As though sensing the same—sensing he may still fail to return—Longbottom sends wisps of knowledge to Draco, and he repeats them out loud for Hermione.

"He's at the manor," he says, his own voice sounding dull and disjointed. "Held captive as we suspected. Tortured." He swallows thickly, attempting to parse the most important shreds from the rampant chaos of Longbottom's consciousness. "He hasn't... I don't think he's broken. Not with anything significant enough. But he isn't well—fuck. He's not well."

A soft whimper slides from Hermione's lips as her hand tightens once more.

"We need to get Longbottom back out," Draco says, as the mental rope connecting them begins to tremble and fray. He draws for more magic, reaching deeper into himself, into the bond, but the spell itself is unstable.

He hasn't survived a war as long as he has by panicking every time something goes wrong. All he can do now is to hold the anchor strong, to hope Longbottom can extract himself from Theo's damaged, semi-conscious mind and escape back the way he went.

Draco doesn't want to see the look on Hermione's face if he doesn't make it back out.

Neither does he care to face Theo if Longbottom doesn't survive.

The magic gives another great, heaving quake, and Draco releases a low breath. Drums his fingers on the edge of the table, fixing all of his focus into the anchor. Hermione's magic nudges against his again, an accumulated mass, and he accepts it silently, wrapping it around the magical tether he's constructed.

As though sensing his determination—the narrow tightrope on which all of this rests—she remains quiet at his side.

Draco gives her hand a squeeze, though he has no reassurances to offer. Not until Longbottom makes it back, and Draco can scarcely detect him on the other end.

The magic disintegrates beneath his intent as quickly as he layers more in its place.

His heart begins to race.

The rope he's so carefully constructed and reinforced begins to fracture, splinters of magic breaking and vanishing in the back of his mind. "Come on," he hisses under his breath, gritting his jaw under the onslaught. "Hurry the fuck up."

Hermione sucks in a breath, but her magic isn't enough to bolster his own anymore as it shatters and fades, a chasm forming between himself and Theo's mind—and Longbottom somewhere in between.

He can no longer sense the man at all, lost in the tumult of disintegration. Draco shoots a hard glance towards the Asp Encircle, the swirling magic within it roiling with chaos. It rattles on the table, and implicitly, he knows if the orb falls from its position in the arrangement the spell will break.

But he doesn't dare touch it.

"Come on, Neville," Hermione whispers, fingers twitching towards her wand as though she might do anything at all to rescue her friend.

They both know well enough how dark magic works. It's unstable at best, and this spell is as dangerous as it is arcane.

Suddenly, a force snaps hard on the waning threads of magic he's managed to hold together, and every nerve in his body tenses as he fights to keep hold. It takes everything he has, the spell straining at every part of him, and as Draco's certain he can't hang on, he finds some part of himself that isn't ready to give up.

For years, he hasn't been ready to give up.

He sucks in a great gasp of air when the spell recoils, slamming into him as though it carries physical force, and he stumbles back against the wall.

Across the table, Longbottom's eyes slide open. He yanks his palm from the Asp.

His face is vacant, hazel eyes devoid of any of the relief Draco feels. "Tell me you caught that," he says in a quiet voice, "because I don't care to repeat what I saw."

Draco isn't certain he wants to know exactly what Longbottom saw, but he nods all the same. "Yeah. Well enough."

For a long moment, the three of them stand in a stunned, melancholic silence.

"You're alright?" Hermione asks at last, taking a tentative step towards Longbottom.

He casts a glance towards the Asp Encircle, wincing as he clenches his palm into a fist. "Yeah," he says, and when he opens his palm, deep purple swirls of magic linger beneath the surface of his skin.

Draco isn't familiar enough with the magic of the Asp Encircle to know what that means, but he can only imagine it isn't any good. His heart thuds dully in his chest as he stares at the ebb and flow of it.

Longbottom flexes the hand, a downwards curl to his mouth, but he doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he squares his jaw, looks Draco in the eye, and says, "Tomorrow. We're getting him out tomorrow."

And he strides from the room.

Hermione shoots him a look, her expression wary. "Tomorrow it is."

Draco eyes the doorway where Longbottom vanished. "Yeah. Here's hoping we make it in and back out alive."

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for the support on this fic - it honestly means more than I can put into words. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Cheers to nine months of AGOHS Tuesdays <3

Chapter 40

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco isn't certain whether Theo being alive makes things better or worse. As far as Longbottom was able to discern, his mind hasn't been extensively breached—though what exactly that means, he isn't certain.

He knows better than anyone the methods Death Eaters employ for extracting information.

And the thought that Theo has been subjected to such a thing—because of him—makes his stomach churn. Makes him rage. Makes him want to obliterate the whole lousy lot of them.

He doesn’t sleep at all after Longbottom does the spell, and Draco can't tell whether it's because of nerves or the lingering dark magic.

Draco is familiar with dark magic. Has been utilising it on a regular basis for years.

But the mental image of the Asp Encircle lingers in the back of his mind, leaving him restless and tossing through the night. It took Hermione enclosing herself tight in his arms for him to find any rest at all.

For all the good it did him.

He feels now like a wraith, like some part of him has been left behind in sleep, like he's underwater and doesn't know which way to the surface.

Hermione presses a muffin into his hand, closing his fingers around the confection as he sits at the table in the war room, poring an endless track over the plans with blurry eyes. He takes a bite without looking, though the mouthful is dry and tasteless when all his thoughts are occupied on the plethora of things that could—and likely will—go wrong.

Longbottom and Potter arrive in a frenzy of activity, and Draco skims his gaze across Longbottom's palm where the dark purple magic of the Asp still roils and twists.

Like a cruel reminder of a sick game gone wrong.

He doesn't know enough about the magic to say that it might do. What it might be doing to him even now.

If the Asp Encircle saw into Longbottom's mind, too.

Draco can't deal with more than one issue at a time, and rescuing Theo is going to take everything all of them have. Even now, his confidence is low. Even knowing what they learned the day before.

His mind whirs with the plans they've rehashed countless times, but all of it twists into a jumble of thought and emotion. He knows better than to let emotion in—but in this, he can't help it. He's the reason Theo's in this situation.

And the more he thinks on it, the more he wonders whether it wasn't all orchestrated from the start. If Theo had no chance of escaping in time that day before everything crumbled down around them.

Across the room, Hermione and Potter speak quietly; Longbottom paces, jaw clenched, hands clenched, everything clenched.

Draco tugs on a hooded jumper, and his gaze snags, as it often does, on his scarred but bare forearm. He knows he owes Theo his life many times over through the years, and if this goes poorly, he doesn't know what he will do.

Although if it all goes wrong, that isn't a consideration he'll likely have to deal with.

If things start to go wrong, he already knows he'll funnel every shred of his own magic into Hermione. Because Merlin knows if one of them deserves to make it out, it's her. And Draco will take a curse to the chest if it means she has a chance to live.

She drifts to his side, eyes large and fixed on him. "I know you have the plan memorised," she says, "so stop overthinking it."

For a long moment, he only holds her gaze. His heart clamours a dull, miserable thud in his chest, and he fixates on it. His fingers entwine with his, and he grips her hand hard.

"I love you," she says quietly. "We're going to be okay. We're going to get Theo back."

None of it's a guarantee, of course, and they all know it. They all know there's a good chance they're walking into their deaths today. But maybe it's better than so many other ways Draco could go. It's better to go out believing in something than not at all.

And he would die for a friend. For someone he cares about.

Better than at the end of a wand fighting for a madman he doesn't respect.

Draco draws her into a brief, fierce kiss. "I love you," he murmurs against her mouth as he draws away, the feel of her lips on his singing a memory into his veins. Clasping her hand still tighter, he lifts his chin.

"We're ready?" The rest offer fortifying nods, and Draco returns with one of his own. He channels deep within himself to locate the Malfoy Manor wards, and holds tight to the magical thrum. "We all know the plans. Let's go."

Draco Apparates to the perimeter where the manor wards begin, and Hermione's pulse beats dully behind her ears as he untangles their hands and draws his wand.

"We're four," he says quietly, and though Hermione can't see or sense them, she knows Neville and Harry are some distance away. Hermione glances down at her watch, and counts the seconds as a series of spells fall from his lips, knocking down the wards one by one.

"Sixty seconds," she says quietly, and he nods without breaking stride. It takes all of two minutes for him to work through all of the wards that might catch them up—precisely as they rehearsed.

Mercifully, the wards haven't been altered, and when they cross the invisible delineation, nothing happens. No magic shimmers across her skin. Nothing slices her in two.

Draco swallows audibly and gives her a look. They proceed in silence, keeping to the shadows along one of the manor's carriage houses. They're early enough that, according to Draco, most of the Death Eaters won't yet be milling about. And the ones who have taken up residence in the manor won't be awake.

It'll be a skeleton crew of guards—and whoever else might have been installed in anticipation of a rescue attempt.

The only benefit they have on their side is that the spell Neville performed the day before was untraceable. No Death Eaters would be able to tell they'd accessed Theo's mind; even if they suspect a rescue effort, they won't know until it's upon them.

Or so they're hoping.

The forests on this part of the grounds are thick—precisely why Draco selected this side—and in the distance Hermione hears the light crackling of sticks in the underbrush.

She takes a small measure of comfort in Harry and Neville's presence, even as she instinctively cringes at the noise.

Draco casts a muffling spell on their steps as they near the edge of the woods.

To enter the manor, even with four of them and the advantage of surprise, would be folly. The guards posted at the dungeons will be the most vigilant—and the manor itself has a different set of wards than the grounds.

According to Draco, their best shot at entering unnoticed was an old, unused passage that connects one of the carriage houses into the underbelly of the manor. Installed centuries ago as a network for servants, the practise fell out of favour and the passage was boarded up.

Until today.

They meet up with Harry and Neville as Draco's dismantling the last of the locking spells on the carriage house, and he glances around as he leads the small group into the house.

Hermione releases a breath. Although they've only accomplished the easiest part—getting onto the grounds undetected—it's one step down. She casts a series of silencing and disillusioning spells on the house as Draco makes for the sealed passage.

If they're fortunate, it'll lead them to an unmonitored part of the manor's basement. Far enough from the dungeons that they'll still have to traverse a significant distance, but they stand a better chance of remaining undetected than walking in through any of the central entrances.

Walking up to her side, Harry takes her hand into his with a gentle squeeze. Unable to speak, Hermione squeezes back.

Neville's pale, as though he might throw up, but his stance is that of a soldier prepared for battle.

And she knows, deep within herself, that he would fight to the death to rescue Theo.

Merlin willing, it won't come to that.

Glancing up at the rest of them, Draco nods once, illuminating his wand tip as he begins into a darkened passageway. Hermione keeps pace at his side, Neville and Harry flanking just behind them. As the passageway creeps lower into the earth, a damp chill permeates the air.

Darkness stretches beyond them, obliterating the weak light from their wands, and she can't help but feel as though she's being watched.

Draco looks unperturbed, and she takes it to mean they've yet to be detected. But his fingers nudge against hers, as though in reassurance.

A quiet drip sounds in the distance, and the tunnel narrows enough that they have to fall into a single-file line. And still, they trek on. The carriage house is out of range of the manor proper, and the pathway feels as if it's twisting unnecessarily—but in the dark, she has little by way of orientation, and she knows if the paths were to diverge she would end up lost.

Draco presses forward, whether on faith or an intrinsic connection with the core magic of the grounds, she can't say.

But he doesn't miss a step, doesn't falter, and they walk on and on.

At last he stops, staring down a fork in the road that she can just make out in the dim light. His eyes narrow, and he casts a series of murmured spells down first one path, then the other.

When the silence stretches on, the four of them at a standstill, Hermione forces herself to draw a deep breath.

"Should we split up?" Harry asks, and though his words are hushed they sound loud in the long corridor.

For a long moment, Draco doesn't respond, his jaw a hard line. "No," he says finally. "We should stick together. One of these leads towards the cellar, and the other... I don't know."

"The other could lead closer to the dungeons," Hermione offers softly.

Neville releases an aggravated sigh, yanking a hand through his hair. Hermione is jarred to notice his palm glows faintly with a purple sheen, and her stomach twists up at the sight of it. A cruel reminder of the Asp Encircle, and how it had drawn her in more than she cares to admit.

"We don't have time to stand here and deliberate," he says gruffly. "I'll go this way, and we'll stay in contact with the coins."

Harry swallows and nods. "I'll stick with Neville."

Although she hates the idea of splitting up, Neville's right—they're wasting time. And if they all go down the wrong path, they could end up in the wrong place with nothing to show for it. Every minute they spend on the manor grounds is a risk.

"Fine," Draco says at last, little more than a whisper. "Keep your coin in hand and check in if you find anything. Worst case scenario, we'll reconvene when we reach the house. If the path starts climbing back to the surface, turn back."

Neville nods once, sharply. "Deal."

Before she can say anything—before she can dig an alternative plan to the surface, Neville and Harry are gone down the left passage, and Hermione's forced to watch the distant light fade as they vanish into the darkness.

With a great sigh, Draco turns to the right. "Let's go."

They venture on once again, Hermione clutching her wand in one hand and her coin in the other, and though they trek forward, everything remains silent.

"Have you sensed anything in the wards?" she asks eventually, when the silence grows unbearable.

"No," Draco says, shaking his head. "He doesn't have the power to alter Malfoy blood wards—only my father could have done that."

The thought instils little confidence, when she knows he doesn't trust his father. They knew Narcissa wouldn't report on anything—but Lucius is another story altogether. It wouldn't be the first time he threw his family to the wolves for his own survival, and if Voldemort got to him in the wake of Draco's defection—

Hermione doesn't want to know what might have happened.

She nods, her breathing shaky, and steels herself with another fortifying exhale. "Nothing from Harry or Neville," she says, checking her coin even though it remains cold in the damp air.

"Check in," he breathes, "please."

She taps a quick message into her coin, a sharp breath snagging in her throat as she waits on a response. They carry on forward, and every second where the coin doesn't warm in her palm feels like an eternity.

She frowns, lifting the coin to send another message. "No response yet," she says. "Should we turn back?"

Draco glances down at his watch. The plan is timed to the minute, and she can't imagine the lost time if their efforts simply in getting to Theo go so wrong.

Another minute ticks past.

She taps another message into the coin.

Still, it remains cold.

The damp begins to seep through the toes of her boots, shooting a chill through her.

Draco clenches his jaw, the light from his wand flickering. "Nothing?"

"Nothing," she confirms, heart a tight lump in her chest.

"We're going back."

She doesn't know what this will cost them—what it costs the mission as a whole—but she refuses to lose three friends today. So she nods, turning on the spot and lifting her wand higher in their retreat.

Several steps on, her coins warms, and relief courses through her as it stays warm for long moments. Draco stills at her side when she sucks in a sharp breath, and he peers close as a rapid fire series of messages cross the face of it.

Found a door.

Heavily warded—scanning spells show nothing. Going to dismantle.

No humans in the room beyond. Might be a cellar.

Proceed?

Draco grimaces in the low, yellow light. "If they've reached the cellar, where are we going?"

Hermione has no response, when he knows the property so much better than she does. But Malfoy Manor has stood for nearly a thousand years, and its many secrets are unnumbered and untold.

"We're still underground," she says in return, the air between them growing more tense by the second. "Surely we'll meet up with them inside."

Another long moment passes before he nods, and grasps his own coin in hand. She watches him tap in a simple message: Proceed with caution.

Realistically, she knows Harry and Neville know how to operate with stealth. They've all survived this long in the war—and that means a lot. Furthermore, they've all memorised the manor blueprints. But there's something about the pair of them being stuck in Malfoy Manor—in the Death Eater headquarters itself—that makes her wish she could protect them.

But they don't have the time or the ability. She can only rely on them to protect themselves and each other.

It's with that thought plastered to the forefront of her mind, and a deep, steeling breath, that they turn and proceed once more down the corridor. Her own magic, rich and overflowing in her veins, recoils against the situation.

Draco doesn't say anything more as the path slopes downward, the air moist and cold, and she wonders whether ancient magic has warped this tunnel from its original state. Surely, the manor's original servants didn't have to make such a trek on a regular basis.

Magic can corrupt, and dark magic even more so. She can only hope they're not heading into an impossible situation.

A sudden draft sweeps through the corridor, and Draco stills as her coin warms.

Cellar unoccupied. Heading towards the dungeons.

She shows Draco the message, and his gaze flicks distractedly to the coin only for an instant before turning back to the sudden stretch of wall before them. When he presses one palm flat against the earth, she flinches.

"Fuck," he hisses under his breath, recoiling as if burnt. "Don't touch that."

That sentiment makes sense well enough—that the wall is warded in some way that will harm her. That it isn't a wall at all, and maybe only illusioned as such.

Draco draws the dagger holstered at his hip—they're all thoroughly equipped for the battle they'll likely find—and jams it into the wall. The darkened, dampened earth flickers for a moment, and she isn't certain what she sees briefly on the other side before it re-solidifies.

They share a grim look.

"Blood wards," he murmurs, though the words are unnecessary when he withdraws the dagger and brings it instead to the tip of his own finger. A bead of blood bursts from the cut, and after letting it accumulate for a moment, he drags it along the wall's surface.

A deep rumble comes, as if from the earth itself, and Hermione holds a breath as the ground tremours beneath them. Draco's hand wraps around her elbow, the act instinctive, and she casts him a wry smile.

Slowly, so slow she almost doesn't notice the sliver on one side at first, the earthen wall shifts away from one side, and what was once a wall crumbles into dust at their feet.

A dark, dusty passageway carries on before them—but now she recognises the cobbled flooring and austere, utilitarian walls as part of the manor itself. An ancient, unused part of the manor.

They're still underground, and she tries to orient herself based on where they began, but the corridor twisted frequently enough that she can't quite manage it. Lifting his wand, Draco takes a step through the doorway, casting a series of revealing spells before he turns back to her and nods.

She learned well enough, during her time spent as a manor resident, that many ancient spells imbue the corridors. And many of them are not friendly to someone with her blood.

A part of her longs to burn the whole building down one day. To start fresh from the ground up.

That's if they survive the trials ahead.

Her coin has been quiet for long minutes, and she taps a quick update into her coin to Harry before following Draco into the basement. A quick revealing spell shows no other humans in their vicinity, and she wonders how far apart they are from the other two. They trekked on for a long time after Harry and Neville found the cellar—and they could have travelled in opposite directions.

With a grimace, Draco feels along the nearest wall, and her heart jolts when he casts a spell to suddenly reveal a door.

"Servants quarters of some sort," he says softly, peering through the doorway. A ragged, rotted cot sits in one corner, a small chest at the foot of it. "Clearly long disused."

It strikes her as odd, only for a moment, that so many secrets still remain hidden in the manor itself. But generations of Malfoys have lived here over the centuries, and she can only imagine how many things have been stowed away.

"Strange that someone went to the care of hiding it all, though," she muses as she reveals another door opposite it on the other side of the hallway.

"Illness, maybe," he says. "If something contagious was down here they might have cordoned the whole place off. Or a spell gone wrong."

Neither of those options do anything to bolster her weakened courage, but she can only hope if something was down here that it's long gone.

They carry on in silence, and Hermione glances down at another update on her coin. "They've reached the dungeons, but haven't been detected," she breathes.

Draco curses under his breath. "Tell them to standby until we get there. Theo's cell is sure to be heavily guarded."

She nods, already tapping in a response, and turns her attention back to the situation before them. They trek on, and the hallway expands into a labyrinth of passageways, many with hidden doors and small, nondescript rooms.

The whole thing only serves to shoot shivers along her spine.

In all her time at Malfoy Manor, she never ventured into the underground. And now, she's glad of it—especially now that she sees even Draco didn't know of all this.

"I'll be glad to reach the dungeons and get away from all this," he says, mimicking her own thoughts, then gives a derisive snort at the sentiment.

Because surely the dungeons are infinitely more unpleasant—but he's familiar with that.

They trek on, the gloom encompassing her from every angle, and Hermione's mind spins into everything that may lurk and linger in the darkness surrounding them. The curses they could reveal around any corner, through any doorway, and their progress is slow in their caution.

At last they enter another dingy hallway, and Draco releases a sigh of relief. "Dungeons," he breathes, drawing his coin from his pocket. "Let's find Potter and Longbottom."

She longs to feel some sliver of relief that they've made it to their destination. That the four of them will soon be reunited, and with no small amount of luck, they'll find Theo only one wall away.

But something about it feels too easy. For them to have gone so far, spent so much time in the manor, and not run into a single soul. She reminds herself they walked through a passage that's been sealed for centuries—but her intuition hasn't led her astray in the long years at war.

"Draco," she hisses, reaching for his arm. "Something doesn't feel right."

He freezes, a message vanishing from his coin, eyes narrowing.

For days, she's been harbouring a supply of magic, carefully accumulating every drop of it she can find within herself. Now, Draco's magic nudges against her own and she tightens, every part of her coiling on instinct.

It takes everything she has to keep the reservoir of power from bursting.

Glancing around the darkened space, he scans the area as he lowers his voice. "I'm still attuned to the wards. It will give us a split second of warning if anyone else approaches." Hesitating, he takes several steps forward.

Hermione's fingers tingle with raw magic as she follows.

"I would cast a bearing spell," he says, "for Longbottom to find us easier, but it could reach the wrong person and broadcast our location instead."

Nodding, she draws her wand if for no reason other than to occupy her hands, when the magic roiling through her is so much more powerful than anything she can conjure with a wand.

On high alert, the abundance of magic presses against her core, an uncomfortable strain that she knows Draco feels as well.

But he was caught without a full supply when he left the Death Eaters; she refuses to allow the same to happen to either of them today. She suspects the magic pent up between them is enough to level half of the manor if they need to.

The thought isn't as reassuring as she would hope, when this mission is not about destruction but delicacy.

Quiet steps sound in the distance, as though suddenly unmuffled, and Hermione presses herself tight to the wall around the corner. Her heart thuds in her throat as she slips back into the part of herself that has had to fight for survival for years. She catches Draco's eye as he peers around the corner across from her, his chest still with shallow breaths.

The steps draw nearer, louder, clothes rustling, and magic dances across her skin as she prepares to engage.

"It's us," Harry hisses from just down the corridor, and she sinks with a sigh of relief. "We weren't sure if it was you."

"It was," Draco drawls, rolling out his shoulders. "What have you found?"

Magic still burns in her fingertips, and Hermione releases a careful stream of it to envelop the four of them with disillusionment and shielding spells. Draco casts her a glance, brows flickering when she layers a muffling spell on top.

It's taken some finesse to channel the raw ritual magic into recognisable spells, but it's useful.

A small bit of magic she's been practising—a means to expel some of the extra raw power they've been collecting while preparing for this mission.

"We came in here," Neville says quietly, tapping a spot on the wall, then dragging his finger along the stone. "We're approximately here now."

"Fine," Draco returns. "And the dungeons are through there."

Harry observes the rough map, frowning. "Anyone find it strange that we haven't run into any Death Eaters yet?"

"Yes," Hermione offers. "Not in the old tunnels, because the one we came through had been sealed off for who knows how long. But here… so close to the dungeons."

The four of them share a grim look.

This is the part of the plan where anything could happen—and anything could go wrong. Most likely, she imagines, it will. If Theo's imprisonment is a trap to draw out Draco—which they're all in agreement it is—then from this moment on, anyone could be expecting them.

Their plans will only succeed as long as they remain undetected. They've managed to get this far—a benefit from entering via the tunnel network—but now a sudden swell of apprehension darts through her.

For a moment, the four of them stare at the door at the opposite end of the corridor. An infrequently used back door leading into the far end of the dungeons. From there, it's simply a navigation of aisles to where Theo is likely kept under heavy guard presence.

"He will sense if something happens to the Death Eaters down here," Draco says on a breath, rapidly casting a series of spells to unlock and unward the dungeon door. "If I know him at all, he'll have tightened the leashes since I left."

"Fine," Neville says. "Then we'll have to be quick."

Hermione nods, releasing a measured breath as she prepares herself for an imminent fight. Since she moved into the manor, she hasn't fought a real battle. Blood thrums in her veins and focus slides across her vision as she slips into that side of herself.

Her fingers graze Draco's, and a frisson of energy darts through her at the contact. At the way her raw unhindered magic brushes against his.

And it stirs her waning courage back to the surface as a reminder of the power that surges between them. The deep, near-endless pit they can access—the reason they did all of this in the first place.

"Ready?" she whispers, meeting three sets of eyes in turn.

Draco blows out a breath, his power coiling and twining around hers. Strengthening. Fortifying. "Let's go get him back."

When Neville reaches for the door, pushing it open, chaos erupts.

Death Eaters patrol the corridor, guarding every inch of the dungeons, watching the doors, robes and masks in place and wands in hand. Death Eaters as far as she can see.

It doesn't take anything at all—the magic slides from her fingers, from her palms, from her soul, and collides with the nearest masked figure. He collapses to the ground in a heap, dead before he can make a sound.

It takes only weeks and months and years of pent-up rage, of injustice and pain and the despair that took hold of her for so long.

And now, she fights.The magic spills from deep within her, intrinsic and entwined with Draco's at her side.

Through the pounding of blood and adrenaline in her ears, the searing intensity of her focus, she's only distantly aware of him fighting, of Death Eaters dropping, of spells whizzing past. Of Harry and Neville at her back, at her flank, neon green lighting up the darkness of the dungeons around them.

Rage pulses through her. Magic pours from her.

And still the vast chasm pushes forth, strong enough that with one wave of her arm she erects a shield across them all. Death Eaters crumple, spells flying and deflecting from every angle, from every corner.

Draco's magic curls around her, his presence reassuring at her side.

Tears break from her eyes, and when she swipes them away, her fingers come away black.

Still, she pushes forward, fighting for the lives of the only people she still cares for. Death surrounds them, and even as she casts down another Death Eater, a crumpled pile of robes at her feet, she watches the cells. They press on, and as surely as Death Eaters flow, they fall.

A surge of strength mingles with the sheer helplessness she's felt for so long. It's heady and it's terrifying at once.

Magic sings in her veins, a great, terrible song.

And now, in the face of more power than she knows what to do with, she wants only to make it out alive. For each of them to make it out.

Protected by her shield, Draco presses on past the empty cells, Neville at his side, slashing vicious arcs through the chests of two Death Eaters who step into his way. And Harry falls into step with her, guarding the ground they've gained.

Harry's eyes when they meet hers are alight with adrenaline and fear, with something akin to the fight they once bore. Before the war became too much. Before they slipped into something dark and depleted.

She turns back to the fight, dark magic sliding insistent, insidious tracks down her cheeks, and a spark of magic jolts through her at the contact. He keeps pace at her side, firing another spell ahead.

They shoot spell after spell, and magic pours from her hands as her pulse roars in her ears. Flashes of green spark and fizzle on her shield.

Seconds and minutes slip past, and all she knows is destruction.

She will pay for this later. They all will.

None of them know the toll this magic will take, used in such unfathomable measure. Already, she feels the clenching agony embedded in her chest. The slight blurring around the edges of her vision.

But she resists the magic, taking down one robed figure after another, and she clings to Draco's power as he reaches for her own. They'll get each other through this, and if they don't, they'll die in the attempt.

Dozens of Death Eaters lie collapsed on the damp stone floor, robes rumpled, masks askew.

The sight might have stirred something within her once. Now it only offers relief. A cruel, horrific sense of justice—of satisfaction in the basest part of her.

Hermione draws her wand as the magic froths a convoluted storm within her, and stalks towards Draco and Neville. With such a great expulsion of magic, a massive fight below the manor, there's no way their entrance remains unnoticed any longer.

And the ritual magic isn't endless. They've been accumulating it for days while piecing together the plan, but neither of them knows exactly how deep the well goes.

The silence that follows is eerie, incomplete, as though they're simply waiting for the next wave to arrive.

They are, she reminds herself.

Because Voldemort knew they would come. He probably kept Theo alive for this very reason—to draw Draco Malfoy back to the manor. But even he never knew of the depths of power roiling between them.

"Have you got him?" she hisses, bracing for what they might find.

Draco is outside one of the farthest cells, Neville on guard at his side.

"Yes," Draco says, heavy breaths falling from his lips. He drags the back of his hand across a sweat-dampened brow. His fingers fumble a little with the magic as he casts unlocking charms on the cell. The shadows beneath his eyes are darkened with black smudges.

And Hermione feels it, too. The bone-deep fatigue settling into the space where magic overflowed before. A clenching pain in her very core.

She reaches for him, wrapping his failing power with her own like a blanket. And he straightens a little, his magic coming easier, even as Hermione feels the added strain on her own. She sinks one shoulder against the wall, fingers trembling as she grasps her wand.

"Almost there," Draco breathes without looking up, and she doesn't know if it's for her benefit or his own. The dungeons swim in her vision, and Draco swipes away more dark magic leaking from his eyes, charting black paths down his cheeks. He looks up and says, "Hang in there. We're so close."

The body that must be Theo Nott is a dark heap on the floor, unmoving, concealed by darkness and robes.

Neville keeps his gaze on Theo, wand aloft but attention elsewhere. At her side, Harry's arm nudges her own. The two of them don't know the details of the ritual magic they were bonded under, but she knows they've pieced together enough elements of the situation. Neither of them question her sudden decline, nor Draco's.

"There," Draco breathes, blinking several times rapidly.

Without waiting for another word, Neville reaches for the door and swings it open, shouldering past Draco and crouching down. He reaches for Theo's pulse, and the rest of them stand in silent apprehension as long moments pass.

"He's alive," Neville huffs softly. In the week since Theo's capture, he's taken a severe downwards spiral, because Neville lifts him easily though a simple levitating charm would work easier. None of them say anything, and Neville strides from the cell, jaw hard and eyes cold with rage. "Can we Disapparate from in here?"

Draco shakes his head, swallowing audibly. He reaches for Hermione's hand, and his fingers are clammy. "Can't lower the Disapparition wards in here. We need to get him back to the cellar."

It's close, but at the moment, it feels altogether too far. It's only a matter of time before more Death Eaters arrive, and they're hardly in any shape for another fight now. Not with Harry the only able fighter.

Oblivion beckons, and she clings to Draco's hand with all her remaining energy. Reaches into herself for strength she doesn't know if she still possesses.

With a grimace, he straightens, as though bolstering himself with a wave of pure willpower.

Harry ventures back down the aisle, leading them towards the cellar as Neville allows Theo's prone form to hover behind him, lifting his wand into a fighting stance once more.

Some of the darkness threatening her visions clears as she fixes every ounce of strength on getting the hell out. Her movements are clumsier, and several times she trips over the body-ridden floor as she follows her friends.

She can feel herself fading. Feel Draco fading at her side.

Hermione isn’t certain how much she can trust the failing magic, so she clenches her wand tighter.

They need to get back to the house before the darkness can slide in—it's the only thought in her mind.

So when a door clangs open across the dungeons, she doesn't immediately register the severity of it. Heavy footfalls approach, running fast, too fast. She blinks the shade from her eyes as she lifts her wand, casting indiscriminately at every form in dark robes. She slips in something on the floor—something slick and damp—and her spell goes awry, clanging off the wall instead as a neon flash nearly misses her.

With a roar, Draco fires, a series of death knells sliding from his wand one after another, and the Death Eaters drop before him. Draco sinks against the wall, and she can feel the physical effort of him pulling himself together.

"Go!" Neville shouts, shoving him out of the way as he steps into the line of fire.

Without missing a beat, Harry takes control of Theo's immobile form, directing him towards the back door through which they entered. Hermione reaches for Draco's arm, tugging him through the chaos of bodies.

"Neville!" Hermione screams, firing spells around him though her hand shakes so badly she's afraid she might miss. That she might hit her friend instead. It's enough for her next spell to falter, for the incantation to snag on her lips. She jumps forward, reaching for the back of his collar and tugging him towards the exit.

"I'm coming," he growls, deflecting another spell. "Just get Theo out of here."

"Potter's got him," Draco huffs, erecting a feeble shield charm around the three of them just in time for a curse to glance off. "Don't be a fucking martyr, Longbottom, because I'm not going to the be the one to tell Theo."

It's almost enough to bring a grin to Neville's face.

Hermione's heart thuds a dull, uneven rhythm in her ears, and it feels like forever for the three of them to make their way to the far exit. Her vision swims with the expulsion of power, the last of her strength tossed out in a weak effort to keep them alive from this new, angry wave of aggressors.

Finally, she stumbles back over the threshold, every part of her ready to collapse, and it's by little more than fumes that she's still standing upright. Draco doesn't look any better, his eyelids half closed, shoulders slumped as he sags against the wall.

Neville follows them through, spells thrown haphazardly through the doorway.

"Get out of the doorway," Draco hisses, squeezing his eyes shut hard before he takes a step towards it. Raw power shimmers through the flesh of his palms, and Hermione can feel him drawing every last shred of her own power into him.

She gives it freely, the sharp edge of conscious thought drifting into something else—something soft and weak—something like rest.

And several things happen all at once in the fleeting moments between awake and less so.

Harry stands with Theo's prone form, shifting just so as Longbottom moves to cover him. A spell, solo and searing in its aim, strikes Harry in the side. A sharp bark of pain escapes him as he sinks against the wall.

A choked scream slides from Hermione’s lips, funnelling into a sob as Draco slams the door shut.

"Get out of here," Draco huffs, chest heaving with exertion as magic seeps free of his hands. "Get them all out."

And then he reaches for the last scraps of magic both of them possess, and he releases every single drop into the dungeons. A loud, deafening quake shakes the house, sweeping through the dungeon and everyone in it.

Dust and debris fill the air, a low, ominous rumble overhead as the ceiling begins to collapse with a cacophonous roar.

It's the last thing she knows—death and destruction and darkness coating her eyes—before everything else slides away.

Chapter End Notes

200k day!! Thank you all so much for reading. I am so grateful to every one of you for sticking it out on this journey with me. I hope you liked today's chapter!

Many thanks to my wonderful team <3

Chapter 41

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

A searing ache swells in his brain, every muscle screaming with agony.

Draco feels as though he might sleep for decades, and it takes long minutes for him to gain clarity as he stares dully at the world around him. His mind is discordant, disconnected, like it's been wrapped in gauze. When his stomach twists into a tight knot, he suspects he might toss.

But his stomach is empty.

He hasn't eaten.

He can't determine why, can't force his brain to work in any way that makes sense. He yawns widely, stifling the motion behind his hand, and doesn't understand why he's awake, when sleep is so much more preferable.

When it is so much easier to block out the world.

"Wake the fuck up!" a voice snaps, anger and panic and frustration.

Draco frowns, dragging a hand through his hair and scrubbing at his burning eyes. When he blinks them open, he finds a hazel set on his own, wild and frantic. Scruffy brown hair.

Longbottom.

"Fuck's sake," he growls, grabbing Draco hard by the shoulders. "Snap out of it!"

Draco feels depleted, drained of even the shrapnel that composes his soul, and it takes several long moments for anything to sink in.

All at once, he remembers—and he wishes he could forget again.

"Shit," Draco breathes, making to stand as he attempts to make sense of his surroundings. The last thing he can remember is Malfoy Manor—the dungeons—running his magic dry.

An explosion.

"Where's Hermione?" he snaps. Longbottom waves a flippant, aggravated hand across the room, where Draco can see Hermione's curly head buried in her shoulder on the chair—and it's only then that Draco realises they're in the sitting room of his London house. His head throbs, and he presses two fingers two his temple. "What happened?"

"You blacked out, is what happened!" Longbottom exclaims loudly, "and you took Hermione with you."

Draco grimaces, eyes landing on her again. "Theo?"

Releasing an aggravated sigh, Longbottom gestures vaguely to a cot on the floor that Draco doesn't recognise.

"He’s alive. I ran some tests on his magical core and everything seems alright. But you all fucking passed out, and Harry's bloody injured and—"

"What?" Draco wrenches himself sharply from the sofa, every nerve and muscle protesting the sudden action. He feels as though he might simply pass out again—and he realises in a sobering moment of clarity that he cares more about Potter's safety for Hermione's sake than anything else. "What happened?"

"Hit by some curse," Longbottom snaps. "I don't bloody know."

It's then that he notices the other immobile form in the sitting room. Potter's pale, face tight with pain, but otherwise unmoving in rest. One side of his shirt is slashed and soaked through with blood, though a gauzy bandage appears to have staunched the flow for now.

"Shit," Draco breathes, reaching for the man's wrist and allowing several moments to pass while he counts the beats. "His pulse is racing. What was he hit with?"

Longbottom fixes him with a hard look. "Not the Avada. That's all I can tell you. With any luck, it was little more than a slashing spell—but none of us have been particularly lucky of late."

"Fuck." He gazes around the room once more, lifting his brows. "How did we all get back here?"

"Well," Longbottom begins, cursing under his breath as he initiates a series of diagnostic spells on Potter's still form. Draco watches, his own heart stuttering a beat. "After you obliterated the dungeons into dust and the manor sounded like it was going to collapse down on top of us, I took a massive fucking leap of faith, yeah? I was the only one of the five of us bloody coherent enough to Apparate."

The words take a long moment to sink in with their utter absurdity. "You side-along Apparated four people."

"Yeah, well." Raking a hand through his hair, Longbottom tosses his wand aside in frustration. "Easier to fix you lot splinched than piece you back together if you were crushed by rubble." He shoots Draco another glance, and something at last softens. "You and Hermione were fine—just knocked out both your cores. Theo is... I don't know. But he's not the urgent case here. He’ll need time and rest in order to recover."

Draco's gaze skims back to Potter. A sheen of sweat shines on his pale brow, glasses askew, and idly, Draco reaches to straighten them. Considering the man was his enemy for so many years, he's come to feel like a friend of sorts. A comrade in arms, if nothing else.

And he can't dismiss the fact that Potter went along with all of their plans to recover Theo, even though he had no personal stake in the matter beyond wanting to help his friends. Even though there was a chance they would all end up dead.

It's a version of Potter he remembers from Hogwarts. A version that has, somehow, survived through the years of war and chaos.

"I'm not the best healer," Draco says softly. "And without knowing what he was hit with, I'm afraid to make things worse."

"Not much for it either," Longbottom admits. "Basic things, sure. Battlefield wounds. Not dark magic curses. It could be worse than it looks on the surface."

Draco glances again to Hermione, willing her to stir awake. But when he reaches for the magic between them, he finds only a gaping void. The discovery is as startling as it is unsettling, and he has to hope it's only because he burnt through every last shred of magic in the reservoir between them in taking out the dungeons.

He doesn't want to know how the manor looks.

All he can hope is that he took out even more Death Eaters in the collapse.

But when he reaches for his own personal magic, it feels weak and nearly nonexistent, too. A shiver of panic trawls through him.

In the wake of what they just did—the invasion and narrow escape from the manor. The sheer number of Death Eaters they took out with the ritual magic. He isn't surprised that his magic is overwhelmed—but he won't be surprised either if the Death Eaters who remain seek immediate retribution. They won't be safe to leave this house unprotected.

"Hermione knows healing magic better than I do," he offers, turning his wand over in his hand. "But if her magic is as spent as mine is, she won't be much help right now, either."

"You know Theo's useless with healing spells," Longbottom intones softly, but there's a hint of fondness in his words. "He's alive, but... we won't know what sort of damage they did to him until he wakes up. And I don't want to force that."

"Fuck," Draco breathes. "Yeah. That's for the best. What do we do about Potter?"

With a grimace, Longbottom sits back on the floor next to Potter, folding his legs beneath himself. "I know of one person who might be able to help. She doesn't have formal healer training, but she's been acting as one with the resistance for years. We don't know what exactly Harry was hit with, or how we can undo it if at all—but she might be the best shot we've got."

They exchange a long, hard look. "Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like who she is?"

It doesn't slip his notice that they won't be able to easily move Potter. Now without knowing what's wrong and how he might react. He can't think of a single soul he would trust with knowledge of this house outside of his own mother. And something tells him Longbottom isn't talking about Narcissa Malfoy.

"You probably won't," Longbottom says after a tense moment. "But she's our best hope. And she won't turn on Harry—or Hermione."

Draco thins his lips with aggravation. "It's Lovegood, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck."

"You might be surprised," Longbottom says quietly, "she's quite proficient. Smart and loyal. I don't think she'll give any of us up—and to be honest, she's really our only option."

Raking a hand through his hair, Draco releases a long, shallow breath. He recalls the day he and Hermione ran into Lovegood in Diagon Alley—the day they retrieved their rings from the Malfoy vaults. Remembers the way Hermione wanted Lovegood on her safe list. He wishes she were awake—but if he can allow her a little more rest, he would rather do so.

"Fine," he says at last. "But maybe we can move Potter into the garden so she doesn't have full access to the house and its wards."

He half expects Longbottom to argue—he remembers the two of them being friends during their later Hogwarts years—but he only offers a nod instead. "Fine. Harry appears to be stable for now. Patched up the injury the best I could, and he hasn’t moved since we got back. Maybe we can ask her to look at Theo as well."

Sometimes Draco wonders how his life came to be as it is. This is one of those times.

"Send her a message," he says. "As soon as she can come. You'll need to meet her at the nearest Apparition point to get her through the wards."

Longbottom nods, rising to his feet and stowing his wand. He offers a wry grimace and says, "That'll give me time to explain... some of this."

"Yeah." Draco frowns, staring once more between Potter and Theo, then to Hermione. "I'll keep watch over this lot for now and rouse Hermione."

"Deal."

Without another word, Longbottom draws his coin from his pocket and strides from the room.

A quarter hour passes and bleeds towards a half. Draco sits at Hermione's side in the sitting room after making her more comfortable on the sofa; from here he can keep an eye on both Theo and Potter.

He longs to wake her, to see the light in her chocolate eyes—to know he didn't cause some irreparable damage when he burnt out both of their cores.

But he doesn't want to do any more damage than he's already done.

The great expulsion of magic took such a toll on them both—and it's a sobering reminder that no power exists without its limits. The ritual magic between them comes from the earth, from its own source beyond them, and all natural magic requires balance and repayment. For so many years, they've all bled magic dry of its strength without regard for what it was doing to their souls.

Draco especially. Dark magic has flown from his wand every day for over five years, and he doesn't even know how many lives he's ended.

The chasm within him, that was brimming and overfull just that morning, is bleak and empty.

Even levitating Hermione's unconscious form took more from him than it should have.

He slouches forward, resting his face in his palm, tugging at his hair. If she doesn't wake—if she's somehow incapacitated—he doesn't know whether he'll ever forgive himself. So many of his sins have been in the name of war. Of survival.

But any harm he does to her is on a plateau of its own.

Long minutes tick past, and Draco doesn't move. Doesn't know how to move. Doesn't dare try.

He's so exhausted, and that morning's mission took everything he had. They made it out and alive—as far as he can tell—but none of them unscathed.

Theo hasn't moved since Draco awoke, and maybe some part of his brain is still trapped in the manor, still reliving the torture he took on Draco's behalf. He can only hope his magic and Hermione's magic are restored well enough that they can begin to rebuild their stores.

He hasn't even allowed himself to think of the Manor and what sort of damage he might have done by caving in the dungeons.

Good riddance, anyway.

He doesn't know what happened to Potter—whether he'll survive or if the curse that hit him is as insidious as Draco fears. He can’t allow himself to hope it was something less complex until they know more. And Longbottom still bears the mark of the Asp Encircle—an object so dark most artefact dealers won't even go near it.

The weight of too many responsibilities sits on him, and though a part of him wants to draw strength from the fact that this, at last, is a way forward of his own making—of his own desires—he's so damn tired.

Hermione shifts on the sofa next to him, and when he casts her a sidelong glance, he sees her sleepy eyes blink open.

"Thank Merlin," he huffs, reaching for her hand. "How are you feeling?"

She winces, attempting to sit up. "Like my insides have been turned out and picked bare by carrion." Her voice is hoarse, like she's been screaming.

"Graphic," he drawls, "but that sounds about right."

Her brows lift with a deep well of sadness. "What happened? Did we get Theo out?"

The sitting room around them is quiet, subdued by a preternatural stillness despite that four of them are present. Longbottom still hasn't returned with Lovegood, and Draco suspects he needs a moment alone as much as any of them.

"We tore through our magic," he says, purposefully making the words as dull as he can manage in an effort to quell the sting. "We got Theo back, but he's still unconscious." And since he knows better than to try and protect her, he adds after a moment, "Potter was hit by some sort of damaging curse; we don't know what it was, but Longbottom is collecting Lovegood to look at him."

"What?" The word comes out at once emphatic and broken, and her gaze darts rapidly across the room before settling on Potter's anguished form. He's settled in sleep, but his face is still twisted up with pain. Hermione simply stares at him, brows high with disbelief, eyes glassy. "He's going to be okay."

"Yeah..." Draco trails off, giving her hand a squeeze. "I'm just glad you're alright."

She turns back to him with a heavy swallow. "You destroyed the dungeons. I'm not imagining that, right?"

"No," he murmurs, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. "But I took you out with me, unfortunately. The downside to a linked pool of magic, I suppose."

"We were both already so weak," she muses, as though the consideration is far more academic than what they've just done with it merits. "We used so much of it. There were so many Death Eaters down there."

"Right," he drawls, "and they're dead now."

He doesn't need to say what he knows they're both thinking. That it was less a trap and more of an ambush—that none of them were meant to make it through the door, let alone all the way to Theo’s cell and back.

It proves even Voldemort underestimated the strength of their magic, thinking they would be overpowered by sheer numbers. But now he'll know the dirty, ragged truth.

In the moment, Draco didn't even allow himself to think of the former brothers he was knocking down with strike after strike of raw magic. As each of them fell dead before they hit the ground.

"We're alive," he says, grasping her hand tighter again. Like he needs her presence to ground himself from the horrific events of that morning. "And with no small amount of luck, Theo and Potter will pull through as well. We'll restore our magic—"

"Hopefully," she whispers, cutting him off short. "What if it was never meant to run empty? What if we simply used it all up?"

He can't dwell on that same fear that grips his own heart. So he offers her a wry smirk and says, "Then it isn't a very good bit of dark magic if it can't break the laws of the earth."

Hermione blows out a breath, her fingers clenched tight around his. "I can't just sit here."

"Unless you know Muggle healing," he offers quietly, "you'd best not try anything with either of them. Longbottom said Lovegood knows what she’s doing."

Although she deflates on the sofa, sinking a little closer towards him, Hermione’s expression shifts. She doesn't need him to tell her this—but he knows a part of her wants to try anyway. Wants to deny her own limits for the sake of her friends.

"I don't," she allows. "Not in any way that can help." Still, she rises from the sofa and paces towards the kitchen. Despite himself, Draco follows after her, curiosity spiking within him.

"What are you doing?"

She releases another long breath, pulling open the refrigerator door and drawing food from within. "My dad used to say the best way to keep your mind under control is to keep your hands busy." She piles a stack of raw carrots onto the counter. "And if I can't do anything to help right now, I can help when they wake."

Draco leans a hip against the counter, watching as she draws a cutting board and a large knife towards her. She slices an onion in two, peeling the skin.

"Okay," he says. "What's the recipe?"

"Soup. My dad always used to make it when he needed to keep his hands busy because he said everyone always likes a bowl of soup." She sets the onion down, looking for a moment as though she might cry. As if everything has finally caught up with her.

It's the most she's spoken in any detail about either of her parents. The only information he has to compose them into real people who exist across the world.

Draco reaches for the carrots, ordering them in a flat row on the counter. "What can I do to help?"

She eyes him for a moment, scepticism bleeding into gratefulness. Rummaging through a drawer, she hands him a Muggle device he can't identify. He's never been very good at cooking, but he's proficient enough at Potions that this shouldn't be too difficult.

Hermione sets a cutting board and knife in front of him. "Peel and chop?" she asks softly. "Please."

It takes him a few moments before he determines the easiest way to peel the outer layer from the carrots, and they fall into a silence that isn't quite comfortable and isn't quite easy—but it's as close as it might come under the circumstances.

"I'm not much of a cook," he says, comparing two uneven carrots. "So you're going to have to direct me."

"It's basically edible potions," she replies, chopping the ends off several stalks of celery. "I think you'll be fine."

The silence stretches across the room again, and Draco slides into an easy rhythm, one task into the next, slicing the peeled carrots into even lengths.

"Do you ever wonder how things might be different," she breathes at last. "Had things gone otherwise. If the war wasn't still going."

"I try not to," he admits. Her smile is consolatory. As if she understands exactly why he can't bear to think of such things. "What do you mean? When would it have ended?"

"I don't know." She sets her knife down, expression tightening. "Sometimes I think—if the Battle of Hogwarts had played out differently. We had finally figured out the last of his Horcruxes and destroyed them—that could have been it if the spell had worked out. But everything went wrong instead."

"That was..." He thinks about it for a moment, stomach churning at the thought. "More than five years ago."

"Yeah. It was really the dissolution of things—the beginning of the Order crumbling. We lost a lot of good fighters that day, and the rest of us had to go into hiding."

Despite the flippant tone with which she speaks, Draco can hear so much more. The way she's thought of this before—the deep-seated longing. It's difficult to hear, when he knows he can't give her what she wants most.

"If the war ended that day I would be in Azkaban," he muses. "Absolutely."

A small smile tugs at her lips. "Probably. If Harry had won the duel with Voldemort."

"You'd be..." He waves a hand. "I don't know. Working."

"A job," she snickers. "I can't even wrap my head around the thought of having a job right now. Something so simple, so ordinary."

And that longing is back in her voice in full force. The amusement drops off abruptly, all at once, and she reaches again for her knife. For a moment, Draco wishes he hadn't said anything about it. But she commences chopping vegetables once more, head tilted to one side.

"I suppose I always wanted to work in the Ministry when I was younger," she says. "As an Unspeakable or with magical creatures or something... or maybe healing at St Mungo's."

There's a sort of soothing repetition in the work, slicing, peeling, and soon he has a bowl full of diced carrots. Without a word, Hermione hands him the trimmed celery and he carries on.

"And now? Is that still what you'd want to do?"

"No," she says softly, and in an instant, settles in on herself like she's run out of energy. "I can't imagine wanting to do anything like that now. All I've wanted to do for so long at this point is to survive. If, hypothetically, I were one day in a situation where this wasn't our reality anymore and I actually had a choice—I don't think I would have any desire to be ambitious."

"Okay," Draco murmurs, measuring her for a moment. The fatigue in her stance. The exhaustion in her eyes. "I'll get you a little bookshop on the coast."

At that, she offers him a smile. "I think I'd like that."

"You can sell books—"

"Rare books."

"You can sell rare books, and I'll keep things in working order. Maybe set up a little potions lab in the back."

Her smile widens with a small huff of laughter. "Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater lieutenant, brewing healing potions."

"Don't forget building maintenance and upkeep," he adds, chopping the celery in even pieces. "Salt gets everywhere."

"Right," she breathes, "of course. And we'll have a cat."

"Three cats."

"Why not four?"

"Fine," he says with a grin. "As many fucking cats as you want. They can lounge in all the windows and disrupt the customers."

"A cafe," she says suddenly, after a moment of silence. "We can run a little cafe in the bookshop. Make it a destination spot. Books and beverages and snacks."

Draco shrugs. "Okay. I'll brew coffee instead of potions, then."

At that, a bright laugh bursts from her lips. "I can envision that even less than you selling healing potions."

"I was an excellent potioneer in school," he retorts, bristling. "And I'm proficient enough now. But fine—maybe this cooking lesson will catch on. I'll bake pastries and make soups and sandwiches and we'll pick somewhere far enough away that no one will know who we are or even anything about this war, and they'll think we're just some everyday couple and..." He trails off, blowing out a long breath.

It hurts more than he expects, to speak with her like this. To imagine an alternative that isn't so stark, so dreary. So final. As if there's any possible existence for them where they have a say in what their life might look like one day.

As if feeling the same, Hermione doesn't respond. She opens the drawer, digging for a can opener, and begins carefully peeling the top from a tin of tomatoes.

"How do you know what to put in it?" he asks, after the silence stretches on longer than he can bear.

"Sometimes you just make do with what you have," she says quietly. "I don't have everything here we might like as far as herbs and fresh produce—but it will still work out, I think. And we'll have lots for everyone."

He watches her use the tool, eyes tightening. Watches as she withdraws a large pot from the cupboard and begins piling it full of ingredients. To his combined surprise and dismay, he finds the process fascinating, and thinks of ways he might make something halfway decent.

"You know," she says at last, dipping a long wooden spoon into the pot and giving the contents a stir. A thin sheen of steam begins to rise from the surface and she covers it with a lid. "If the war had ended back then—back before all of this. And if you were in Azkaban and I was working a job somewhere... we never would have met. Not like this."

For a moment, Draco doesn't know what to say to that. He can't entirely tell whether she thinks it would be a good thing or a bad one had they never fallen into this marriage together.

But she reaches for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I guess, if nothing else, we have that."

Still, words evade him. He brings her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss to her knuckles.

And wishes that he could give her anything at all.

The soup is nearly done by the time Theo finally stirs, and Hermione tries not to think of the way Harry is still unconscious.

Luna hasn't arrived and Neville hasn't returned, and all Hermione can think of is the way they're all hanging on by a thread.

"What the fuck happened," Theo says, rubbing at one temple. "I feel like I've been trampled by thestrals."

"Better you were," Draco says, rising to his feet and drawing his wand. He begins casting a few basic diagnostic spells on him, but Hermione can feel the strain on his magic through their bond. "You're alive at least."

"Right," Theo drawls. "And why is that? You should have left me to rot in that dungeon."

Hermione shoots Draco a glance. "You couldn't do that, either. The dungeons are gone."

"You didn't."

Draco sighs. "I did."

Dropping a head into his palm, Theo scrubs at his eyes. "I feel like I'm crusted over in a layer of grime. Where's Nev?"

"Went to track down a healer, apparently," Draco says. "Potter was hit by some curse that we can't identify. And hopefully she can take a look at you, too."

"I'll be fine," Theo says. "I think, anyway. No permanent damage as far as I can tell."

Draco shakes his head, the blood draining from his face and a downturn to his mouth. "What happened, Theo? You should have had time to get out—should have..."

When he drops off mid-sentence, Hermione's chest tightens. Draco's carried the weight of Theo's capture day and night, and a part of her is awash in relief that they have him back.

"Naw," Theo says darkly. "Whatever they had planned, it was in advance. Whatever you did—or they thought you did—they already had me that morning."

"Fuck," Draco huffs, tugging at his hair. "We need to get that mark off you as soon as you're well enough to handle it. Hermione and I burnt out our magic trying to get through that fucking dungeon, but Longbottom knows how to do it."

For a moment, Theo's gaze drifts across Draco's bare forearm with something akin to disbelief. Then it shifts into longing. "So you did leave."

"Didn't have a choice," Draco says with a grimace. "I took some of them out before I went though."

"And we took out more when we went back for you," Hermione adds quietly. "It was an ambush."

"You should have left me there," Theo says. "You all knew better. But I can't say I'm glad you didn't." He rises from his seat with difficulty, clapping Draco on the shoulder. "Going to attempt to have a shower."

Hermione has so many more things she wants to say—questions she needs to ask. Answers they all need from Theo.

But Draco simply watches him go, expression unreadable. And maybe Theo needs time alone more than anyone else right now—needs a chance to cleanse his body and mind of the ordeal he's been through at the hands of people he once fought and lived with.

So Hermione settles back down at Draco’s side, reaching for his hand and entwining their fingers.

Again, her gaze drifts across the room to Harry, his face furrowed as though he's experiencing a bad dream. Hermione can only hope that's all it is, but none of them are able to identify an unknown and otherwise innocuous curse. She can only hope the spell is reversible.

Because knowing as many Death Eaters as she has, she fears the escalation more than the initial impact. By Draco's response, and the way his attention drifts every so often in Harry's direction, she suspects he fears the same.

"Do you trust Luna to come here?" she asks, speaking her next thought aloud.

"I don't think we have a choice," he replies flatly. "But no, I don't. She isn't coming into the house."

Hermione knows the wards on the house itself are far more extensive than those on the garden and grounds, and she nods. "We'll arrange a sterile chamber for Harry outside."

"Longbottom will arrange it." Draco falls silent, expression pensive. Hermione doesn’t acknowledge it, but she suspects their magic is too weak for much of anything. "And then he can wrench that fucking mark from Theo's arm, too. We're done with it for good now."

Blowing out a breath, she sinks deeper into the sofa at his side. "You don't sound as pleased as I might have thought."

"I'm not pleased," he returns. "But I will be when this is through. When all the rest of them are buried in the ground."

The words are cool and clinical, a hint of that old deadened tone she remembers from before she knew him at all. The lieutenant with no room for emotion or fear or struggle. And maybe that's who he'll need to become again before the end if they have any hopes at survival.

Who they'll all need to become.

Hermione has let some other part of herself back out, after years spent shoved away. She has friends to care about—a husband to protect. People who matter.

And hopes of a future.

"We'll do what needs to be done," she says, releasing a slow, even breath.

Draco nods once, slowly. "We will."

Theo emerges from the direction of the loo, some of the brightness restored to his eyes as he rakes a threadbare towel through his hair. Just as Neville pokes his head through the door.

For a moment, their gazes lock, and Hermione wishes they'd been alone—because the way Neville's expression softens threatens to undo her entirely.

"Thank Merlin you're awake," he says softly. "You prick. Never get yourself captured again, alright?"

Theo smirks at the room. "Only repaying how you made me feel when you were captured."

"No one's getting captured," Draco clips. He turns back to the door, brows high and expectant. "Anything?"

Neville hooks a thumb over his shoulder. "Luna's outside. Let's see about getting Harry on the mend as well."

Relief skitters, prematurely, across her skin, but Hermione can't help it. She needs Harry to be alright—can't entertain a thought otherwise. She nods, rising to her feet and drawing her wand though she barely has the magic to levitate him outside.

After another moment, Neville's expression shifts. "It smells amazing in here."

"Hermione made soup," Draco offers to the group as a whole, to an assortment of odd expressions. He grimaces and adds, "Eat. And don't any of you dare complain."

"We made soup," she corrects.

And as Theo leaps into the kitchen, ladling two bowls for him and Neville as the latter transports Harry out to the gardens, Hermione's struck with a plethora of emotions she can't dissect. Can't parse from each other into anything that makes sense.

These are her people. Her friends.

And she knows she would kill for any one of them. Die for them, if it means they have a hope at something after this. Something more.

"Come on," she breathes, tugging Draco's hand as she rises to her feet. "We need to get everyone back on their feet—and then we have more work to do."

Chapter End Notes

Sometimes you guys all have theories about things I didn't even think of LOL. Only ten chapters left to go - which feels absolutely crazy to me. I hope you liked this one, and see you all next week! So much love xo

I'll be spending April onwards drafting my new novel. Eep. Wish me luck!

Chapter 42

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

To Hermione’s great relief, Luna’s initial visit is enough to restore Harry’s consciousness. He isn’t fully himself, drifting in and out of sleep, but his wounds have been patched up and the mental haze with which he awoke has begun to dissipate slowly.

According to Luna, her diagnostic spells detected a tricky and arcane spell that would have left Harry in a dream-like state, suspended somewhere beneath consciousness. A spell that would have worsened had they left it for too long.

Now, she's been by a few times to check in. Neville’s made Harry’s excuses with the safehouse, though they all know it’s only a matter of time before he’ll need to return.

Although Hermione knew Luna at Hogwarts, and knew her disposition well enough, the war has sharpened all of their edges. Luna lives in the safehouse where Hermione resided before marrying Draco, but they haven't seen each other with any frequency in years.

The only faith she has in any part of the scenario is the belief that Harry and Luna care for each other.

That, no matter what Luna might think of the rest of them—of the way they've been working together in secret—Hermione has to trust the girl won't give them up. The Fidelius charm on the house will protect them as long as none of them reveals it to her—but the existence of the property has already been compromised.

If the Dark Lord learns of the fact that they're still in London, still living under his nose in the city he's sought to take over, they're all fully aware he won't rest until he finds them.

As of now, they've been largely isolated since the rescue effort at Malfoy Manor.

Neville and Luna have come and gone, but any possible retaliation from the Death Eater camp has been strangely quiet.

Which leaves Hermione all the more convinced that a storm is brewing in Wiltshire.

Hermione slips into the garden where they've erected a temporary shelter for Harry’s magical care, relieved to see the brightness in his eyes.

"Hi, Hermione," Luna says, offering a smile as Hermione slips into the shelter. "You're just in time. Harry’s just woken up."

The words fill her with relief—he’s slept an inordinate amount since being struck with the curse, and something within her relaxes to find him so alert. She sinks into the empty seat next to his cot, a breath tight and cumbersome in her chest as she reaches for Harry's hand. "Have you discovered anything else about the curse we need to know?”

"Not specifically," Luna says softly, brushing her hand through Harry's hair. As she watches them, Hermione feels an intense surge of gratitude that he's at least had Luna since Hermione left the resistance. "But I think we’re past the worst of it. I haven’t seen any relapse to that state of unconsciousness, even when he sleeps.”

"He'll need to get back," Hermione said, clasping Harry's hand a little tighter. "Before people ask too many questions."

"He will," Luna agrees. "Neville and I have covered for him with Cassius for now." She looks up, meeting Hermione's gaze. "I don't know what you've been doing all this time, and even now I can only guess—but I know it isn't my place to share. I care about Harry, and I care about you too, Hermione. I can tell you've all been nervous with my presence here."

The words fall from Hermione's lips as a dry whisper. "There's just a lot at stake."

"Of course there is," Luna agrees, and offers a hint of that old whimsical smile Hermione remembers from their time at Hogwarts together. But the girl has grown up, hardened under the forge of war like the rest of them. "But I want you to know that I'm not going to reveal anything to Cassius. He's far from perfect, as we all are, and whatever issues you had with him before leaving, I don't know about any of that. Whatever reasons you had for marrying Draco Malfoy, I'm sure they were valid."

"Thank you, Luna," Hermione replies softly. "I appreciate that. And... I did have my reasons, though a lot of my leaving was a mess to begin with."

"As is the truth of war," Luna muses. She turns back to Harry, casting several spells as he stifles a yawn. "Anyway—I'll need to continue to keep an eye on him, but I'll have an easier time of it once we're both back at the safehouse. I'm concerned the magic may still flare up again, but all evidence suggests he avoided the worst of it."

Not for the first time, Hermione winces at the thought. At the idea that Harry might have slipped deeper into a dream state if Luna hadn’t been able to determine the problem soon enough.

But he straightens again, an easy grin spreading across his face. “I’m lucky to have such a skilled nurse.”

A faint flush colours Luna’s cheeks. “It was nothing.”

Harry doesn't respond for a moment, but then he glances down at his hand, still clasped in Hermione's, and nods. "I don’t think I’ve said so, but thanks for getting me out of there."

"I passed out," Hermione admits, hesitant to say too much about their mission in front of Luna. "Neville got all of us back."

Harry releases a breath, flinching when he tries to sit up. Luna assists him, then slips an arm around his waist as she helps him to his feet. "Let’s see if you can stay up for a while this time. Cassius isn't asking too many questions yet, but we should get you back soon."

"Let's keep it that way," he intones, then adds a soft, "Thanks, Loons. I know we’ve kept a lot of this secretive but—"

"The rest isn’t my place." She offers Hermione another of those bright smiles, blue eyes sparkling. "Though I must say, it's been a nice break from the more troublesome sides of the war to know that there are other forces at play."

Hermione's gratitude for the girl as she looks at the two of them together only grows. "Please keep me posted as well as you're able."

"Will do," Harry says, leaning some of his weight on Luna's shoulder, but he takes a few tentative steps into the yard. "You as well, please." He glances up, as though the thought has only just occurred to him. "How is Nott doing?"

"Theo is recovering well," Draco cuts in, striding into the yard. "And I am glad to see you doing better."

Harry claps him on the shoulder. "And you."

Hermione allows herself a moment, observing the pair of them as Luna updates Draco on Harry’s condition. She slides into that small, fragile part of herself that longs for so much more. For a world where her husband and her best friend get along.

A world where they can smile and breathe and not spend every waking moment planning and strategising and hoping with a cold desperation that they'll survive to see the next day.

Her eyes burn as she watches Luna lead Harry beyond the wards.

And she doesn't move when, the two of them left alone, Draco pulls her into his arms. He doesn't immediately let her go, his grip tightening, and she draws deep breaths from the fabric of his jumper.

"What's this for?" she asks, the words muffled against his chest.

"You looked like you were about to fall apart," he says, releasing her at last and offering a sly smirk, "and I wanted to keep you together."

She beams at him, her chest tightening. "I was getting close. Thank you." She scans him—the casual clothes, the concealed weapons. "Are we going somewhere?"

"Theo lost his wand when he was captured," Draco says as a response. After Theo gained some of his strength back, Neville performed the spell to draw the Dark Mark from his skin. He's been mostly sleeping in the extra bedroom since. "And I volunteered to get him another."

Immediately, the warmth drains from within her. "It isn't safe—"

"I'll be careful." He meets her eye, and she knows there's no dissuading him from this. Maybe this is his way of holding himself together after everything that’s happened recently.

Their magic is recovering, but slowly, and the feeble shreds of it aren't enough to withstand any sort of altercation. Although he might once have had the power to walk London without fear, that's no longer the case.

"I'll use a glamour," he adds. "And I know how to defend myself. Remember?"

"I remember," she says, a deprecating smile tugging at her lips as she feels herself relent. "Reach out if you need backup, please."

"It'll be fine. Quick in and out."

After Ollivander's closed years ago, another small wandmaker moved into a seedy corner at the edge of Diagon Alley. Pressing back the sharp edge of her instinct, she nods. "Okay."

Draco's mouth finds hers, brief and light, before he's gone.

It takes a little finesse and a few well-timed and innocuous threats to get Theo a new wand. Draco doesn't know this new wandmaker, and if he's honest, he doesn't trust him. Anyone who seeks to come into a city actively at war to peddle wares strikes him as off for a variety of reasons.

Again, he has to remind himself that not everyone is as deeply entrenched in the fighting—but it's hard to miss. Especially when every shop front demonstrates signs of damage and spellfire.

When battalions of Death Eaters routinely travel the high street, and civilians skitter from one door to the next.

It took three attempts to get a proper glamour to stick before going out in public, and Draco doesn't trust it to stay much longer. He's armed with more knives than he has hands—a small comfort he picked up from Hermione—and he watches from a safe distance as three Death Eaters make an ambling path towards Gringotts.

The game is stealth—and he's already got what he came for.

For good measure, he obliviated the shopkeeper before leaving with Theo's new wand. He selected one with similar specifications to Theo's old wand, hoping it's close enough that it will accept him as its new owner.

Still, he can't help the inclination to observe. For days they've been cooped up in the London house together—Potter unconscious, Theo sleeping, Longbottom brooding.

He needs the fresh air—the distance from it all. Since his defection from the Death Eaters, they've been embroiled in rescue efforts or remedial healing, and Draco has scarcely had a chance to come to terms with the life he left behind.

The scraps of one he's now forced to piece together.

All that matters is that he has Hermione and Theo—and that he knows his mother is well-protected by the blood wards in Spain.

He sent her a note after they retrieved Theo that she is, under no circumstances, to leave the safety of the property.

But the alterations to the fabric of his life are both stark and sudden. From one of the highest ranked Death Eaters to a fugitive, forced to hide out from those who operate out of his own home.

Posters of his face are stamped to billboards and lampposts throughout Diagon, and he grimaces as he catches sight of another. DRACO MALFOY: WANTED ALIVE.

And a reward. A grossly excessive reward.

It's almost comical, and if he were in the right mood for it, he would laugh. That the Dark Lord would deign to air his dirty laundry for the rest of London to see. It only affirms one thing, and Draco clings to it: he's growing desperate. If he knew how to find any of them, he wouldn't be going to such lengths in an effort to uncover him.

But it only means his concern for Hermione has deepened. If she had offered to come along on this mission, simple as it is, he knows it would have been an argument.

It isn't that he doesn't trust her, or doesn't believe she can look after herself. Even without magic, she's lethal, and he's seen evidence of that more than most. But he simply doesn't want her to subject herself to anything dangerous unnecessarily. Leaving the house, even for a short trip, is unsafe.

Even as the thought passes his mind, he tenses. He's trained himself to catch attention, to recognise the feel of eyes on him. His mental wards tighten, eyes scanning the high street with a casual nonchalance. His glamour is failing—he can feel it—but he's clad in Muggle clothes with his hood up. He can only hope whoever has eyes on him doesn't immediately recognise him.

They're behind him, and he indulges the approach.

His fingers play about the handle of one of his holstered knives, curling around the wooden grip.

In an instant, he draws the blade and brings it to the neck of his would-be assailant as he turns on the spot.

It takes a split second longer than it should for Draco to realise he's staring into the face of Cassius Warrington, eyes dancing with irreverent mirth.

He doesn't flinch, doesn't release the pressure as the edge of his blade presses into the tender skin of Warrington's throat. And for a long moment the man doesn't react, doesn't speak, his focus fixed on Draco and not the imminent death waiting at the end of his next breath.

"What a find," Warrington says at last. He snorts low in his throat. "The ghost outside in the sunshine and all alone."

Draco snarls at him, pressing the tip just hard enough to break skin. "The fuck do you want?"

"I didn't believe it at first," Warrington goes on, ignoring Draco. "When I heard you'd defected from the Death Eaters. That you'd taken a handful of your own out before going." He folds his arms, a cruel grin spreading across his face. "But here you are."

Lifting his chin, Draco drawls, "Took out more than a handful. And if you think that means I won't kill you, you're sorely mistaken."

"You always were a dramatic shit," Warrington scoffs. "I ought to kill you for all the trouble you've caused me. But I find my own curiosity is in the way."

"Curiosity killed the cat," Draco purrs, tightening his grip on the knife, "or haven't you heard?"

A slow trickle of blood breaks from the puncture wound and slides down Warrington's neck. Draco longs to jam the knife through his jugular. Wipe the humour from his face as his life force drains.

Too soon. Not ready.

If he kills Warrington right now, too many plans will go unresolved. The resistance will tighten defences, bolstering their waning leadership.

A thought flickers through the back of his mind. That if the resistance is focused on what they deem to be turmoil within the Death Eaters, they aren't focused on themselves.

"I have heard that one," Warrington says. "I've also heard a few other things. Like that prick Nott is your right hand."

Despite the cold sear of anger that flickers across his skin at just hearing the man speak of Theo, Draco smirks. "Shouldn't put faith in every piece of shit line an informant feeds you."

"No," Warrington goes on, "I probably shouldn't. What about you getting kicked from the Death Eaters because of your wife?"

There's enough vitriol—enough of a threat—behind the words that Draco sees red.

He barks a laugh. "You believe whatever you want. See where it gets you."

"I more than believe," Warrington says, the sentiment behind the words so idle that every muscle in Draco's body tenses. "For instance, I know Nott was in correspondence with someone on my side. And I know that Granger was close with Potter before she ran off with you."

Draco snorts, his hand unwavering as he keeps his knife at Warrington's throat. "I like to think I know a lot of things. Sometimes I'm still fucking wrong."

If Warrington had a true basis for any of this, he wouldn't be speaking of it to Draco. If he thought Potter had betrayed the resistance in some way, he would have already acted. He was ready to kill Hermione when she left the resistance.

He's fishing for information, and it makes Draco's upper lip curl with revulsion.

Rolling his eyes, Warrington shifts back, tilting his neck away from Draco's blade. "We both know you only wanted to use Granger in your little games. Too bad she fell for it—always thought she was smarter than that."

"Do we both know that," Draco sneers.

"Of course we do." Warrington folds his arms, and Draco wants to cut the smugness from his face. "What would someone like you want with someone like her?"

The man is adrift in dangerous waters, and it's a wonder Draco's found the patience to keep him alive. Offering as facetious a smirk as he can dredge forth, he says, "Wouldn't you like to know? It isn't my fault you lot never saw her as the asset she is."

For a moment, Warrington's gaze measures him as though he's genuinely considering the words. "What I would actually like to know," he says, his voice lowering. Draco suspects he's finally reached the point of this ridiculous conversation. "Is why you left. You were his right hand—you had everything."

"Funny you think that," Draco says, unwilling to reveal a damn thing. "And by the way, if this is some convoluted scheme to convince me to fight for you—" He sees the slight flinch in Warrington's facade "—taunts and hinted threats aren't the way to do it."

"Would you prefer a genuine threat then?" Warrington asks, and any note of amusement and irreverence vanishes from his tone. "Because I know exactly who your wife associated with when she was with the resistance, and you're crazy if you think I haven't kept a very close eye on them. I can't imagine she'll be happy with you if you let her friends die—"

In a split second, Draco flips the blade, pressing the sharp edge hard against Warrington's throat once more.

He feels the skin break, jaw clenching hard as fury races rampant through him. He wants to slice deep, to feel the hot spill of blood as it sprays from the man's throat.

"If you dare to threaten my wife again," he hisses, ducking in close, basking in the real fear that glints in Warrington's eyes. "I will kill you myself, and it won't be quick." He presses harder, blood flowing over the surface of the blade, hot and sticky on his fingers. "I would sooner watch you die in front of me than fight for any of you."

Blood pounds behind his ears, threatening the fragile cords of his composure as Draco tears himself away, and he funnels his anger into fuel within himself as he Disapparates home without looking back.

His blood courses with venom when he arrives back at the house, grateful to find the space quiet. Longbottom has taken to visiting Theo when he's able, but to Draco's great relief, he finds only Hermione.

He can still feel Warrington's blood on his hands.

Can still hear the prick's mocking threats.

His hands vibrate with the need to wrap them around his throat, to squeeze until the light vanishes from his eyes—but all Draco can do is draw a deep breath, forcing himself to remember the bigger picture.

He can't kill Warrington. Not yet.

Not until more elements of the plan lock into place. They dealt a massive blow to the Death Eaters in recovering Theo—more than Draco had even hoped for—but it came with a cost. No part of their operation remains undercover, as evidenced by Warrington rooting around for information—and coming a little too close for comfort.

But the Death Eaters' struggles are the resistance's courage, and Warrington isn't the next domino to fall.

Especially not now. Not after their conversation. Draco wants to rip everything he has from him.

"What happened?" Hermione finds him in the loo, scrubbing at his hands and watching the blood spiral down the drain. He takes a long, deep breath, unable to look at her. "Draco! Whose blood is that?"

It takes him long seconds to steady his voice well enough to answer. "Warrington's."

"Shit," she breathes. "You didn't—"

"No. I didn't."

He wishes he didn't have to tell her how much he wanted to. How strongly the temptation pulled at him. But he doesn't even need to see it—he knows she can see it in him.

"What happened?" she asks, softer this time. "What did he say to you?"

The conversation spins around Draco's head, blurred and indistinct, and he clenches the edges of the sink with tense knuckles. "He threatened you."

To his surprise, Hermione laughs, sinking against the wall. "Why does that sound exactly like him? He's wanted me dead since he found out I'd betrayed Foray, remember? I can't believe of everything he could have said to you—"

"He's trying to figure out who you're still in contact with," he adds, staring hard at the sink. "You'll want to warn Potter and Longbottom to be more careful. But if he has anything concrete, he would have already acted."

She falls silent, and he can feel her gaze on the side of his head. "Okay," she says at last, more a sigh than a word. "I'll send a message to their coins. What's our next step with the resistance?"

"I don't know," Draco admits. "I don't know any of it right now."

As he speaks the words aloud, he feels the truth of it. That for all of their plans and machinations, it's come to this. They're injured and weak, struggling under the weight of self-imposed expectations, and Draco suddenly can't decide whether he hates it more than when he was at the right hand of a madman.

Maybe there might be some sense in working with Warrington. With the resistance.

If not for the fact that the man is atop Draco's list for death.

Idly, he wonders whether it ought to concern him that his instinct is to kill those who oppose him. Who disagree with him. Who threaten or attack him.

But the war drained his meagre supply of morality long ago, and he's learned the hard way too many times what survival truly looks like. All its many costs.

His brain spins with options. With the forked paths they now face, and he doesn't know which way to go. They've come so far, but still so much reaches ahead.

"We need to take out Warrington," he chokes, sinking back against the wall next to her. "But how? When? What makes the most sense? I don't even—"

"We don't need to figure it out right now," she murmurs, her arm pressing against his. "I promise. It can wait."

He doesn't want to argue, but they all know their time is limited. Enemies close in from all sides, and their allies are scarce. He presses his brow into her hair, drawing cool comfort from the scent of her.

"We need to make a plan," he exhales, the very words embedding agony in his soul.

"What we need," she breathes, "is rest."

Draco sighs, eyelids falling heavily shut. The thought of rest—of allowing himself such a trivial indulgence—feels at odds with everything he's done for more than five years. But she's right.

Potter's recovering, his loyalty in question; Theo's still weak from his capture. He and Hermione have taken a severe hit to the strength of their magic. And Longbottom... He doesn't even know what the Asp Encircle did to Longbottom.

Their small team is ripping at the seams, and if they aren't careful, they'll come apart entirely.

"Yeah," he mutters at last, scrubbing at his burning eyes. "I'd better get this wand to Theo. He'll want to practise with it."

"Draco," Hermione says, fingers curling around his wrist as he makes to slip from the room. He hesitates on the threshold. "I love you."

A heavy breath slides from his lips. "I love you. I'll do anything in this world to keep you safe."

Her fingers briefly tighten. "I know." And before he walks away, "There's still soup in the fridge."

Soup only makes him think of the bookshop. The café. The future that he knows he'll never be able to offer.

"Thanks." He nods once. He can barely stand to look at her, to withstand the turmoil in his soul, and he walks away, wondering if he'll ever give her anything but pain.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much, as always, for reading. A bit of a slower chapter, but I hope you liked it all the same. Have a nice week everyone!

Chapter 43

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

A cool breeze drifts past, leaves skittering across the pavement at her feet. Hermione sucks in a deep breath, fresh air washing over her.

Air that doesn't taste bitter and stale, stifled by an abundance of magical protections. She's scarcely left the confined grounds of the London house in days—not since they went to the Manor to reclaim Theo—and she's grown increasingly desperate for a break.

Concealed under as many charms as she knows, she takes a step down the road, eyelids fluttering at the feel of something else. Anything else.

This isn't what they expected. It's not what they wanted when Draco left the Death Eaters.

For all of their plans and efforts to crumble down around them, leaving the small group of them clinging to life and safety by a fragile thread that grows weaker by the day. Her magic is a weak thrum in her veins, a droplet of water compared to the roaring rapids they experienced at the manor.

It's coming back, but slowly.

Harry hasn't been able to visit since their last talk, and from what she can surmise, his condition is stable but still a massive glaring question mark. Theo has mostly recovered from his capture at Malfoy Manor, and as far as they can tell, his Occlumency shields held out just long enough to keep the important details safe.

Like the location of the house. Neville and Harry's involvement.

Hermione has no doubt that every Death Eater is out to kill her and Draco—but they knew that would be the case when the original plans to abscond fell into motion.

Beyond the wards, she indulges herself in a short walk. Her owl flaps away, a letter clutched in its talons, charting a path for Spain. The house is too well protected for Floo access, but with as much pressure as they've been under, she knows Draco will be more comfortable once he knows his mother's safe.

And without knowing exactly where Lucius stands, they can't risk another trip.

Hermione kicks a stone on the pathway with the toe of her boot, knocking it to the side as she carries on. She stumbles over another stone, and it takes her a moment to realise it's the same one when it rattles again, nudging itself against her boot.

Casting a furtive glance down the block, she bends to scoop the smooth stone in her palm. A strange combination of surprise, caution, and fear grips her when she eyes the surface of the stone to see an elegantly scrawled 'G' engraved on its surface.

When she left the resistance and took up residence at Malfoy Manor instead, she lost contact with all of her old informants. And now, with all of her regular appointments lost, they're implicitly in the dark on too many matters of importance.

Smoothing her thumb along the rock, she presses down on the letter.

Gilbert was one of her informants that Draco knew of, even before they started seeing each other as something more than enemies. Once she even witnessed the pair of them in discussion. But he was also one of the ones with the most consistent and reliable intel.

Intel that they desperately need right now—something to fill the gaping void between what they know from inside the resistance and everything else.

Hermione feels now like everything weighs so much more heavily than it did back then. More lives hang in the balance. And for the first time in years, despite her best efforts to quash it down, she feels a feeble sting of hope.

They've come so far, and she'll be devastated to watch it all crumble apart now.

She glances again at the stone, feeling the small manipulations within it as the G shifts and clicks. A calling card. One she was unable to reach out to before. And within the heavy warding of the house, he wouldn't have been able to contact her either.

Draco will be expecting her return. Her mind spins through each possibility; she shoots a glance back towards the house, ducks between the nearest buildings, and Apparates. She slips one hand into her pocket to wrap around her wand.

Gilbert is as she remembers him. Bushy moustache, tie askew, shoes scuffed.

And if she isn't mistaken, he looks relieved to see her.

Hermione shifts alongside him, casting several wards on the space where they used to meet every week. It feels strange—like reverting back to a part of herself that thought only of survival. Of making it from one day to the next.

"What do you have for me?" she asks, unwilling to linger.

To her surprise, Gilbert turns to face her, looking her up and down. "You're alive."

Hermione doesn't deign to offer a response.

"Word has it," Gilbert says sharply after a moment, "Draco Malfoy left the Death Eaters."

Releasing a sigh, Hermione glances down at her watch. "Surely you're aware I already know as much."

It isn't any secret, even beyond the Death Eater circles, that she and Draco are married. Even the resistance was aware of that long ago.

"I'm also told," Gilbert goes on, "that he took a number of them down on his way out. That he returned—that he's responsible for the destruction at Malfoy Manor and the deaths of over two dozen additional Death Eaters."

Some part of Hermione bristles, when she had a hand in that strike as well, but she doesn't respond. Something about the meeting catches her as odd, and despite her weakened magic, she tightens her hold on her wand in her pocket. The weight of a knife concealed in her thigh holster is a comfort. If she needs to make a quick escape—if she needs to fight her way out—she will.

If this informant has been compromised.

Her heart leaps into her throat at the thought.

"What do you have for me?" she asks again, teeth gritted. "None of this is useful unless you're trying to get information from me. In which case, find someone else. You're the informant."

Gilbert shifts on the spot, eyes sliding one way then the other.

A shudder shoots down Hermione's spine at his behaviour, and she draws her wand free.

"Wait," Gilbert hisses, lowering his voice. "Okay, listen. Obviously, it's no surprise that the Dark Lord wants Draco Malfoy dead—word has it Cassius Warrington wants him on his side. But you can't trust anything he says. Not a word."

Hermione blinks at him, wand clenched tight. "Of course not. He's wanted me dead for months."

"I mean..." Gilbert makes a face. "No one even knows if Draco is alive."

The words strike deep within her, and Hermione frowns. "The Dark Lord doesn’t know if he survived the dungeons?"

Gilbert gives a non-committal shrug. "Did he?"

"I'm not—"

"Come on, Hermione."

She freezes, tensing, at the tone. At the way Gilbert's appearance falters briefly, and when Hermione looks closer, she sees a flash of green eyes.

It isn't a secret that most informants obscure their true appearance, but no part of this interaction makes any sense. If she didn't know better—and she isn't certain she doesn't—she would think this isn't even the same man.

"Please just tell me if Draco's alive," Gilbert says in a breath.

Hermione hardens her jaw, lifting her wand to the man's throat. "Who are you?"

With a great huff of annoyance, Gilbert glances around the empty clearing—and then begins to dissolve. The moustache disappears, the ruddy colouring smoothing into pale, unblemished skin. Green eyes. Pursed red lips. Chin-length black hair.

Hermione sucks in a breath. "Pansy."

Folding her arms across her front, Pansy Parkinson sinks back against the building. "So?"

Turning over all of their past interactions in her mind, Hermione can't quite make sense of it. When she spent time with Daphne and Pansy in the past, she didn't have any indication that the latter was an informant.

"Draco's alive," she clips, "and you owe me an explanation."

"Not much to explain, honestly," Pansy retorts. "Choosing a side is boring."

"So you became an informant."

"Look, I had my reasons, alright?" She huffs another irritated sigh. "My parents didn't want me to fight, but I didn't want to sit around doing nothing."

The implications settle in, and Hermione isn't certain she cares for them. "You were informing for me for months."

"Yes," she drawls, "I was. For Draco too, until recently. And a small handful of others, none of whom knew who I was." Her green eyes glint, a hint of amusement curling her lips. "Secrets are more valuable than anything else these days."

And when she puts it that way, it makes perfect sense why Pansy Parkinson would go down such a route.

But before Hermione can speak, she sobers again. "The Dark Lord doesn't know Draco's status after the destruction at Malfoy Manor last week. You lot took out quite a few Death Eaters before the cave-in. And the damage was extensive enough that it took him a few days to realise your bodies weren't among the rest."

"The cave-in was Draco," Hermione offers. "But we were there to get Theo."

"I know." Pansy shoots a glance around, as though more nervous now that she's revealed who she truly is. "And it's a good thing you went when you did. It was all a set-up. A trap to lure Draco back to the manor and into an ambush."

Hermione grimaces. "I reckon they expected us to die down there."

Pansy lifts a confirming finger. "And they would have killed Theo, too."

It isn't anything she hasn't pieced together on her own, but the words still embed a chill in her veins. "What can you tell me about their plans? About Warrington's?"

Shaking her head a little, Pansy frowns. "I lost my best inside source in the Death Eaters when Draco left. But as far as I can tell, the Dark Lord is angry. He's volatile—aggressive. Once he discovers anything about Draco’s whereabouts, I wouldn't be surprised for him to set upon an all-out assault." She hesitates, and they both ponder the thought as it sinks in. "Meanwhile Warrington grows more confident. He sees Draco's defection as a win for him—as an opportunity to pounce on a perceived weakness."

Hermione tugs at her curls, wracking her brain for anything to make sense. "You must know some details."

"Here's what I know," Pansy says, lowering her voice and speaking quicker. "There's this network—people who won't fight with the Death Eaters but refuse to follow the resistance for any number of reasons. People like me. Informants. People who just want it all to end. To try and rebuild from what remains."

"And?"

"And they're growing stronger—amassing support from outside forces. They have an in with the new Minister for Magic."

She doesn't think she wants to know, but the words slide from her lips anyway. "Who's in charge of this network?"

Pansy's green eyes land on her. "George Weasley."

Hermione isn't certain whether her heart doesn't fully stop for several beats. All that slides from her lips is a weak, feeble, "Oh."

Dropping his face into his palms, Draco sighs. "None of this makes any sense."

"I know," Hermione breathes, "trust me."

"Weasley never joined the resistance?"

She sinks into the sofa next to him, head dropping back onto the cushion. "No. Fred died at the Battle of Hogwarts—and George shut down. He refused to fight for a long time, and by then the war was so volatile that there wasn't any room to figure it out after the fact."

"What about the rest of the Weasleys?" His tone softens when he glances up, catching the look on her face. "Didn't they—?"

"Yes." She falls silent, scrubbing at her eyes. "Some of them did. Arthur, the patriarch, fell about a year into the fighting. Molly took Ginny and fled to the continent—as far as we know. No one knows if they actually made it." She draws in a deep breath. "We lost Ron a while ago in a raid gone wrong."

Draco doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't recall such a thing, but it's obvious he's no longer around.

It's been the way of things for altogether too long. Sometimes people simply vanish—and more often than not, they've fallen in one of the endless fights that have carried on for so many years. It's typically safe to assume that if someone disappears, they're dead.

"Percy is still with the resistance," she adds softly. "One of the other safehouses. George holed himself up in a corner of England and I haven't seen him since."

"And Pansy is an informant."

When she returned from her walk, more than an hour after she was due to return, Draco had been beside himself with worry. But no part of the story she recounted made any sense.

"Yes. Gilbert."

Draco’s met with Gilbert on more than a few occasions. His stomach twists up at the thought that he was dealing with Pansy all along. When he asked Pansy and Daphne to help Hermione prepare for the party after their wedding, he thought they'd been relatively safe neutral parties.

"So why tell us now? About this network."

"Isn't it obvious?" she asks, pressing her eyes shut. "Because it's apparent now you aren't loyal to the Death Eaters. And I'm sure there aren't any remaining doubts that we've had our own motivations all along. Pansy wouldn't have dared tell you anything like that while you were running the Death Eaters."

Draco can't string together a response through the shame that grows deep inside.

The longer he spends on his own, the more time distanced from the cruel master that controlled him for so many years, the more he comes to feel as if he's breathing fresh air for the first time since he was a teenager. And now, despite the inherent and ubiquitous danger that surrounds them, he can't help but feel as though he should have done this sooner.

The thought burns within him. If he'd known of something like this—some extraneous organisation seeking to end the war—he would have used the information to his own benefit. To keep himself alive.

Putting his own survival ahead of anything else. Like he did so many times.

Bile rises in the back of his throat. "Who else did she mention?"

"She didn't," Hermione replies. "Just that they're in contact with the new Minister for Magic."

Draco glances over sharply. "Even while he was with the resistance?"

"After."

Although he held the reins for so long, adrift as he now feels, Draco doesn't always know which way to turn. The strategic mind he prided himself on while at the right hand of the Dark Lord doesn't function in any useful way. All he does now is question and second-guess every decision.

Maybe the difference is that he has other lives to concern himself with.

Lives he cares about more than his own.

"And what are we meant to do with this information? Did Pansy tell you anything else?"

Her shoulders sag as she deflates into the cushion. "No. I don't know. Just that this network exists and there's some sort of structure to it. And that we can't trust Warrington. He thinks you leaving the Death Eaters and causing as much trouble as you did is a victory for the resistance."

"No shit," he snickers. "We haven't trusted Warrington all along." She doesn't respond, expression unreadable, and Draco rolls his eyes as he takes her hand into his. "Rather, you had no choice but to do so."

"Do we reach out to Kingsley?"

She asks the question like she fears his response. Like she wishes she wasn't asking it at all.

"Your call," Draco says softly. "I have no connection to him. And to be honest, he's as likely to try to kill me as anything else."

"He's the Minister for Magic now. He can't simply lift a wand against you."

"Wouldn't put it past him to try."

Even talking about this makes him queasy, when for so long, Kingsley Shacklebolt was one of his highest priority targets. When he was one of the leaders of the resistance, and Draco thought only of the master pulling his strings.

"Harry still has influence with him." She scrubs at her eyes, as though all of this is more tiresome than she can withstand. Draco understands the sentiment implicitly. "If we can get Kingsley to talk, we might be able to learn more about this network."

"And what about Weasley?"

At the name, Hermione shrinks in on herself, as though this is what she can't handle. Thinking of a family she grew up with, friends she lost. "I have no idea who George is anymore. I thought he didn't care about what happened with the war."

"Obviously he cares enough."

Resignation takes her countenance, and she shoots him a wan look. "We don't have another route forward right now. And I can't help but think we need to follow this trail."

"Can we meet with Pansy again?" He manages a thick swallow at the thought of his old friend. "If we can persuade her to inform exclusively for us, it'll alleviate some of this vacuum we’re in about the Death Eaters."

It feels like dead end after dead end, and they can't stagnate.

"That's your call," she says quietly. "I imagine Pansy would do that if you asked her."

Draco's focus snaps to her, but he can't detect anything untoward beneath the statement. It's one thing to discuss Weasley—knowing he might have had some sort of history with Hermione—since the man is no longer alive. But Pansy was his first girlfriend, and the thought that Hermione might take issue with that is almost comical in itself.

Not least of all because they're magically bound to each other for life.

But because he can't imagine something like that holding any importance in his present existence.

"I'll ask her," he says. "If you still have her calling card."

Hermione presses a small stone into his hand, an elaborate G carved into its smooth surface. Draco nods his thanks, pocketing the stone until he can decide what he wants to say to her.

"She was worried about you," Hermione muses, tucking into his side. "I could tell. After you left the Death Eaters and collapsed the dungeons at the manor. She didn't know whether you were still alive."

The words strike him on some level he can't comprehend. The knowledge that an old friend still cares whether he's alive or dead, despite all the lives he's taken, despite all the harm he's caused.

To know Pansy thought of him—wondered if he'd made it out alive—hits him squarely in the chest.

"I'll reach out to Pansy," he says gruffly, clenching the stone in his palm. "You talk to Potter. Find out what, if anything, he knows about this network business. And if he thinks it makes any sense to talk to Shacklebolt."

"If we do," she murmurs, "it'll have to be in private."

"Yeah." Draco hates the chaos in his mind. Hates that he can't separate rationality from impulse. Not like he used to. He's lowered himself to a place of espionage, of underground and hiding and concealment. He presses his eyes shut and reminds himself this is what he wanted. "That's fine."

Longbottom paces at his side, surprisingly nimble and quiet for his bulk. The man is all strength and power and blind fucking courage—not what Draco might have expected from him growing up. But as one of the resistance's toughest fighters, he isn't surprised this is how he's become.

"How's Theo?" he asks, the words low and droll as though he isn't keen on the answer.

"Fine," Draco returns. "He's been through it—but he'll pull through just fine."

Both Longbottom and Potter have kept a low profile within the resistance for the last week with Warrington's watchful eye on them—which makes this plan all the more absurd.

After Draco's run-in with Warrington in Diagon Alley, he's been more anxious than ever to know what the man is planning—and especially after learning what Pansy said to Hermione about it. That Cassius Warrington views Draco's defection —and their subsequent strike on the Death Eaters—as a win for him.

His lip curls at the mere thought.

If nothing else, his magic has trickled back in. Not to the strength it was before the attack on the Manor, but strong enough that he trusts to hold his own in battle. He has to remind himself that both he and Hermione diligently collected magic before that. They can do it again—and they will. If nothing more than to keep a reservoir on hand in case the need arises.

They've been in the woods scouting a potential meeting for the better part of half an hour. A not-so-anonymous tip from Pansy that Warrington would be meeting someone.

And for him to leave the safety of the resistance safehouses strikes Draco as patently suspicious.

"Yeah," Longbottom mutters eventually. "He's tough."

Almost absent-mindedly, he massages one thumb into the opposite palm. The palm still infused with glowing purple magic from the spell with the Asp Encircle. Draco's attention falls to the movement, watching to see if he can discern anything from Longbottom's expression.

The man is a closed book; Draco nods at his palm. "The fuck did you do, anyway?"

Jolting to realisation, Longbottom drops his hands. "Nothing. It's fine."

"Obviously it isn't nothing," Draco drawls, leaning against a nearby tree. The bark is rough through his hooded jumper. "We saw the spell. The Asp left some sort of imprint on you, didn't it?"

"Don't know." Longbottom's tone is sharp and closed off, as though he doesn't want to talk about it. He rolls his neck with a crack. "Hasn't killed me yet, has it?"

"Reassuring."

A tense silence falls over them. Draco's interest in Longbottom's wellbeing is significantly greater than it was months before when the man was his prisoner. Not only is he Hermione's friend and Theo's paramour, but Draco's come to rely on him as one of their team. As something like a friend.

At last, Longbottom sighs, squinting through the trees. "I tried to look it up but couldn't find any answers. I don't know what it's doing to me." He only shrugs. "It doesn't change matters. We needed to know Theo was still alive; we got him back. That's all I care about."

"Let me see it." Draco holds out a hand, drawing his wand, and as Longbottom rolls his eyes, he yanks the man's wrist towards him. When Longbottom doesn't recoil, Draco releases his arm and casts a series of magical detection spells.

He can sense the magic of the Asp Encircle, swirling beneath Longbottom's palm, but can't discern the magic's purpose. He searches within himself, methodically going through each of the spells he knows that might explain such a phenomenon. Finally, he shakes his head. "I can't tell what it's doing. It's... dormant in some way. Like it's waiting for something."

"It's watching," Longbottom says, the words clipped and brisk as though he's made a joke. But for a long moment, they only stare at each other.

"Watching," Draco mouths to himself, casting the magic another wary glance. "Perhaps you ought to wear a glove."

Another painfully awkward moment passes. And then, "A glove."

A low snort escapes Draco when they lock eyes. "Yeah. It's horrifying, honestly."

"Right, because a fucking glove is going to—" Longbottom cuts himself off, eyes narrowing as he lifts his other hand and points through the trees.

Draco erected enough of his own wards that he knows no one will ever be able to see them, but still, adrenaline courses through him when he sees someone through the woods. "Warrington," he murmurs.

"Yeah."

They both watch, breaths held, as Warrington approaches another figure in a hood. Draco grimaces at the angle, unable to see who the second person is. Carefully, he slides along the perimeter of his wards, anxious for something. Anything.

Aside from Voldemort himself, Warrington is at the top of his list—but there is too much going on around the man for them to make a move just yet. All Draco wants now is to know what he's up to.

He stops, catching sight of a face. "Motherfucker."

"Who?" Longbottom asks, peering through the trees.

Draco hardens his jaw. "It's Adrian Pucey."

They share a hard look.

He’s always been a loyal Death Eater, to Draco’s knowledge, and one of the ones he got along with decently well. But Pucey was friends with Flint, and Draco knows how easily his loyalties collapsed when something more important was on the line.

"Okay," Draco says, dragging a hand through his hair. They're too far to hear anything, but his mind reels all the same. "Flint was working with Foray before. Maybe there was a connection there with Pucey too. They all knew each other at Hogwarts."

"Flint’s gone," Longbottom points out. "Surely this isn’t another round of Foray—but if it is, I don’t know anything. Warrington doesn’t tell me much anymore. "

The words wash over him as Draco eyes the pair of them. Whatever reason they have for meeting like this, clandestine and obscure, it has to be important.

At this point, he shouldn't be surprised by anything.

But to learn how many Death Eaters have been slipping around in the shadows for their own purposes is intriguing in a way that would have once infuriated him.

"What can Pucey offer him?" Longbottom breathes, clenching his palm into a fist.

Draco shakes his head. "I don't know. But we need to figure it out. Anything Warrington does is for himself and that doesn’t always mean it’s for the resistance."

He expects Longbottom to disagree with him—to bring forth that old Gryffindor spirit and argue for the sake of morality. But he only rolls his eyes and says, "We should have set up closer."

And for a strange, unsettling moment, Draco wants to laugh. At the fact that he's working with Neville Longbottom—that he considers the man more on his side than that of the resistance. And that he doesn't hate it.

"Throw them both to the fucking wolves," Draco mutters under his breath. Were he still Pucey’s lieutenant, he would care more about this betrayal. "But Pucey might be easier to catch alone than Warrington."

He draws his wand, shooting a variety of spells across the woods between them in a meagre attempt to listen in on their conversation. But they're too far—or the spells Warrington’s used to muffle the conversation are too strong. They ought to have known better than to meet anywhere, especially with their identities revealed—but it's a stroke of luck for Draco.

"I'll see if I can find anything out," Longbottom says, "though we already know Cassius suspects me, and I don’t want to push it. He knows I was Theo's handler before, and obviously knows you and Theo are close. I don't think he's willing to tell me much these days."

Draco can't discount the simplicity of that logic, despite that he wants to keep Longbottom and Potter as an inside channel to the resistance as long as possible.

"Fine," he drawls, stowing his wand. "See what you can find out, but get out of there if and when you need to. That house of cards is coming down soon anyway."

"Honestly," Longbottom says, folding his arms as he leans back against a tree trunk. "Warrington's hubris is going to get him killed sooner than later. He's getting braver and dumber."

Draco snorts. "Someone else will do the dirty work for me, you're saying."

They share a grin and Longbottom shrugs. "If you do it right, you'll take the legs out before you lop off the head."

"Precisely." Draco peers through the trees once more, and it looks as though Pucey and Warrington are through with their discussion. "Now we'll have to find out what those two are up to."

Realistically, if they can dismantle the resistance before they take out Warrington, it'll be for the best. Take the organisation apart piece by piece—force the good fighters away. The majority of the pieces in play won't need to die.

Maybe the winds of change will reveal something new.

Glancing at his watch, Longbottom draws his wand. "I'd better get back before Cassius does."

Draco's coin warms in his pocket, and he holds up a hand as he pulls it out, reading the pair of messages that appear on its face. "Hermione talked with Potter—they've secured a meeting with Shacklebolt." He glances up. "Tomorrow evening."

A frisson of unease lances his spine at the thought.

"Noted." Longbottom squints into the sun for a moment. "Kingsley's fair. I'm sure he'll be willing to hear you out. He'll know you've defected by now."

The thought does little to ease the instinctive flare within him. "Yeah," Draco mutters. "I'll keep you posted."

Longbottom claps his good palm to Draco's shoulder, and moments later he's gone. Leaving Draco to ponder altogether too many things.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts and theories! Have a wonderful week everyone xo

Chapter 44

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

All at once, too many paths reach ahead of them. Down any given path could be hope. Could be redemption. Could be wreckage.

Hermione has always been decisive to a certain extent. But now she doesn't know what to do, when it isn't only her life at stake.

The resistance and its leaders have to fall. The Death Eaters have to fall. She can see Draco carrying the weight of it all, and it grows heavier by the day. All she can do is offer support. To do her part and ease the load.

But she can't lead them into ruin.

"What do we do?" he asks, leaning on the deck railing at her side. The sky above is pitch and starless, a barely there breeze hanging cool on the night air.

The options are too many. Too few.

They carry on alone. As they've done. With only a few friends at their sides, only raw willpower urging them on and the cold knowledge that they simply can't stop.

They're set to meet with Kingsley Shacklebolt tomorrow, and Draco's made his reticence over the matter known. For him, he's only ever seen Kingsley as an adversary. He doesn't know him in the ways she's known him. As a comrade in arms. As a friend.

But now he's the Minister for Magic, leading the wizarding community through a time of strife and destruction. And Hermione isn't certain whether she knows him as well as she wishes. As well as she might have. Before she left the resistance. Before his shoulders bore the weight of such a mantle.

And the more she thinks about it, the more she wonders about what Pansy said. About a network of people who want to see an end to the war.

People carrying the same torch as them, only in different ways. But none of them know how to trust people anymore. Most certainly not people whose motivations aren't clear.

Hermione releases a breath. "I don't know."

Draco peers up at the sky, as though attempting to divine their answers from the vague nothingness above. Sometimes she would give anything to be able to truly read his mind, because for as much as she's come to know him, every so often he still feels like a stranger.

Like she doesn't know his thoughts. Doesn't know what he really wants deep down.

"Whatever you want to do," he says softly. "I'm with you."

"If I wanted to leave."

The words slide from her lips as a whisper, and he doesn't look at her. Nor does he falter. "I'd go pack."

She knows they aren't going anywhere. They've already had this discussion, and they haven't faced so many obstacles to turn and walk away from everything now.

But a small, quiet, cowardly part of her wishes they weren't so committed. That they'd had the option to leave all along. That they could have gone elsewhere, lived a different life. A life without all of this pain.

Hermione releases a quiet sigh. "I ask myself every day if we're doing the right things. Making the right decisions. If these are choices that are even within our power to make, or if we're playing a game with pieces we ought to have left alone."

Draco turns to stare at her, face blank, eyes vacant. "Maybe they aren't. Maybe we haven't done one thing right."

Despite that the words are far from reassuring, it only reminds her that she isn't alone. That they're in this together. They've been at each other's side, even before they realised that was the case. Even when they were entrapped in a murderous game of cat and mouse, she wasn't in this alone.

"All I know," he says, trailing his fingers along her arm, "is that we're taking action. Maybe none of this is going to work out, and maybe we'll all end up dead and no one will ever remember us. But we didn't do nothing, and we didn't fucking run when things got bad."

Her eyes burn as the crisp air finds moisture at their corners. "I used to fancy myself courageous. Used to think I could do anything if I really wanted it badly enough." She hesitates, finding his eyes on her. "And now I can't help but think how naive I was. Sometimes life imposes its own constraints on those things we're desperate for."

Draco doesn't respond, and for a long moment they slide into a silence that's just short of comfortable. When she seeks out his gaze, amusement sparkles back at her, and she can't help a hint of a smile.

"For what it's worth," he says eventually, "I think you're the most courageous person I know. And that has nothing to do with the circumstances life throws at you—and everything to do with how you respond."

The words are enough to fortify her waning spirit, and she blows out a long breath, shoulders sinking down.

"When I was young," he says quietly. "Like, young. Stupid. I thought I could teach myself to fly without a broom if I tried at it long enough. Threw myself from a second floor window. Broke one of my ankles and sprained the other. I think Patroclus nearly had a heart attack."

"You didn't," she gasps, clapping a hand to her mouth.

"Mother was beside herself," he says with a snicker. "Wouldn't speak to my father for a week because he was meant to be watching me." A smile lingers on his face for a long moment, as though reminiscing on a different time. Finally, he shakes his head slowly and the warmth slides away. "The difference between us is that you genuinely could do anything if you wanted to. And I'll be here."

The simplicity beneath the words is enough to embed a tight searing of warmth in her chest.

In a matter of months, he's gone from the person she hated the most—the one literally tasked with killing her—to the person she trusts above anyone else to watch her back. To keep her grounded and protected. The person she most wants to see at the end of each long day.

"We'll both be here," she replies softly, leaning into his side. "No matter what happens tomorrow—or the day after. I have to believe in that."

Because if she gives up on faith now, when they've done so much and come so far, she doesn't know that she'll have the strength to keep going.

Whether things one day get better, or so much worse. It isn't the end yet.

Reaching within herself, Hermione nudges against the thread of magic between them. He prods back, mischief sparkling in his eyes. The thread that holds them together, irrevocably.

No matter what else, she can't regret that.

"Let's worry about tomorrow," he says softly, "when the sun rises."

For a moment, she loses herself in his eyes. In the way moonlight glints off the grey and turns them silver. "Deal."

He digs a hand into her hair, bringing her lips to his, and his mouth on hers is hard, urgent and slipping into desperate as he drags her close. Presses her against the exterior of the house, his body firm against hers as she winds her arms around his neck and loses herself in the feel of him.

A low moan slides from her lips and he swallows it up, delving between her lips, his palm sliding to her arse and hitching her leg around his waist. She can already feel him hard against her hip, arousal coiling within her as all of her senses fire.

"Draco," she gasps, tilting her head as his lips blaze a trail along her jaw and down her neck. She coils her fingers in the collar of his jumper, reaching to pull the fabric over his head. Breaths fall, heavy and rapid, when his teeth graze her pulse point. "We should go in."

He mutters something against her skin, quiet and incomprehensible, but a teasing smirk crosses his face when he draws back. "Okay. Let's go in."

They stumble their way through the house and towards the bedroom, stealing kisses and sneaking around lest they wake Theo in the second room. It feels such a trivial thing, silly and meaningless. Like something she might have concerned herself with in another life. Had they been allowed to grow up as teenagers and not forced into war.

He presses the door shut behind them, silencing the room, and flashes her a devious curl of the lips.

In the darkness, the room lit only by the moon, he rakes his eyes down the length of her. With gentle reverence, at odds with the way he kissed her, he removes her shirt. Pushes her jeans down her legs. Strips her of her underwear, touching her all the while. Slow, teasing, methodical, like he has all the time in the world. Like he can't get enough of the feel of her skin on his fingertips, his lips, his tongue.

Hermione pulls his shirt over his head, tracing the scar tissue along his bare chest and abdomen. Kisses each silvery line, worshipping the imperfect parts of him that speak to a past she can't always comprehend.

She loosens his belt, dragging his jeans from his hips, taking him into her hand.

He kisses her again, backing her into the bed and pushing her onto it. For a moment he only stares, eyelids heavy and exhaustion plain in his expression. He shakes his head only a little. "You mean so much to me," he says quietly, "I can't stand it."

And then he's upon her, mouth on hers, skin searing against her own. Inside her, filling her, banishing the demons from her mind if only just for now. Drawing pleasure from her flesh, a quiet exultation of his name from her lips. Until she slides over the edge and takes him with her, the pair of them encompassed as one.

One magic, one soul.

And she knows she'll do anything to keep him.

The sun is beginning to dip towards the horizon, casting streaks of orange and pink and purple through the darkening sky when they Apparate from the London house.

Draco hasn't been able to quell the churning in the pit of his stomach all day, and he isn't certain how much of his hesitation is due to unfamiliarity and how much is his instincts screaming.

Kingsley Shacklebolt is hard-faced when he arrives in the clearing, having abandoned his Ministry robes in favour of something Muggle and inconspicuous. His dark eyes narrow on Draco, but he offers a mild nod in Hermione's direction.

Deferring to her lead, Draco remains silent.

She casts him a furtive glance before straightening. "Thanks for meeting with us," she says, then adds a hasty, "Minister."

Shacklebolt's gaze slides between her and Draco, resting for a tense moment. "I don't have long." He folds his arms, and at the unfriendly expression on his face, Draco reaches for the thread of magic between them. He's been collecting as much as he can in advance of what they might face in the coming days. "Why don't you explain why I should give either of you any of my time."

If Hermione's taken aback by his tone—by his coldness—she doesn't show it. If anything, she looks as though she might have expected it.

She shoots Draco a look, and he can read the question in her tone. But this is her meeting, her chance to take the lead. Her acquaintance—and if Shacklebolt is willing to listen to either of them, it isn't him.

So he nudges against her mental walls, keeping his face carefully blank. Instantly she lets him in, twining her magic with his own.

He infuses her with his faith, his belief in her—bolsters that courage that he knows she still possesses.

Turning to look Shacklebolt squarely in the eye, she says, "Because we've been working for months to put an end to this war."

For the first since they arrived, his countenance shifts. His expression drifts from hard-edged to something like caution, like curiosity. Idly, Draco wonders whether he knows how they worked to get him installed as Minister for Magic, but he doubts it.

Shacklebolt dips his chin in acknowledgement, then says, "In what way?"

"Maybe you didn't hear," Hermione says mildly, "but Draco defected from the Dark Lord and took out dozens of his fighters on his way out the door." She straightens, and Draco can feel her nervous energy as she adds, "And we got you out of the resistance before Cassius drives it into the ground."

It's a risk—a gamble if he's ever seen her take one—to let Shacklebolt know of their involvement in his extraction from the resistance. But Hermione holds firm, refusing to look away, and finally the man cracks.

Amusement shines in his dark eyes as his serious expression drops off. "I wondered who was at work behind all of that. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you've been in contact with Harry all this time."

"Not all of it," she allows, "but most."

For the first time, Draco speaks. "We knew England would need a competent leader coming out of this. Your skills are better utilised in the Ministry than in the resistance."

Shacklebolt turns his tight focus on Draco, and for long moments, they only stare at each other, measuring, searching for a threat. "And you are legitimately no longer with the Dark Lord."

Draco rolls back his sleeve, revealing the scarred but bare flesh of his forearm.

The man's brows lift, and whether surprised or impressed, Draco can't tell. Nor does he care. So long as Shacklebolt believes their intentions.

"And so this—" Shacklebolt waves between them "—isn't real?"

"Draco and I are truly married," Hermione says, and his chest tightens at the hint of pride in her voice. "And in fact, it's through an irreversible bond. But we've been working together to put an end to this war since I left the resistance." Then her voice lowers into something soft and tentative. "It's not what you think, Kings. We want the same things."

At the words, he softens infinitesimally, observing Draco once more as though he might dissect him with his eyes. "You must understand my hesitation—and it isn't borne of mistrust of you, Hermione. But of him. I am driven by the need to provide order and care for the magical beings of this nation."

"I understand that," she replies smoothly, "and I don't blame you in the slightest. I didn't trust him either, at first." Draco shoots her a smirk, and she nudges at the bond between them. "But I don't know if anyone wants all of this to come to an end more than he does."

It might bother him to hear them speak of him as though he isn't there, but for the fact that Shacklebolt is willing to hear them out at all.

And he knows Hermione doesn't speak for him with any sense of derision.

"Fine." Shacklebolt crosses his arms across his front. "So suppose I believe you, and it makes sense for us to pursue any part of this together. What do you expect from me? I am greatly restricted in what I can and cannot do—bureaucracy at its finest, even during times of war—and I have to walk a very careful line when so many of the Sacred Twenty-Eight hold power in the Wizengamot."

"Understood." Draco shoots Hermione a glance. At the heart of the matter, they didn't even know if Shacklebolt would be willing to hear them out—or if they would be walking straight into a duel. "What we need at this point is information."

"What we need," Hermione adds, "is a blind eye."

A tense silence hangs over the three of them. Draco knows, had he been the one to hint at that particular sentiment, they would be nowhere. If it weren't a detriment altogether.

But Shacklebolt releases a sigh. "I don't want to know what you're doing, and I can't and won't endorse it as a public figure. But if you're genuinely trying to put an end to all of this bullshit, I can't hold that against you. Information I do have, and we can establish some sort of exchange. But I don't have a proper in with the Death Eaters if that's what you're after."

Hermione shoots Draco a glance, and he shrugs.

She turns back to Shacklebolt with a nod. "We'll take whatever you can give us. We have a few avenues of our own." She hesitates, and adds, "What do you know of the network run by George Weasley?"

A surprised laugh slides from the man. "George Weasley." He shakes his head, as though the name in itself is comical. And maybe once upon a time, it was. "I don't know a lot about the network. But one thing I do know—if you're looking for information, George is your man."

Draco meets Shacklebolt's eye. "And how do we track him down?"

"I don't know." Shacklebolt shakes his head, the tension breaking at last. "I can't remember the last time I actually saw or spoke to George. From everything I've heard on the matter—which isn't much—you don't find George. He finds you."

A snicker breaks free before Draco can stop it. "So we're to simply project into the universe that we need to meet with him?"

Shacklebolt doesn't smile. "That's how I understand it."

Draco sobers, glancing sidelong at Hermione. "Fine."

"Then we'll do that," she says evenly, an uncertainty hanging beneath the words. "Thanks, Kingsley. We appreciate your time. I gather you have a force of Aurors at your command?"

“I do. And I can mobilise them if necessary.” He nods, pulling his hood up over his head. "I'll be in touch. Stay safe."

And before either of them can say anything more, he turns into Disapparition, leaving the pair of them alone in the darkness. And Draco isn't certain whether they don't have even more questions than they did an hour ago.

Pansy Parkinson lounges on a bench, black hair loosely tousled and green eyes fixed on the two of them. "I can't believe you never picked up on who I was," she says to Draco, then waves a hand at Hermione. "You I can understand because we were never friends."

Draco sighs. "We need to ask you about—"

"I'm not done," Pansy snips, and her face falls stoic. She stares at Draco for long enough that the silence grows uncomfortable. "Now that the two of you are out of the manor and away from the Dark Lord..." She trails off with a bit of a sniff. "You were gone. For years. I watched you turn into a monster."

The words strike Hermione squarely in the chest and she catches a furrow on Draco's brow.

But he doesn't respond, waiting for Pansy to go on.

"I didn't even recognise the Draco who was my friend growing up. Until you showed up." Her words fall to a whisper and her attention slides to Hermione. She musters a frail smile. "I started to catch glimpses of the Draco I knew again. And now... I'm just so relieved."

Hermione doesn't realise she's crying until a tear slides down her cheek. For so long she's forced herself to withhold anything resembling sentiment that the feel of it catches her by surprise and she rapidly swipes it away.

"Pans," Draco says softly, a frown pulling at his mouth. But his eyes slide away, face unreadable. He simply drops onto the bench at Pansy's side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders in a quick squeeze before settling back. "Thanks for sticking by me all the same."

"Of course," Pansy whispers. Then she flaps her hands, as if to dispel the emotion hanging between them. "Anyway—that was all I wanted to say. What do you want to know about?"

Hermione perches on Pansy's other side, feeling a strange kinship with the girl all of a sudden despite that they've spent only a handful of hours in each other's presence since Hogwarts.

Pansy wraps her hand around Hermione's knee with a squeeze, and Hermione captures the girl's hand with her own. The emotion hovers for a moment longer before they all slide back to business once more.

Draco rolls his head sideways to face Pansy. "We need to know about this network. We know George Weasley is the man with any and all information."

A coy smile tugs at her lips, replacing any shred of softness that might have lingered moments before. "I don't know about that," she says, "but he's a good place to start."

"Do you know how to reach him?" Hermione asks.

The hoops they're jumping through just to see someone she knew all through her formative years strikes her as both odd and frustrating. But she also hasn't seen or heard from him in years.

"I do," Pansy says after a moments' hesitation. "Although George is quite particular about who he—"

"For Merlin's sake," Hermione huffs, frowning. "Just tell him it's me!"

Pansy falls silent, drumming her fingernails on her knee. "I'll do that, Hermione, but just so you know—George may not be exactly how you remember him."

Hermione doesn't know how to respond to that, when none of them are how they were five years ago. She certainly didn't have a death count beyond recollection when she was eighteen years old.

"Fine," she says at last. "Just tell him I'd like to see him."

"How do you know how to reach him, of all people?" Draco drawls, stretching his legs out in front of himself.

Pansy gives him a hard look. "Because you knew you were talking to me as an informant all this time?"

Hermione fights back a smile, skimming her gaze across the remnants of what must have once been a nice park before it was caught as a battlefield. Like so many spots across London that were once nice. There's an odd sort of serenity in listening to the two of them banter—as though she can almost pretend they're somewhere else, in another time.

There's a chill in the air but the sky is blue, dotted only by a few fluffy white clouds. And despite the chaos closing in on all sides, it's a surreal moment.

She allows the smile to spread across her face, and it takes several moments to realise Draco's watching her. A hint of self-deprecating warmth curls his lips as well, and she wonders whether he slipped into her mind without her notice—or if it's simply written on her face.

All at once, the truth of the matter slams through her, and the smile drops off.

"How did you meet up with George?" Hermione asks, turning back to Pansy. "I haven't seen him in so long I didn't even know whether he was still alive."

Pansy shrugs once, folding her arms across her front. "He went through it after Fred died. Left England altogether for a few years to process things. Came back a while ago looking for information on the rest of his family, and he found me."

Something doesn't quite add up, but Hermione can't put her finger on it. Pansy's knowledge of his life. The familiarity when she speaks of Fred. She narrows her gaze, searching Pansy's suddenly bright expression.

A quiet burst of laughter slips free. "You and George."

Pursing her lips, Pansy gives a vague sort of shrug. "I told you," she says softly. "He found me."

Her gaze tracks down to Pansy's left hand—where a diamond ring rests on her fourth knuckle.

Draco follows her focus, and he releases a disbelieving huff. "You're engaged to a Weasley."

"And?" she asks, brows high on her forehead. "You fucking married Granger."

He gives a loud laugh—the most genuine Hermione has ever heard from him—and shoots her a grin. "That I did, Pans."

Unable to help herself, Hermione sinks into a fit of laughter, gasping out, "I married Malfoy."

"Oh for Merlin's sake," Pansy giggles, swiping at her own eye. "Look at the lot of us. Ridiculous hypocrites."

Even Draco's chuckling, shaking his head, and for a full minute they allow themselves the indulgence. It's the most rejuvenating thing Hermione's experienced in years, and a smile lingers on her lips even after they all fall silent once more.

Hermione sags into the bench in the wake of her short-lived joy. "How is he doing?"

"He's okay," Pansy replies. "All things considered."

"Yeah."

"I know I don't need to tell you his family has had a rough go of things."

"No," Hermione breathes. "You don't."

She can feel Draco's eyes on her, but she can't quite bring herself to meet his gaze. Not when the dissolution of the Weasley clan meant so much more at the time. More than death and abandonment, but the breakdown of her own youth.

"He's alright," Pansy says, a little stronger. "He'll be happy to see you, Hermione. I was just being an arse."

She lifts her head. "Is Daphne alright?"

"Yeah. Daph's good. We were worried when you two vanished and all of that went on," she says, waving her hand as though all of that was a mere inconvenience. "But I let her know you were all safe."

"As safe as safe gets these days," Hermione murmurs.

"Yeah."

Draco observes the pair of them, a thoughtful expression on his face, and Hermione reaches for his mind. Feels his magic envelop her own, like sinking into a warm bed at the end of the day, and she basks in the sensation of it. In the way that he isn't afraid to be himself with her. That he isn't afraid of what she may think.

She thinks of Pansy's words earlier. That Draco isn't how he was when they first came across each other again. When they both spent all of their waking hours tracking one another.

Even when she thinks back on that now, she doesn't recognise him either. Almost doesn't remember the deadened cruelty haunting his grey gaze. The way he treated her, and she him.

She reaches for his magic in return, letting herself sink into the comfort he offers. She thinks of the time they spent a few nights ago, and a smile curls her lips. Thinks of the dreams that she has every so often. Dreams of the two of them elsewhere, away from here, away from the pain and the war and the death that now surrounds them.

That they may one day have a future together.

"Listen, Pans," Draco says, planting his palms to his legs and leaning forward. "Tell George to find us. Yeah?"

An indulgent smile tugs at her mouth. "Yeah. He will."

He rises from the bench, reaching for Hermione's hand and pulling her to her feet. Pansy follows suit, folding her slender arms across herself in the cool air.

Glancing at her watch, she says, "I've got another appointment to keep." Then she hesitates, biting down on her lower lip. "This was nice. It was nice to see you both."

"It was," Hermione murmurs, sliding her fingers between Draco's.

"I hate this," Pansy says, squinting as a breeze buffets past. "All of this. You know? That we can never simply enjoy ourselves."

"It'll happen," Draco says, and though Hermione knows none of them believe him, she appreciates the effort. "We'll get through this and there might be something on the other side."

Pansy thins her lips with an unconvincing nod. "Yeah. Of course. There has to be something, right?"

And all the warmth that hung between them only minutes ago feels as though it's evaporated into the aether. Like any moment of enjoyment is borrowed, and they'll need to repay their smiles and laughs tenfold in the days to come.

Before any of them can say anything else, she nods again, offers the pair of them a brisk smile, and vanishes.

Draco nudges her foot with his own, and as he wraps his arms around her, she deflates into him. "The closer we get to something else," she breathes, "the more I wonder how we ended up here."

He hums thoughtfully. "Like a fog has lifted. And the more it reveals, the worse it gets."

"Yes."

With a sigh, he rests his chin on her shoulder. "We've done what we had to do. The only reason things feel different now is because we have hope for something else after so long."

"Maybe we shouldn't." She turns her head, catching his eyes. "Maybe it's indulgent to have hope when we're still so far out."

"Or maybe we need something to sustain us," he says quietly. "Just a small hope. Enough to keep us moving. Because maybe without that, we won't have it in us to keep going for the rest."

Hermione's spent months attempting to banish every shred of hope to the back of her mind.

The thought that she may need it is almost more than she can bear.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for reading! Your lovely comments and support on this fic make me smile week after week. I can't believe we're so close to the end. Until next time xo

Chapter 45

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Both Harry and Neville insisted they come along for the meeting with George, so as soon as they received a memo from Pansy that he would be willing to see them a few days later, Hermione made the arrangements. She can't deny a curious mixture of excitement and nerves, despite that she knew him so well before the war fell into complete disarray.

Because they're all so much different now.

And George not only lost family and friends, but he lost the other half of himself.

In so many ways now, he feels like a stranger. Like she doesn't know what to expect or how the meeting might go. A part of her both dreads and mourns the fact that the version of George Weasley who was easygoing and quick to a laugh is likely gone.

Theo's finally recovered from his time in the Malfoy Manor dungeons. Harry is mostly healed, and Hermione knows they have Luna’s quick action to thank.

It strikes her all at once that they're far from alone anymore.

For so long, even when she had Harry at the resistance, she felt alone most of the time.

When she first moved into Malfoy Manor—when they were discussing the terms of what was then strictly an arrangement—Hermione didn't know whether she would ever feel whole again.

Now she has a host of people who matter to her. As soon as the thought properly registers with a certain amount of scepticism and awe, the dread sweeps back in, seizing her heart and insisting that she's going to lose everyone. She draws a deep breath, fingers reaching out of habit for a weapon.

Draco's eyes meet hers from across the room, as though he can feel her distress.

And his steady gaze is enough to settle the instinct.

Harry, Neville, and Theo are sitting around the kitchen table, picking at a plate of sandwiches Theo prepared and discussing possible outcomes from the day.

Draco slips up alongside her. "Everything alright?"

"Fine," she breathes. "Just a little anxious about how this is going to go."

"He found us," Draco says, lips twitching with a smirk. "That's half the battle, or so I'm told." She jabs an elbow into his ribs and he catches her arm, fingers tightening. "I mean it. We'll be okay."

"Yeah."

Hermione tries to remember a time when she wasn't afraid of anything. When she fought, day in and day out, and fear was little more than a distant memory.

"I don't know why I'm afraid," she admits quietly, giving voice to her thoughts as she stares at their friends grouped around the table.

"Fear is good," Draco says. "It's human. It means you care about what happens." He takes her hand into his with a squeeze, lacing their fingers. "For so long, we've been trapped in a never ending cycle of war—and now there's a chance for something else. A little fear is rational."

"You're never afraid," she returns.

"Wrong," he drawls under his breath. "I fear for you. For Theo. For my mother. If it looks like I don't have any fear, it's only because it was tortured out of me for so long."

She gives his hand a squeeze in return. "I'd be the one to put him out of his misery. If only for everything he put you through."

A shadow flashes behind his eyes, even as his face remains carefully blank.

Hermione thinks back to a time before she knew him—when she didn't think he was capable of emotion. She knows now that she didn't know how to look. How to read the tension he wears as a shade—the facets of his gaze that she now finds to be expressive in their own, beautiful way.

"He's mine," is all he says, low and cool. "Not because I don't think you could kill him."

"I know."

And she does. One of the most surreal, unexpected parts about all of this is Draco's genuine belief in her. The respect and the connection that's bloomed between them.

Her wand vibrates in her pocket—an alarm to remind her of the meeting. Draco's gaze dips to the soft buzz and he glances at his watch. Hermione clasps her wand to silence it, feeling the cool hilt of a blade hidden beneath it.

Just in case the meeting goes south.

In case they've been compromised.

She knows Draco well enough to suspect he's brought back-up weapons as well.

"Shall we?" Harry mutters through a grimace.

Theo snags a bite of his crust. "Have fun. Don't get yourselves all killed."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Hold the fort."

They meet Pansy at an obscure location just outside of London. Her assessing gaze roves Potter and Longbottom for a long moment before she digs into her robes and brandishes a small rusted silver teapot.

Draco can't help but think that all of this is a little overdone—but he remembers George Weasley from Hogwarts. At least, he remembers that version of him.

The man was always over the top. He can't help but wonder how the war has impacted him. How losing several members of his immediate family, including his own twin, has impacted him.

When the Portkey glows blue moments later and Draco feels a jerk beneath his navel, the room where they land is a study in juxtaposition.

The office is cramped, the shelves overflowing with oddities, the windows boarded up from the inside.

He can't see anything to provide context, but it feels like they're in an attic.

The majority of the space is occupied by a large scuffed desk, stacks of papers piled in one corner and assorted bits of stationery covering the rest of the surface.

George Weasley sits at the desk, dark frames perched on his nose and his orange hair shorn close in a buzz cut. His eyes narrow as he takes in the four of them, but his expression remains unreadable.

Pansy folds her arms, leaning against the nearest wall, but doesn't say a word of introduction.

When he thinks about it, Draco supposes everyone in the room knows who everyone else is—but in an utterly bizarre turn of events, they all feel like sudden strangers. Even Hermione shifts at his side, mouth pressed in a thin line.

The silence stretches on, seconds drifting towards a full minute, and the atmosphere in the small room grows more uncomfortable.

Until finally Potter offers a stiff, "Hello, George."

If anything, the man's eyes narrow even further, obscuring the blue of his irises. Draco briefly wonders whether his mind has been addled in some way. Maybe he doesn't remember any of them.

Maybe this has all been some elaborate scheme, and they've walked into a trap after all. His fingers hover near his wand, even as he reaches into the bonds between himself and Hermione, tugging loose a strand of the magic in case they need to make a quick escape.

George Weasley sinks back in his seat, folding his hands across his middle. "Harry," he says, dipping his chin into a nod as his gaze roves the rest of them. "Hermione. Neville."

His eyes land on Draco last and stay there, hard and penetrating. Draco only lifts his chin, unblinking, and holds his stare.

If the man thinks he's going to intimidate him, he doesn't know what he's in for.

At last, still staring at Draco, he clips, "Ghost."

Draco fights the urge to flinch at the ridiculous moniker, keeping his face carefully blank. "I imagine you've heard," he drawls, suffusing the words with cool irreverence, "that I'm no longer with the Death Eaters."

"So they say." George snaps once, waving one hand at Draco's arm. "Show it."

It feels unnecessary, when this is the man who supposedly knows everything going on across both sides of the war and everything in between. He obviously already knows of Draco's defection, especially since Pansy knew the details.

But if this charade is necessary to achieve what they came here for, Draco will submit himself to whatever ridiculous games Weasley wants to play. He unbuttons his cuff, rolling the sleeve of his shirt up his forearm to his elbow. Displays the scarred, silvery flesh where his Dark Mark used to be.

Weasley leans forward in his seat again, squinting at Draco's arm as though he's never seen anything more grotesque.

"There's a spell for it, then?" he asks.

Draco stiffens, exchanging a glance with Longbottom. "A spell. Yes."

Weasley hums to himself, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "And what are you lot here for?"

A bitter retort hangs on the tip of his tongue, but to his surprise, a huff of disbelief breaks from Potter. "You know why we're here, George." The words are coated in irritation, a breaking to Potter's facade that Draco's unused to. "And if you're just going to sit there and waste our time—"

"Who says I'm wasting anyone's time?"

"You know we need information on the war," Potter grits through his teeth. "What the Death Eaters are up to—what the higher ups in the resistance are planning."

A part of Draco wants to step in, to force Potter to back down, but of the group collected in this small ratty office, Draco has the very least influence.

George surveys Potter with cool disdain, and the expression looks unfamiliar on his once jovial face. Draco tries and fails to place the man before them from the youth he remembers from Hogwarts.

He wonders if the difference in himself is as stark. If his dissolution into this version of himself was simply so slow and so close that he can't see it.

"Two of you are still in the resistance," George says with a flippant wave. "Surely you know well enough what's going on there."

Potter grits his teeth and looks as though he's losing an internal battle before he bursts out, "And what do you know about any of that? You, who never once fought with us. Never so much as bothered to—"

He's cut off by Pansy's wand against his jaw, her expression hard. "Mind your tone, Potter."

Longbottom curls his fingers around Potter's shoulder. At a hard look from Draco, Pansy lowers her wand.

If they aren't careful, all of this could escalate without warning. Clearly, Potter’s brought in some sort of deep-seated resentment for the man before him, and whatever goodwill any of them might once have had with George Weasley no longer exists.

"You didn't even come back when Ron died," Potter huffs.

In the deadened, tense silence that follows, Draco feels the gentle nudge of Hermione's magic against the bonds, cool and mournful. She won't cause a scene over it—he knows her well enough—but Potter's always been just enough of a hothead.

Draco presses back against the magic, and the meaning is clear. They're both willing to use the bonds if it's necessary to ensure their escape from this office.

Weasley stares at Potter, a furrow tugging at the skin between his brows. For a long moment, he doesn't respond to the anger blazing in Potter's eyes.

At length, he folds his hands across the desk. "I did not," he says, something softer in his voice. Something like contrition. "I was indisposed."

Revulsion curls Potter's lip. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means I couldn't bear to see another of my brothers dead," Weasley snaps, the first show of frustration—of any true emotion. "It means my fucking head wasn't on straight by any definition of the word. It means I didn't come out of a bottle for three years. Do you think I wanted to leave?"

"No fucking clue," Potter says, "as no one's seen you."

Longbottom thuds a fist into the side of Potter's shoulder, a less than subtle reminder that they need this to play out in their favour. That they can dwell on the past when the future isn't at stake.

Instinctively, Draco feels as though they need to clear the air before any of them can proceed. And he knows he can't be the one to sort out any of this. Whatever beef Potter and Weasley have needs to be resolved.

Pansy's observing the exchange with keen eyes, but her stance is easy, and it's enough to reassure Draco's uncertainty.

Dragging a hand through his close-cropped hair, as though he's used to it being longer, Weasley sighs. Quietly, he says, "I'm here now. This is what I know now—what I can offer. What do you need to know?"

Potter scowls a moment longer, his chest lifting and falling with rapid breaths, but his shoulders slump and he glances sidelong towards Draco.

Taking the cue, Draco says, "You know what we're doing." When Weasley doesn't respond either way, he takes it as an affirmative. "What do we need to do next?"

It's a bold move, and one Draco's second-guessed countless times. But Weasley needs to know they're willing to trust him—that they need the information he and his network of informants can provide.

As entrenched as they are in the thick of it, they can only see what's immediately before them.

George Weasley has a bird's eye view.

Weasley's eyes narrow with concentration, unblinking and fixed on Draco.

"Our channels are severely restricted," Hermione speaks for the first time, her voice soft and imploring. "Harry and Neville aren't highly ranked in the resistance—and as leadership deteriorates, we'll move to extract them altogether." Her eyes briefly snag on Draco's. "As you already know, our best source inside the Death Eaters was forced to abscond."

With a great sigh, George relents. "From what I hear, Harry and Neville will want to get out sooner rather than later. Both sides are fairly well imploding. Not to mention," he gives a pointed glance at Harry, "you're still enough of a symbol in the wizarding community. People will look to you—people will follow you."

Potter makes a low sound of disbelief. "I hardly think that's true."

"From my perspective," George replies, "you are."

Draco observes Potter for a moment with a twinge. He thinks back, remembering before he and Hermione married. She'd been made to feel by the resistance like she was unimportant. Like her role was as another fighter and nothing more.

Clearly, Potter has been forced to believe the same thing.

Even Draco knows the symbol of hope he still represents to much of the wizarding world as a whole.

The fact that he's spent so long concealed by resistance leadership suggests Warrington knows the same.

That he's deliberately kept Potter low.

A collective tension hangs over the room. At last, George clears his throat. "In light of your excursion into Malfoy Manor, the Death Eaters are scrambling." The words are a balm to Draco's ragged soul as George goes on, finally willing to speak freely with them. "The inner circle is a mess. There's infighting between the ranks, and for the first time in years, the Dark Lord himself has left the manor to fight. He's got a reward on your head, Ghostie."

Draco snorts despite himself. "I’m aware."

"A hefty fucking reward—so watch yourself."

Hermione stands rigid at his side, even as her magic entwines around his own as though she might protect him with the sheer force of her will. He doesn't doubt she could.

"Meanwhile ol' Cassius Warrington grows more tyrannical by the day." George assesses the group of them overtop his glasses. "Resistance leadership is strained, especially with Kingsley running things in the Ministry—and doing a bang-up job of it given the circumstances, if you ask me."

A part of Draco is relieved to hear it, when they haven't been able to get a clear gauge on wizarding society under Shacklebolt's leadership.

As though reading his reaction and understanding how insulated they've been from wizarding society, George elaborates.

"Any and all resentment Kingsley carries for the Death Eaters is obvious. He's cracking down on dark side sympathisers within the Ministry itself. There's less corruption in the departments than there has been in years."

"That's good news," Hermione says softly.

"It's very good news," George agrees, "if any of us want a world to live in after this war is over."

Hearing the sentiment laid so plainly causes Draco to jolt. It's something he's tried not to think about, especially relative to the life he could one day have with Hermione.

As the ranks on both sides disintegrate.

"My recommendation, which may or may not mean anything to you..." George leans forward, his tone as serious as it's been. "Strike at Warrington and the ranks of the resistance will crumble. Expose him for the shitbag he is—and given the way his leadership hangs by a thread, people will walk. Without forces to command, Warrington is nothing. You'll decimate his firepower."

A tense silence hangs over the room, and for a minute Draco forgets to breathe.

Sweep out the resistance's forces from beneath him. A fitting blow for the man who treats his subordinates almost as badly as the Dark Lord himself does.

"So we're leaving the resistance, to be clear," Longbottom says steadily.

"Yes." Hermione answers before any of the rest, and Draco wonders how relieved she is at the thought.

Surely, she won't want her friends caught in the rubble of impending desolation.

"If the resistance loses its fighters, the Death Eaters will steamroll through whatever remains," Draco reasons, mind whirring with the strategy of it.

George nods briskly. "Both sides need to collapse in line. They'll cripple each other—and for all the power they lose, this war's impact will diminish."

Draco's chest tightens at the words, despite that he knows better.

A silence falls over the group, stretching into something like despair. Like the reach to something just out of range.

"Shouldn't be too hard," Longbottom says at last, dragging a hand across the back of his neck. "Exposing dirt on Warrington."

"No," Hermione agrees. "He has a graveyard's worth."

Draco weighs the room, assessing George's willingness. The man runs a network of informants, and Draco can imagine what that must take. To collect and share information to anyone who has the coin.

"What would it take," he says softly, meeting George's gaze, "to buy your information. Exclusively."

At the question, he hesitates, skimming each of them in turn. "I would say more than you can afford but—" he waves an idle hand at Draco "—so I'll simply say no."

"Why?"

Irritation sweeps across George's face. "Because I won't put the lives of my informants at risk."

"They're already at risk," Potter bites out. "All of our lives are at risk every day."

George stares at him hard, jaw clenching. "We retrieve information from Death Eaters. If we didn't, I wouldn't be able to give you what you're asking. It's a give and take on both sides that we have anything to pass on."

Hermione surprises him when her voice grows hard. "And we are actively trying to end this war! Not dancing around the line, refusing to fight."

George bristles at the less than veiled implication. "We all do what we can. You took information from Pansy for months. You both did." He lifts his hands, some of the tension seeping from his shoulders. "What would you have me do?"

She plants her hands on the desk, leaning towards him. "I don't care what you have to do. But if you want this war to end, both sides need to be left in an information vacuum." Her voice drops to a whisper. "I don't care what you tell anyone but us."

Silence hangs in the room like it carries weight.

"A facade," Longbottom offers. "And both sides will think they're getting intel from you as they always have."

Draco stares hard at Hermione, his heart beginning to thunder at the suggestion. "Meanwhile you're funnelling everything of value to us."

George lifts a brow. "And how long is that supposed to work until they realise we're feeding false information? I can't ask my informants to go along with this."

Potter speaks next, soft and cool. "Are your informants happy for this war to carry on indefinitely? As long as they can pad their pockets with coin, is that it?"

Pansy, who has remained noticeably silent through the meeting, scoffs with disgust. "They aren't soulless. Some people can't fight—and still need to live."

"I'll pay them," Draco huffs, hating the edge of desperation in his tone. "If they inform exclusively for us. If they feed nonsense to both sides—just enough to weaken and disrupt their operations. It won't be for long."

George sighs, looking between the small group. He shakes his head, and Draco's certain he's going to say no.

Finally he glances at Pansy, and they share a look that Draco can't quite dissect, even knowing her most of his life.

So much time passes that he loses track.

"If they don't want the war to end," George says at last, "they won't inform for me any longer. If I'm in this, I'm in it. And consider it an effort to make up for all the years I was gone."

Draco can see it now—or maybe George has simply lowered his guard. The fatigue bracing his eyes. The shadows within their blue. Even if he hasn't taken up arms with the resistance, he's been entrapped in all of this too.

He's still hesitant to accept. Too many things could go wrong. But by passing misleading information to both the resistance and the Death Eaters, their forces will be confused and disorganised. It will give them the chance they need to take everything down.

"Fine," Draco says at last, feeling several sets of eyes on him. "We'll work out an agreement for the details."

"I would prefer that," George agrees. A hint of a grin tugs at one corner of his mouth. "At least when I die I'll know I tried to do the right thing in the end."

The words leave a bitterness in the back of Draco's mind, despite his best efforts to banish the thought.

"I've been thinking about something George said today," Hermione says, propping herself up on her elbow in bed. "About Harry. The role he still plays in society. Do you think George is right?"

Draco glances up. "Yes. Why else would Warrington keep him tucked away for so long? Potter was always seen as a symbol of the light side. A beacon of hope against the Dark Lord. Of course Warrington would want to diminish that."

Hermione considers the thought in silence for a long moment. "I suppose they drilled into us for so long that we were simply fighters like anyone else."

"You weren't," Draco says. "Neither of you. But he wanted you to believe that. For the same reasons why he never took your advice seriously."

The words settle in, leaving an uneasy prickle along her spine. She remembers the tip she passed along that no one listened to. The way Warrington hassled her for bringing Neville back after he had been captured.

A spark of fury begins to simmer within her.

"And all along," she breathes, "Harry could have done something."

His expression falters. "Maybe. The resistance kept you both in the dark for a reason—that's all I know."

"And we'll knock his forces out from under him. What do we have on Warrington strong enough to dismantle the resistance?"

"Honestly?" He yanks a hand through his hair. "If the resistance is already falling apart, it might not take as much as you think to turn their forces against him. Not if he treats everyone like he treated you. Especially not if Potter walks."

"I suppose you're right."

He must read the frustration or the uncertainty, because Draco takes her hand in his with a gentle squeeze. "We'll get him. We have lots on him. He blackmailed Flint and threatened his family so he would inform, remember? Not to mention we've witnessed him meeting with Death Eaters. He's a hypocritical piece of shit and everyone knows that. Not even Shacklebolt wanted to stick by him."

Hermione nods, wishing she could muster some of his confidence. Draco's magic coils around her, infusing her with a sense of comfort if nothing else, and she allows herself to sink into him.

To push the rest of it aside and, just for now, let herself dream of a time when they might be past all of this.

Potter and Longbottom have made it readily apparent that they no longer feel any loyalty to the resistance. Draco suspects they haven't for a while, but they've needed to stay on as a source of information. With Hermione out of the resistance and Draco absconded from the Death Eaters, their direct sources have run scant.

Now, an agreement established with George, they have another option.

Which means coordinating the details of their exit from the resistance.

Draco can see it in Hermione's countenance every time someone mentions the way the resistance is set to fall. The way her desire to protect her friends wars with the soldier she's been forced to become.

But Merlin, just the thought of it shoots a shiver down his spine.

Almost as much as the thought of the Death Eaters crumbling.

With a few manipulations, the two sides could cripple each other to a point of disrepair—and he almost can't stand the thought. Can't believe the way things are now.

The meeting with George Weasley shed a light on so many aspects of the situation. And if George is truly willing to pass false information on to the resistance and the Death Eaters, it will be one more nail in the coffin.

So much of this war has been predicated on the passing of information; he even relied on informants himself as one of the highest ranked Death Eaters.

A part of him suspects George wouldn't have been amenable to anything if not for Potter—and Pansy.

A nervous trepidation settles on the group of them as they convene in the war room the following day. Draco and Hermione spent the evening filling Theo in on everything that occurred, and they arranged a meeting as soon as they were all able.

Draco can see the tenuous threads of Hermione's hope—and he so desperately wants to fulfil even some of it for her. But it's dangerous, when there's still so far to go and none of them can afford to take their eyes off the goal.

"So," Longbottom says, breaking the anxious silence, "I'm getting the fuck out of there before it burns to the ground."

Potter nods once. "Same."

"Good," Hermione says as an exhale. "Things are only going to get more desperate and more dangerous."

Draco glances around the war room—where Theo's narrow cot sits along one wall. "We can all try to cram in this house for the time being, but—"

"I have a house," Potter says, waving a flippant hand. "I just don't live there. Neville and I can lay low there for a while. Merlin knows Warrington will be after us."

"What do you mean, you have a house? You've had a house all this time?"

Dragging a hand along the back of his neck, Potter shrugs. "Yeah. I've had to stay at the resistance safehouse but... the house is plenty warded. The old Black ancestral home."

His chest grows tight for a long moment as Draco shoots Hermione a glance. "Right. I... must have known that at one point in time. And it's safe? Positively? No one from the resistance knows of it?"

When Potter doesn't immediately respond, instead looking to Hermione, Draco sighs. But then he grimaces and says, "I don't think so. Just us. Everyone else who knew I had possession of it is dead."

Another sombre pause falls over the group.

"Fine," Draco says at last. "Get out when it's safe to do so—but be prepared for the backlash. We all need to be prepared because you'll be handing Warrington the proof he needs that you've been working with us."

"All the more reason we need to move on Warrington as soon as possible," Hermione says, lifting her chin. "I think what George said about it holds merit—that if we can dismantle the resistance's forces, Warrington will fold. And what he said about you still being influential to the rest of the resistance."

She shoots Potter another significant look, who, to Draco's surprise, frowns.

"And did we all... trust George?" he asks, a timid, apologetic note to his voice that Draco doesn't recognise. "I mean... we haven't seen him in years, right? And all of a sudden he's back?"

The thoughts swim in the back of Draco's mind. If anyone, he would have expected Potter to trust Weasley’s motives given their history—but the sudden doubt gives him pause.

Draco hesitates another moment longer, delving into the thread of magic between himself and Hermione. "Do you not?"

"I don't not," Potter clarifies quickly. "I just think we should be cautious."

Hermione's magic twines tightly around his, melding with his own and reassuring the bristle in his spirit. "We'll be cautious," she says softly, something beseeching in her voice. "I wasn't certain either, at first. But... I think George is still George. Maybe he wants this to come to an end as much as the rest of us."

"Maybe," Draco allows, a twinge shooting through him as the tension grows thick. "But none of us are running into this without caution. We'll work with him for now—but we've all survived this long by listening to our intuition. What he can offer us is invaluable, but not if it means we're running blindly into something we aren't prepared for."

At last, Potter blows out a breath. "Yeah. Fine. That's fine."

With an apologetic grimace, Draco turns towards him and Longbottom. "I'm all for the two of you getting out before the resistance falls apart. But before you go... let's find something to put Warrington down once and for all."

A hint of amusement tugs at Longbottom's mouth. "That sounds good to me."

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for reading, and for your kind words. It means so much to have you along for the ride as we move into the final ascent. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Chapter 46

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The days slide by at a precarious, stilted pace, but for the first time in months, Hermione feels as though a sense of purpose underlies everything she does. Her time spent with the resistance felt as though she were running in circles, doing much but accomplishing little.

While she lived in Malfoy Manor, and in the cautious days that followed their harrowing escape, she felt like any misstep could send everything crumbling down around them.

But now they have a way forward.

The thought has taken up residence in the back of her mind like a mantra, like soothing lyrics she can't escape whether awake or asleep.

Despite her best efforts to keep herself focused and strict, a seed of hope has sown itself in her heart and begun to blossom. Now, no matter what Hermione does, she can't help but to feel as though they're so close to some indeterminate goal.

She tries to remember the person she was even months ago, when the most important thing to her was putting an end to Draco's existence. When she had nothing to drive her forward but spite and survival, and she couldn't even allow Harry to see the person beneath the fear and the darkness.

The reminder now leaves her cold.

Now she has not only Harry and Draco, but Neville and Theo—Pansy and Daphne. George, maybe.

People she cares about, people she wants to protect.

People she would die for, if it means their survival.

She's taken to stretching the magic between her and Draco with a vengeance, doubling her typical efforts, leaving herself frequently strained from the mental and magical investment.

And as though sensing how important it is that they prepare the magic between them, Draco's returned the effort with vigour. The more they learn, the more they realise the bonds rely on the joint strength of the bonded pair, and Hermione's magic sings with the complement of his.

In so many ways, she no longer feels alone.

Not like she has for years, trudging through one task after the next, no longer caring about what happens to her.

Now she cares more than she wants to admit. Cares more than she has in so long, deeper than she thought was possible anymore.

Hermione wants to live.

And she wants everyone to survive at her side.

Though some part of her knows this is all too much, too good, this camaraderie that exists between the group of them.

Because no matter what else, this is still war.

And they all know, all too well, that war breeds casualty and tragedy. Most of the time, Hermione can't stand the thought that they might not make it through what's yet to come.

A strange sort of energy courses through Draco as he takes in the Black family ancestral home. It's smaller than Malfoy Manor, to be certain, but hums no less with the pulse of latent dark magic.

The fact that Potter came into possession of the townhouse is baffling, but Draco isn't in a mood to delve too deep into that.

Although Potter assured him the house was adequately warded and protected against intruders, it didn't take him long to bring up the idea that Draco might stop by and imbue it with the Black lineage's blood wards.

His eyes linger only for a moment on the tapestry covering one wall in a side room, eyes darting briefly to ensure the circle marked Narcissa Malfoy is still noted as alive.

The rest he can't bring himself to take in.

He imagines if Voldemort had access to the tapestry, Draco would be a black singe mark by now.

The wards themselves don't take long, and Potter and Hermione linger in quiet conversation while he layers as many coats of protection in place as he can.

Grimmauld Place is significantly larger than his home with Hermione, but he can't shake the uneasy feeling in his soul when he walks around the house. Like despite his pure lineage, he isn't welcome here.

The hollering portrait of Walburga Black doesn't help matters.

Hermione's soul, thoroughly entwined with his own more often than not as they delve deeper into the power between them, twists up with discomfort.

He doesn't mind Potter and Longbottom living here—and he imagines Theo will spend his share of time here as well. But he entertains no ideas about relocating their base of operations.

"You should be good," he says at last, looking up towards Potter. "I've protected the house in a dozen or so blood wards, but as the deed owner you'll be able to come and go—along with anyone you grant permission. Which includes anyone who's already been here, ergo the five of us."

Potter nods once, stiffly, and opens his mouth to speak when a loud crack sounds from the sitting room. Shouting follows at once, and the three of them rush into the room.

What Draco doesn't anticipate is to see Longbottom, coated in blood and leaning on Theo's shoulder, grinning.

"What the fuck?" he huffs with incredulity. "What happened to you?"

"We went to Diagon Alley—glamoured," Theo says, helping Longbottom's bloody form into one of the parlour chairs while Potter cringes. "Because Nev caught a tip that Warrington would be headed there."

At this, Draco perks up. "Did you see him?"

"Only briefly," Longbottom says, and the humour fades from his face. "He was with a small contingent of resistance higher ups and they were ambushed by a group of Death Eaters. I got hit with a rogue spell before we could get out of there."

Theo reaches for the collar of Longbottom's shirt, undoing the row of buttons with a tenderness that makes Draco want to glance away, feeling as though he's intruding. "So ultimately, we're nowhere—except for the knowledge that the fighters have no regard for public spaces filled with civilians."

It's an interesting observation, when for the most part the resistance and the Death Eaters skirmish beyond the central limits of wizarding London.

"Damage?" he asks, peering down at Longbottom's injuries. To his relief, they look superficial—but he doesn't miss the way Longbottom clamps his cursed palm to his brow as though attempting to contain a migraine.

"Some," Theo allows. "But we didn't see all of it before we left." He draws his wand, then rummages again in his pocket for a crumpled stack of parchment. "You'll like this."

Hermione sidles closer to him, keeping one eye on Neville and Theo, until Draco snorts.

The top page is a wanted ad with his face plastered across the front—and an absurd sum of galleons. Significantly more than it was when he saw the posters for himself.

Even so, he shakes his head and drawls, "I'm a little offended."

Hermione's jaw drops, aghast. "That's more money than I have in my vault."

"Not true," Draco corrects mildly, "if you count our vaults."

A flush of colour brightens her cheeks. "Regardless. People will be out to get you."

Draco can't say he's particularly bothered over it, when he's been chased by enemies for years. "This isn’t new. He’s had a price on my head since I left. All this tells me," he says, shifting to the next page—a duplicate of the first—"is that he can't track me down on his own so he needs others to do it for him."

A hush falls over the small group, until Potter peers down at Longbottom's wounds. None of them look deep, and if he were genuinely injured, Theo would be more panicked.

The whole stack of parchment in Draco's hand is duplicates of the wanted poster, and he peers closer at the fine text while Theo casts some rudimentary healing spells on Longbottom's wounds.

Potter steps away with a snicker, and claps Draco on the shoulder. "Better you than me, mate. I remember when they had me on those posters—Undesirable Number One."

Hermione offers him an indulgent smile, as though the recollection is something nostalgic. Although Draco supposes maybe it is—maybe after the last five years, the beginnings of the war now feel only mildly unpleasant in comparison.

Despite the fact that Theo has closed the slashing cut that bisects Longbottom's chest, his face is paler than before, jaw clenched hard and the skin tight around his eyes.

"What's the matter with you?" Draco asks, nudging the toe of Longbottom's boot with his own.

The man looks up and rolls his eyes. "I was attacked, you prat."

"Not that." Draco kicks his boot harder. "You look like you're about to toss your guts."

"Well, I'm not." Longbottom makes an effort at sitting up a little straighter, blinking some of the fog from his stare, and smooths out his expression. "I'm fine."

Draco might almost believe him except for the way Longbottom's palm clenches—little more than a twitch—towards a fist before relaxing again. His breathing looks too measured, the effort a little too obvious.

And maybe he doesn't want Theo to know whatever it is, but Draco doesn't look away, staring hard until Longbottom returns his pointed glance.

With the cock of Draco's brow, he knows he conveys the sentiment. Later.

"Both sides are descending into chaos," Draco says, peering through the small window to the London streets beyond.

Hermione freezes, halfway through tugging on her boots. "You sound pleased."

He turns to face her. "I am. It means leadership is disorganised."

With a quiet hum, she returns to her task before rising to face him. "What do you suppose is going on with Neville?"

Draco shrugs once, meeting her gaze. "I don't know—he won't tell me. But I know it has something to do with his hand. With the magic of the Asp Encircle. It's affected him in some way that he won't talk about."

"He's trying to protect Theo," she hedges.

"Theo doesn't need protecting."

Hermione prods him in the abdomen. "Neville has always been like that. He would put any one of us ahead of himself."

"That's what I'm afraid of." They share a grimace, and Draco wraps his fingers around hers. They've spent so much energy bolstering the magic of the bonds between them, not wanting to be caught off guard, that he can feel it in the air between them. Like an all-encompassing darkness, dissipating and hovering in the air.

Draco kisses her once, sinking into the feel of it, midnight and seduction. She moans, sliding closer and bringing her body against his, their magic entangling further with the contact.

"You consistently surprise me," he murmurs against her lips. "And I can't wait to see you unleash this."

"Us," she corrects, drawing back with a sparkle in her eye. "It's both of ours."

"We both know your raw magic is more powerful than mine. I've seen it all along."

"I've been trying a few things out," she says, snagging her lower lip between her teeth. "Manipulating the raw bits of magic that come away."

Draco knows precisely what she means—that the pool of magic between them can only contain so much, and after a certain point shreds of it drift free. It's the magic that hovers in the room alongside them now. He eyes her with an indulgent smile. "That doesn't surprise me at all."

"We've been trying to track down Warrington to find something big on him," she says, "and none of our efforts to this point have worked." She hesitates, fidgeting with the fabric of his shirt. "But I had a different idea."

He waits, watching as her entire body tightens with focus. Lifting one hand, she releases a few threads of magic from her fingertips, and it shimmers in the air between them while they watch it with bated breath.

Draco's always been intrigued with her, and only now that they've grown so close can he admit to himself that he admired and respected her long before they were on good terms with each other. It's been a tumultuous journey to get to this point, and now he wants to lose himself in the depth of her power.

"I thought," she breathes, twisting her hand so that the magic swirls along in her wake, "we could amend a tracking spell."

His voice falls as a hush. "Who are we tracking?"

Hermione's eyes snap up to meet his, and their chocolate depths swirl with purple crackles of magic. "Pucey."

Eyeing her a moment longer, Draco longs to lose himself in her. To watch her bring the world down to her feet. "Okay," he says, offering her as much of his magic as she needs.

"We know he's been in contact with Warrington," she says quietly, "but we don't know why. And if we can't reach Warrington—"

"We go where we can," he whispers. "Good."

Her throat bobs with a swallow as still more magic seeps free, and as her eyes tighten with focus, the strands entwine themselves into something sturdier, a cord that reaches from the house across London.

"Will he be at Malfoy Manor?" she asks.

This sort of tracking magic typically requires a host of incantations and objects possessed by the target—so the thought that she can do it simply by sheer force of will embeds heat beneath Draco's skin.

"Don't look at me like that," she whispers with a bit of a laugh, "or we'll never make it out of this room."

His mouth twitches. "He might be at the manor. But he doesn't live there."

She reaches for his hand, knitting their fingers together, and Draco can feel the raw magic coursing from her skin. It's intoxicating.

"I don't know if this will work, but—"

She doesn't finish the sentence as she draws him into Apparition, and when they land moments later, his own fingers tingle with the abundant flow of magic.

The tracking thread is stronger now, a deep purple nearly black, and it bristles with raw power as it siphons from her. Draco can scarcely focus on the task at hand with the way her skin glows, eyes bright yet dark at the same time.

"This way," she breathes, leading him from the dark alley where they landed.

They're on the outskirts of town, and with a wave of her hand, she establishes numerous protective wards. The magic is so strong now, flowing so easily that it takes almost no effort.

As though the magic is bolstered by the idea of its own freedom from restriction within them. As though it wants to be spent.

"He's very close... I thought, maybe I could convince—"

And she closes her eyes again, her focus clearly elsewhere as her expression tightens.

Draco, for his part, is more than willing to allow her to take the reins on this. He basks in the power of her raw magic, glories in it, knowing she draws from the deep well of magic they've accumulated together. Knowing that she's embraced that side of her that can do so much more than she even believes.

He wants to drown himself in it.

For a long moment, nothing happens. The air hangs heavy and tense, like he could cut through it with a spell, but Draco remains still and silent at her side, willing to provide whatever support or grounding she needs.

It's all new magic to both of them, and he wants to watch her explore. To push her own limits.

She releases Draco's hand, bringing both of hers together; magic crackles sharply between her palms.

Then, out of the darkness before them, Adrian Pucey appears, wide-eyed and bewildered. He's clad in casual robes, tie loose and collar unbuttoned.

For several halting seconds he only stares at them, eyes sliding between Hermione and Draco— and then he grapples for his wand.

"Don't," Hermione hisses, bringing up a hand to stop him.

Draco can feel the shimmer of protective magic in the air—stronger than anything he could cast with his wand, and he knows she's channelled into something deep within herself. A place where her own raw power merges with the combined well they've poured.

To his surprise, Pucey lowers his wand.

"What is this?" he asks, gruffly.

Draco doesn't immediately know how to respond. He's never known of a way to forcibly summon another person by sheer will, and the thought that Hermione has drawn Pucey into this warded location is almost more than he can comprehend.

Even knowing her capabilities.

He watches the magic slide free of her palms—notes the way Pucey's skittish gaze does the same—and allows a hint of a smirk to cross his lips.

"This," Hermione says, eyes blazing with raw magic, "is an interrogation."

Draco watches the blood drain from Pucey's face. He opens his mouth to speak—just as Hermione nuzzles against his magic through her end of the bond. Somehow, he understands that she wants to take the lead on this.

Perhaps because she's so deeply entwined with the magic—perhaps because Warrington belittled and overlooked her for so long.

Maybe she needs this. As much as he needed to be the one to deal with Yaxley.

As badly as he wants to be the one to put down the Dark Lord at last.

Pucey grinds his jaw, raw hatred coming into his stare. "What do you want?"

Beneath his anger, Draco can sense his confusion. He's survived to this point—witnessed so many of his comrades fall during the rescue mission at the manor. And they've captured him—unwittingly or not—alive.

"If you cooperate," Hermione says, her voice a low purr, "we'll let you go."

Scoffing, Pucey steps back from her. "Like hell you will."

Almost imperceptibly, she edges a step forward. Angles herself just slightly towards Pucey and away from Draco. All the while, her magic still nudges against him and Draco finds himself caught under her spell as thoroughly as he's ever been.

He manages a thick swallow, marvelling at the way his heart skitters and races in his chest.

"I only have one question for you," Hermione says, and the smile that crosses her face is almost kind. But Draco can still see the flicker of magic in her eyes—like purple flashes of lightning. "You aren't the one we're after today."

The words do little to dissuade Pucey's scepticism.

Still, Draco remains silent at the unspoken request between them. Briefly, he wonders whether her magic isn't playing against his own senses too.

"I just want to know what you've been discussing with Cassius Warrington," she says quietly. "Answer that, and we'll let you go."

Pucey pales further. "I haven't—"

"I know you have."

"I'm not telling you anything." When his fingers twitch towards his wand, Draco knows he's weighing his odds. And in every calculation, he knows he'll come up short.

"I can force the information from you," Hermione says, allowing magic to crackle along her fingertips. "But I promise you won't enjoy that. I think we all know that will be far more unpleasant than if you were to simply tell us."

Another long, tense standoff occurs wherein Pucey's eyes skirt along the edges of the clearing, assessing the magical warding heavy in the air.

"You aren't—what are you doing with this?"

"Surely you can't mean to protect him," Hermione says, allowing still more magic to drift free, bright in the air. A deep rumble comes from somewhere beneath their feet.

Draco almost can't comprehend the sudden and all-encompassing wave of terror that flashes in Pucey's eyes.

"You'll let me leave," Pucey says, his voice stronger. His eyes dance between them one more but settle again on Hermione. "You'll let me live if I tell you."

"Yes," she says, ducking her chin in a nod. "I swear it."

With a deep steeling breath, Pucey nods once in return. A slow smile drags at one corner of Draco's mouth as he catches Hermione's lips twitch.

Merlin, every part of him gets off on this. On watching her bask in her power—exploring the depths of herself. Taking charge of the situation.

For so long, she was forced to keep herself small to avoid undue attention at the manor. Even with the resistance, she could have never learned what she was truly capable of.

If Draco knows one thing about Adrian Pucey, it's that he's more likely to protect his own skin than anyone else's. And if he's honest, he doesn't need to see Pucey die. Of all the Death Eaters under his command, the man before them was one of the most amenable.

"Okay, look," Pucey says quietly, raising his hands. "I knew Warrington in school, yeah? He tried to arrange a meeting a while back—wanted a favour and I told him not a chance. Said he'd give up intel."

Hermione's gaze remains locked on Pucey. "What sort of intel?"

"Resistance stuff. How to catch their forces unaware."

Draco can hear Hermione's sharp intake of breath, even as raw fury builds in his own chest. It shouldn't surprise him, after all this time, the things Warrington would be willing to do. But to throw his own people to the wolves—

"What did he want?" she asks sharply.

Pucey's voice drops to little more than a whisper. "He wanted an out. He believes the resistance is going to lose the war, and he wants to walk away from it all. He wanted to trade the resistance for his own life—and I told him no."

Draco's head spins a little at the revelation, but Hermione doesn't flinch. "Why did you say no?"

"Because the Dark Lord wants Warrington dead. You know that."

For only a moment, Pucey's gaze falls on Draco, and he can scarcely read the expression on the man's face. Something akin to understanding. Like he knows exactly why Draco's done all he has—and like Pucey knows why all of this needs to come to an end, too.

"And what did Warrington say when you told him you wouldn't do it?" Hermione asks, and though Pucey no longer shows any sign of a fight, she doesn't let down her guard in the slightest.

He shoots her a rueful glance. "He... I have a younger sister. I've managed to protect her from most of this but—"

"And Warrington threatened her," Hermione finishes.

It's the same story they heard with Flint—when he'd been coerced into informing for Warrington under Foray.

Pucey presses his eyes shut, briefly, pained. "Yes. So I told him I would let him know."

Hermione hums softly, tilting her head. "And did you?"

"Not yet. I haven't responded to his efforts to reach out."

"Okay." The smile she offers now is moderately warmer, some of the magic diminishing at last. "Thank you for your honesty."

The words are tinged with something like a threat—because Draco's certain her magic tested every word he spoke for truth. But he can't understand why Pucey would lie about such a thing.

Hermione edges a step back, falling into place beside Draco once more, and he releases a long breath. Feels some part of himself slide back into place.

He shoots her a glance, finding a sparkle in her eye.

"That's it, then?" Pucey asks, hovering anxiously near the edge of the wards. "I can just go?"

"You can go, and I won't bother you about this again," Hermione says, then draws a galleon from her pocket. She imbues it with a handful of spells too quickly for Draco to catch sight of it all. She steps towards Pucey, pressing the coin into his hand. "Though perhaps... you might be willing to do one more thing."

When they arrive back at the house, Hermione feels exhilarated in a way she hasn't in years. Although she released some of the pent-up magic between them, they're still swimming in abundance, and the magic is electrifying.

Draco eyes her with a sultry combination of heat and admiration, and her skin grows hot at his assessment as he props himself against the wall of the sitting room.

"That was impressive," he says, biting down on his tongue between his molars.

"Thank you," she says, drawing her wand as a flush creeps into her cheeks. "Just doing what needed to be done."

"I think Pucey would have crawled on his knees had you asked."

A dash of pride tugs at her mouth as she summons a small glass vial from the kitchen. "Please. He didn't want to tell me any of that."

Pressing her wand tip to her temple, Hermione isolates the block of memory she wants to extract. A cool shimmering sensation runs along her spine as the recollection siphons from her brain into the vial. Carefully bookended, from the start of the conversation to Pucey's final admission about Warrington.

"He really is scum, isn't he?" she asks, pressing the stopper carefully into the vial.

"We've known he is," Draco drawls in reply, watching her carefully, "all along."

Hermione lays the vial on the kitchen table, duplicating it a couple dozen times in tidy rows. Draco plucks one of the vials from the table, peering at the silvery contents within.

"So that's your plan," he says slowly. "Disseminate proof of Warrington's betrayal to the resistance."

She nods once, stowing her wand and stepping closer. "Harry will distribute them. Most resistance members have access to a Pensieve for intel collection." Chewing on her lower lip, she adds, "I made certain not to overlay the memory with any bias that might raise suspicion."

Understanding dawns on Draco's face as his head drops into a tilt. "You kept me out of the frame. You did all of the talking."

A sudden wash of shame threatens to rise within her as she assesses his expression. "I just thought... people in the resistance would be more likely to believe it wasn't a ruse if you weren't there. Most of them don't like me, and with good reason—but they still hate you."

"It's brilliant," he says, placing the vial back on the table. "You're brilliant."

Just as quickly, the shame she might have felt soothes into something else entirely. "Thank you," she says. "And for your faith in me. For trusting me to handle Pucey."

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes smoky as his hands find her hips, curl around to her arse. His lips graze the shell of her ear. "You were fucking terrifying today."

A sudden burst of mirth slides from her lips, bright and freeing. She leans into him, rolling her hips against his when he dips his tongue into her ear.

"I'll take that as a compliment from you," she says, breath hitching as arousal coils within her. Already, she's tugging him towards the bedroom, cognisant of the way their friends come and go.

She can feel the smirk rather than see it. "As you should."

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much, as always, for reading. I appreciate you more than I can say!

As we grow nearer to the end, be sure to find me on twitter as indreamsink to keep up with current and future projects <3

Chapter 47

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The days that follow are as tense a waiting game as any they've experienced.

Both Harry and Neville privately announced their imminent defection from the resistance, to be timed with the distribution of memory vials through the lower ranks of the resistance. They've allowed only a few vials per safehouse to keep them below notice, trusting for the word and evidence to travel quickly.

Harry picked up the vials the following morning, and he and Neville visited each of the resistance safehouses they knew how to locate, slipping vials to the lower ranked members. Luna was able to inform them of a few others she had visited in a healing capacity.

No resistance member has ever been fully aware of all of the other safehouses—another way the leadership keeps the rest of them in the dark. The more Hermione thinks about it now, the more she hates it.

Even Theo, who was outside of the inner circle, knew more about what was going on in the ranks of the Death Eaters.

Once Harry and Neville were through, they walked from the resistance with little fanfare and relocated to Grimmauld Place.

Now, three days later, Hermione's nerves are on edge every waking moment. Luna is the only person they're still actively in contact with in the resistance, although Harry has urged her to leave before everything falls apart.

Heavily insulated now, without inside knowledge of the Death Eaters or the resistance, the situation has been encompassed by a precarious silence. They can't rely on any published information, not even from within the Ministry itself.

Like the calm before a storm. But they don't know when to anticipate the first rumble of thunder.

Instead, they're left to rely on George Weasley for the information he promised.

Every so often, Hermione drifts, glamoured, beyond the wards of the London house to check for any missives from George or Pansy. Most recently, she returns empty-handed to find Draco in the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" she asks, brows high on her forehead.

His eyes tighten with intense focus as he peels the skin from an onion. "Cooking." When she doesn't say anything, he drawls, "I needed to keep myself occupied. It was either this or attack someone."

Being the only other person in the house, Hermione backs from the kitchen.

Another two days pass before they finally receive word from Pansy. No one has heard anything about the resistance—or Warrington’s response to their insidious attack.

For as much as they expected to learn something, there's been nothing. Draco can only hope Warrington has bigger things to worry about for the time being.

When they arrive at George's office, the room has been rearranged since the time before. Where a large desk filled most of the space, now a table stands with four seats perched around it. A tea service complete with three tiers of finger snacks sits atop—as if it were a damned garden party.

Draco shoots Hermione a glance, reading his own doubt reflected back at him in her eyes. For as much as he wants to trust George Weasley, to ensure they've made the right choice in working with the man, Draco still isn't entirely certain.

Either way, it's all they have right now. If they want any information at all, this is how they get it.

"Welcome," George says as he strides into the room, Pansy at his side, and waves a hand towards the table. "Please. Take a seat."

Fixing his stare on George, Draco pulls out Hermione's seat and then his own, settling at the table beside her. Neither of them make a move for tea.

"I thought we would have a more informal visit this time," George says when the silence stretches on. Draco tries to catch Pansy's gaze but she either doesn't see or doesn't care to look at him. "Just the four of us."

Hermione's foot nudges against his, and he can read her meaning well enough. The last meeting didn't go nearly as well as any of them hoped—especially when Potter started throwing accusations.

"We're here to listen," Draco replies, keeping a mental grip on the bonds just in case. His faith in Pansy only reaches so far when so much is on the line. "Surely you know something of what's gone down with the resistance this past week?"

George's smile falters only for a moment. "I do. Of course I do. But please—tea."

Clenching his jaw on a retort, Draco reaches for the teapot and pours four cups. A show of trust and respect he can hardly bear. Hermione sets a finger sandwich on her plate but doesn't eat it.

It feels like a carefully orchestrated game.

Like Weasley still doesn't trust him, either. And maybe that's all it comes down to. That they're both still sizing one another up, despite the mutual need and mutual acquaintances. Despite that all of this hinges on trust.

If that's all it is, Draco can deal with that. He can deal with George's measuring stares easier than he can deal with betrayal.

As Hermione stirs a splash of milk into her tea, she looks up with a banal smile. "Thank you both for the tea. And the food."

"Of course," Pansy purrs, speaking for the two of them. "You're more than welcome."

And when Pansy's eyes lock on his at last, he can read her so well. Her eyes tell him play along. And it occurs to Draco then that maybe all of this has been Pansy's doing and that George never wanted anything to do with him in the first place.

Realisation must soften the tension in his jaw because something like reassurance crosses Pansy's face.

George piles three sugar cubes into his tea, tasting it with a grimace. Then he takes a large bite of a dessert square before setting the rest on his plate.

"Clever," he says without any further prolonging of the inevitable. A wash of relief sweeps across Draco; that they won't be dancing around the reason for this meeting any longer. "Of all the ways you could have gone after Warrington, you went for the jugular."

Hermione snickers. "It just happened to work out that way."

Draco nudges her knee with his own beneath the table. "Hermione was the genius who put it all together."

"Tell me, if you will," George says, folding his serviette carefully, "how you two came to be working together. And married yet."

Despite himself, a smirk tugs at Draco's lips. "You don't know everything then."

A hint of a smile appears on George's face. "Not this, at least."

It feels strangely ordinary a question to consider. As though they're any other couple existing beyond the bounds of a war torn country. The sort of question he might expect from relatives or friends, and not an informant on ambiguous ground.

Draco decides on an easy version of the truth. "We were both assigned to kill each other." He casts Hermione a sidelong glance, allowing himself a brief indulgence in the recollection. "And we tried. For months, we were at each other's throat."

Merlin, the words sound so strange now on his tongue.

Hermione offers him a slow smile, before adding, "Until he decided he didn't want me dead after all."

"Of course not. You're too valuable," George says with a roguish grin.

Hermione points a finger at him. "Exactly."

"Not quite how it happened," Draco drawls, "but close enough, I suppose. We weren't working together per se, but we weren't actively trying to kill each other anymore. And eventually..."

"We ended up in too deep," Hermione breathes. "Or at least, I did. Every time I thought I was making the right decision, it led further in the wrong direction. I suppose I felt as though I'd lost control. Like every time I thought I was on top of things, he was manipulating my strings after all."

They've never spoken in this way about those early days all those months ago, before they reached a point of true admiration and respect for each other. Before they fell in love. And for Draco now, hearing her speak of the way he'd treated her leaves a solid lump in his throat.

Because all of it is true. He manipulated her, coaxing her into the role he wanted her to fulfil. And while he can't bring himself to regret it given where everything has landed, a stir of shame settles in the pit of his stomach. At the time, he only wanted her for what she could give him.

Now, he knows so much better.

"Here's the thing," he says quietly, leaning forward in his seat. "Hermione is incredibly powerful. I had plans—and I needed her help to carry them out. Along the way, everything changed."

George's blue eyes narrow, tightening on Draco, as though he's searching for something just beyond reach. "Why? Why marry if you'd been out to kill each other?"

The crux of the whole situation, even back then—the marital bonds. This deep, nearly unending swell of power between them. The strength of it rings in Draco's blood even now.

And he suddenly, implicitly knows that it's what George wants to know. Needs to know.

It's what he would want to know, were the tables turned.

if someone with whom he shared a mutual hatred for years suddenly needed something of him.

Draco tightens his grip on the bonds and says simply, "We were wed under the ancient Black lineage bonds."

When victory flashes in George's eyes, Draco knows he was right. That this is what George wanted laid bare between them. The reasoning behind all of this—behind why Hermione agreed to work with him. The only way they've managed any of this; how they ultimately intend to bring the war to a close.

"There it is," George murmurs. "I didn't think anyone was still crazy enough to use those."

Pansy gapes at Draco, arms folded across her chest. "You didn't."

In response, Draco pulls the ring from his fourth finger to reveal the band of black magic embedded in his skin beneath it. She reaches across the table to yank his hands towards her, peering close at the magic before releasing him.

"Shit," Pansy whispers. "I always wondered what you said to convince her."

Hermione snickers as Draco replaces his ring. "It took him some convincing to be sure."

"Until she wound up on the run from the resistance and had nowhere else to go," he quips.

In a way, it's indulgent to consider the way things played out early on. Amusing, almost.

"Show me," says George. "The magic."

Hermione's expression is uneasy when she looks towards Draco, but they're already in this deep. And if this is the trust they have to offer George Weasley in order to earn his in exchange, there's nothing else for it.

So Draco reaches into the bonds, nuzzling her side only for a moment, before he releases a surge of power.

It's enough to shake the room, a low rumble rising around them, a sudden gust swirling through the room and sending parchment scattering in every direction.

Hermione shoots him a smile, and he can feel her amusement through the bonds as black clouds drift through the room and obscure the ceiling. A sudden crash of thunder makes Pansy flinch in her seat, and the cloud that stops immediately over George releases a downpour of rain.

It only lasts a moment before they subdue the magic again, and the room sets itself to rights. Just a taste of the power, infinite in its manipulation and control.

Drenched in his seat, George stares at the two of them for a moment before a wide grin spreads across his face. "Brilliant," he says, clapping his hands together once. He scrubs the water from his short hair, eyes bright. "It's dark magic, yeah?"

Draco takes a delicate sip of his tea. "Very."

At the confirmation, the room falls quiet and sombre once more. "And you're going to use it to put an end to things."

Hermione nods once. "We are."

Pansy picks at a cucumber sandwich, a devious smile curling her painted lips. She draws her wand and waves it at George, drying his suit in a flippant gesture.

After another moment's deliberation, George sinks back into his seat. Draco can feel the sudden shift in the room even before George speaks. "Your play against Warrington worked. By revealing the scum he really is—combined with the infamous Harry Potter publicly separating himself from the resistance—you've destroyed any remaining morale and caused many of the lower-ranked fighters to disband. Some have left England entirely to my knowledge."

The words are a balm to Draco's ragged and ruined soul. "Good," he says quietly. "That was Hermione's doing."

"I saw the memory." George blows out a low whistle. "Right piece of shit, isn't he?"

"He is," Hermione allows, helping herself to another cup of tea. "So where does that leave us?"

"Essentially, it leaves Warrington and his corrupt little squad of so-called leaders, along with a small assortment of fighters who either didn't care or didn't have anywhere to go. Squared off against a disorganised group of Death Eaters hellbent on revenge but with a commander who hasn't fought in the field for years and doesn't remember the first thing about magical warfare." George lifts a brow. "Your next move?"

Draco swallows, a sudden swell in his chest threatening to choke the breath from him.

He can't believe the words as they slide from his lips, after so long. "Our next move is to take them both out."

Hermione thins her lips in a tight line at his side. Beneath the table, her fingers lock with his own.

George drums his fingertips atop the table, eyes sliding between them. "What do you need from me?"

"What information has your network passed along? Where are we at in the false dissemination?" Draco asks, curious despite himself to learn everything that's been going on while the group of them have been suspended in a vacuum with little to no news.

"Various bits of this and that," George says with a wave of one hand. "Ambiguous and uncertain. Nothing that could directly be traced back as a lie—but we need to maintain a front as reliable all the same. By the time most of them learn the information is false, we'll have moved on to the next phase... yes?"

"Yes," Draco allows.

"And," George proceeds, "I am here to pass along whatever you need. If you were to, say... require both the resistance and the Death Eaters to be together at a certain place or certain time..."

Silence falls over the small group as the gravity of the suggestion settles in.

The inference that they might convince both sides they'll have the upper hand in an ambush.

Draco's mind whirs at the thought that they might arrange a confrontation to end all of this at last. That George's network could advise people from both sides to make a move at a given point.

That all of this could end.

"Yes," Hermione says softly. "I think we'll want to do that."

Draco can feel her through the bonds. The trepidation—the anticipation. The fragile, frayed thread of hope.

"If I might make a recommendation," George offers. Draco nods, squeezing Hermione's hand hard. A grin spreads across his face as Pansy smirks at his side. "I suggest chaos."

The night overhead is black and overbearing, thin wisps of cloud sliding across a bright crescent moon.

Draco crests the hill in the park near the London house, finding Neville seated at the top. From this vantage point, he can just see the bright dance of flames in the distance along the outskirts of wizarding London.

For a moment he only stares, watching the fire flicker against the blackness.

Neville shifts, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"They really have no qualms about anything, do they?" Draco says as he folds his arms against the chill.

"Nope," Neville says. "Not a one. Though it does feel weird—watching from here and not fighting."

"That it does." Draco settles himself on the hilltop next to Neville, shaking his head. All of the usual spells will be in place to deter Muggles and prevent them from seeing the extent of the damage. But it's increasingly evident that both sides, dwindling in strength as they are, have grown more and more reckless with every passing day.

And here they sit while London burns.

Neville chuckles, glancing away. "Sometimes I wonder how we all got to this point. How nothing surprises me anymore—certainly not the depth of human antagonism."

"We grew up into it," Draco replies. The words feel robotic and lifeless as they slide from his tongue. "We didn't have a choice."

"Didn't we?"

Silence hangs, deep and insidious, for a long moment as they both contemplate the thought.

"Maybe we did," Draco says. "Or maybe some of us did."

"Some of us definitely did," Neville says. "Half of our year got out before the fighting got too bad. Maybe we ought to have left, too. Fuck pride or courage or whatever it was that kept us here."

"Idealism," Draco says, hooking a thumb towards his companion. Then he thinks of himself for a moment. "I think I was just trying to stay alive."

"Ironic," Neville notes. "When it kept you in the heart of danger."

"Yeah," Draco mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. "Honestly, fuck it all. Almost six fucking years of this bullshit—and for what?"

The thought sobers them both, and they fall silent, watching the flames leap from a building in the distance. Draco can only imagine the fighters still desperately chasing some form of victory or defeat.

"For nothing," Neville says eventually. "For absolutely nothing at all. Is Theo at the house?"

"Yeah. He's playing cards with Hermione and Potter."

The words sound strangely foreign as they leave his mouth. For so many years, Draco has been embroiled in conflict, always moving from one fight to the next, always as many steps ahead as it takes to survive.

Now they're on the periphery, watching the war as outsiders despite everything they've done in ushering it towards its demise. Waiting for the right time to tug loose the final threads and watch everything collapse.

"I'm surprised the Aurors haven't done anything about this yet, to be honest," Neville says, waving towards the distant flames. "Kingsley's been strengthening the DMLE. Calling in Aurors from the continent to try and bring things under control."

"Good," Draco says. "He was a good choice for Minister."

"He will be," Neville agrees. "Once all of this is over. He's the leader we should have had years ago. Things might have been different."

The sentiment allows some measure of peace to drift into Draco's fraught soul. That no matter what else, if England is able to regain some sense of dignity once all of this is through, this wasn't all for nothing.

Even if Draco never again finds his own solace here.

"What are you doing out here anyway?"

Neville shrugs once. "Dunno. Bit of a headache. Thought I'd get some fresh air."

Draco turns to assess him, from the tension in his shoulders to the shadows beneath his eyes. And his blasted palm, still as infused with magic as it was when they did the spell to reach Theo's mind.

"Something's wrong," he says. "Right? With you."

For a long moment, Neville doesn't respond. He sits still enough on the hill that Draco might think he didn't even hear him if not for the fact that the night around them is silent.

"Are you dying?" Draco asks.

"We're all dying," he quips. "But no, I don't think so. Not to my knowledge."

Although Draco doesn't want to push if he doesn't want to talk about it, he needs to know if Neville is unable to fight. If the upcoming confrontation will be forcing him into something he can't handle.

"Sometimes I think about magic," Neville goes on, staring at the swirling vortex in his palm. "And all the ways it impacts us even when we don't realise it. The ways it affects our lives as magical beings."

"Deep," Draco notes.

"And," he goes on, jabbing an elbow into Draco's ribs, "that almost all of it goes on independently of any of us who would seek to wield it. Magic doesn't need us—not in the same ways as we need it. It never will."

Frowning, Draco mulls over the point, wondering what it has to do with the spell that Neville enacted with the Asp Encircle.

Maybe nothing. Maybe it's simply stealing his sanity.

"Suppose you're right," he says at last. "But it's symbiotic. All magic comes from the earth. Without us to draw it and wield it, everything would go stagnant. The balance of everything would be uneven."

"And do you think any of this is even now?" Longbottom presses. "Wielders slaughtering other wielders over... what? The right to use magic? The longevity of power in anyone's given blood stream? Some giant fucking game of who can be more vicious than the other?"

"Of course not. Magic's been out of balance here for years."

"It's broken," Neville says, and his voice is hoarse. He drops his face into his hand, shaking his head slowly. "It's all fucking broken."

For a moment, Draco's thrown back to months before when the man at his side had been his prized prisoner. He thinks of the lengths he went to—the lengths he would have gone to—in order to extract information he thought he needed at the time. The way he treated someone he's come to view as a friend.

A sudden and deep swell of shame rises within him, a nauseating sludge in his soul.

"I'm sorry," he blurts, the words breaking free of their own accord. "For everything I did to you."

Neville jerks his head up in surprise, and as they stare at each other for a long moment, Draco's shocked to see his eyes grow glossy. His own throat warms.

"Never mind that," Neville says softly at last. "You were doing what you thought you needed to do. We've all done fucked up things. I don't hold it against you."

When he opens his mouth, the words slide free before he can think better of it. "I know you don't. But you honestly should. For a long time, I forgot to think of anyone but myself."

"I'm not going to." Neville stares at him hard. "You've given me an out. A way to live beyond this. That's enough."

"Right."

They both glance away, discomfort prickling along Draco's skin as his gaze lands back on the distant fighting, though the flames have guttered down now below the horizon. He wonders whether the Aurors have arrived.

It strikes him as strange that the Ministry now has the power to subdue some of the fighting—when for years, the war carried free reign across London and beyond, encouraged by a corrupt and immobile Ministry.

The night air is cold on his bare skin, and Draco considers returning to the house when Neville speaks again. He's staring at his palm again, tracing the magic with a fingertip.

"Tell me something," he says softly. "If you knew a thing... and you knew it could ruin someone's final days on earth... would you tell them?"

The question strikes him square in the chest, and Draco squints at the moon. "Do I have the right to tell them? Do I care what they think?"

"I don't know. And yes." Neville hesitates, then adds, "If someone thought to tell you something like that, would you want to know? Or would you rather remain ignorant and enjoy the time you have left?"

The dilemma weighs heavily on his chest, but at last Draco says, "No. I don't think I would want to know. Not after everything we've been through—knowing the fragility of life. I think I would simply want to carry on with the people I care about."

Time stretches out between them as Draco's mind turns the conversation over again, and minutes pass before either of them speak.

"Yeah," Neville says at last. "I think I'd do the same. What good is knowing something is going to happen if there's no way to stop it? If the person doesn't need to... I don't know, tie up any loose ends or anything."

"Why does this not feel hypothetical?" Draco asks softly.

"It isn't." Neville shrugs, rises to his feet, and dusts himself off. "But it also isn't relevant. I'm going to head back to the house."

Draco stares after him for a long moment before he stands to follow.

"Have you heard from Narcissa?"

Draco looks up, brows lifting, and his eyes land on Hermione's. "A couple of weeks ago, yes. Why?"

"Okay." She settles on the edge of the bed, picking at a thread on the quilt as she contemplates her next words. "I was just curious. She and your father are doing well?"

"I don't know about my father." He drops down next to her. "I don't know how involved he's been in things since I left."

"Do you..." Hermione falters, reaching for his hand. "Do you think you want to warn him?"

Idly, Draco laces their fingers though he doesn't immediately respond. "I've gone back and forth on it. Because if he doesn't believe me, he'll tell the Dark Lord of our plans and we can't have that."

Hermione meets his gaze, hoping to convey her intentions in earnest. "I think you should. At the very least, have your mother talk to him. She'll be devastated to lose him. And I think you can rely on her to be careful about it."

"Yeah." Raking a hand through his hair, he reclines on the bed and tugs her down with him. Hermione waves a hand to douse the lights and allows herself the indulgence, tucking close into his chest. His low voice against her hair shoots through her. "I don't know. I can't just allow him to walk into this without knowing. But it's a precarious line because at the end of the day, I don't know if I can trust him."

"I think your mother understands that," she says. "Hopefully well enough to keep him without giving up all that she knows."

It's a narrow line, because if he says the wrong thing his father will turn on him in an effort to seek Voldemort's favour for himself. They don’t know the extent of the matter, and Hermione knows he hates this situation all the more for it. That, for everything he's done—his original hopes of protecting his family—it's all been corrupted from his original purpose.

The fact that he even has to consider whether it's safe to protect his father from what's coming.

"At the end of the day," he says softly, "I don't think I could live with myself if I didn't try. If I never had a chance to clear the air."

Provided he makes it through.

The thought sits uncomfortably between them.

"Merlin, I can't believe all of this has happened,” he says. “That we're actually talking about these things."

"George just needs us to choose a date," she breathes.

"Everyone's scattered right now," Draco says. "The resistance is still reeling, and the Death Eaters are as disorganised as we can hope to find them. I think we need to move soon."

"Luna came by last night while you and Neville were outside," she murmurs, a smile tugging at her mouth. "Apparently Cassius sent her out to find some healing supplies, so she did and brought them here instead of back to the resistance. She's officially moving into Grimmauld Place for the time being."

Draco releases a low laugh. "Good. We don't want her caught with the resistance when everything goes down."

"No," Hermione says, "and Harry least of all. No matter that he says they're just casual, I think he's grown to care about her. I think he's just afraid of how things will play out."

He hums, considering the thought, then says, "I used to think I didn't care about anyone else. My mother—maybe Theo. Now I feel responsible for keeping everyone safe. Especially you."

"That's because," she whispers, "you aren't as bad as you think you are." She presses a kiss to his mouth, finding his gaze searing through her. "And for the record, everyone is capable of keeping themselves safe. Even me."

She tugs on the magical thread between them, nudging him through the other side. He rewards her with a teasing smile.

"I know you are," Draco says, twisting their magic up together. His expression falls stoic. "But there's nothing left here for me if you don't make it through. The only reason I want to survive this war is because you deserve a better life than I've given you."

Her chest tightens at the words, heart throbbing until it hurts. She stares at him, brushing her fingers along his cheekbone, and kisses him again, deeper.

"You've already given me so much more than I thought I would have," she says softly. "You've given me a chance at something different, when I thought I was going to die in this war, just another fighter. I want something else too, more than anything—with you. But you don't owe me anything."

She can read the emotion deep in his eyes as he gazes at her, shaking his head. "On the contrary," he says, hands tightening around her hips, "I owe you everything."

Her own eyes sting with the hot press of tears. "I love you."

"I love you," he replies gruffly, shifting her onto her back. He gazes down at her, tugging the hem of her jumper upwards, "and I want to spend the rest of our lives making sure you know that."

"I do," she whispers, arching her back as he tugs the garment over her head, hands dropping to her jeans. She reaches for his shirt, the pair of them making quick work of each other's clothes as they close the space between them.

Draco's bare skin on her own sears her flesh, her heart racing a desperate cadence as his mouth finds hers, tongue delving between her lips and tangling with her own. Desire throbs in her core as she winds her legs against his hips, his hardening cock nudging against her.

But he draws back, eyes meeting hers in the dark. Presses a kiss to her jaw. Trails his mouth along her collarbone, each of her breasts, down along her abdomen.

A low moan slides from her lips when he kisses her inner thigh, spreading her legs apart. His breath is warm on her core as she arches from the bed, arousal hot beneath her skin.

"Draco," she gasps, lacing her fingers through his hair as her eyelids flutter.

Her walls clench, desperate for the friction, for the heat she longs to find on the other side of his touch.

"Hermione," he murmurs back, the tip of his tongue flicking out to meet her clit. She tightens her grip on his hair, a whimper breaking free when he drags his tongue the length of her.

As he buries himself between her legs, coaxing her pleasure forth, Hermione gives in, allowing herself to dissolve under his hands and mouth. Nonsensical cries slide from her lips as he focuses his efforts, every touch setting her body alight.

She gasps his name, legs trembling, heart racing, vision darkening as he pushes her closer to the edge.

And when Hermione spills over, her body releasing and mind transcending, she loses herself for long moments. Heavy breaths fall from her lips, head sinking into the pillow, and she eyes Draco with a lazy smile as he plants a kiss to her inner thigh.

His grey eyes gleam as he drags his tongue along his lips, and she tugs him close into a kiss.

For a moment, she can't comprehend the ways everything has changed. How Draco has become the epicentre of her life—her other half in so many ways.

Emotion stings at her eyes as she stares at him, her chest tightening painfully. She presses a kiss to his jaw, his throat, his chest, averting her gaze lest he see the stormy tumult within her.

He pulls her atop him, bringing her into another kiss that threatens to ravage her soul. And as she sinks down onto him, melting into him and the way he makes her feel, Hermione allows everything else to drift free. For all of her fears and doubts to fall from her like an outgrown cloak.

She gives in, losing herself in the moment, relinquishing everything she needs to control in favour of this, of them together against everything else.

When she breaks under his touch, the tears slip free. Burying her face in his neck, heavy breaths falling from her lips, she whispers, "Please don't leave me alone."

"I won't," he says, etching the words against her skin with his lips.

"Promise me," she breathes.

It isn't a promise he can make—not a promise she can expect. But he makes it anyway.

"I promise."

Hermione drifts to sleep in peace despite the lingering unrest in her soul.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for reading, as always. It means more than I can say, and your lovely comments always make me smile. Home stretch?

Chapter 48

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"I want to show you something."

Hermione looks up at the sombre tone of Draco's voice, something tightening within her. "What is it?"

For a long moment, he doesn't respond, and she can't help but think this is a bad thing. He's always so smooth and self-assured that on the rare occasion his vulnerability rears its head, there's always a reason.

"Will you take a short trip with me?" he asks.

"A trip?" Hermione turns back to the house, surprised. "But we have that meeting later with—"

"It won't take long," he says, offering a hand. "Please."

She doesn't know how to deny such a request, nor does she want to. But Hermione can't rationalise the stinging in her heart as she acquiesces, his larger hand engulfing hers.

And she has only a moment for her confusion before she feels the Portkey activate.

When they land, the air feels different. The cold chill of London has been replaced by warmth and humidity—something that feels entirely at odds with the sullenness in her soul as they prepare for a battle that could be the end of them all.

Draco's eyes track her as she takes a step away, cautious, hesitant, as though he doesn't know how she will react.

It hits her all at once when the hint of salt on the air registers.

"Draco," Hermione says, steeling herself for the truth, "are we in Australia?"

He doesn't immediately respond, dropping his head into a thoughtful tilt. "I know you haven't wanted to come out here because you don't want to think too far ahead. But I just..." His voice drops away to nothing, pain flickering through his eyes. "I wanted to remind you what's at stake here. What's still ahead of you after all of this comes to an end."

Despite herself, she can't take his words at face value. Can't help but to dig deeper, to indulge the warning bells in the back of her mind.

"What are you saying?" she whispers. "We'll be able to do all of this together."

Something like a smile, but unbearably sad, crosses his face. "Just in case we aren't together."

"We'll be together," she grinds out, but even to her own ears the words sound desperate. "We have everything planned out—we've got the bonding magic and—"

"And the Dark Lord knows about it now. We'll probably be fine," he says, cutting her off, but the gentle words carry a cool finality. "But I want you to remember everything else you have. In case things go sideways."

A trick. Bringing her here—showing her where her parents have been for all these years—is all a sort of trick to convince her to put herself first when they face the inevitable conflict to come.

He's always been cunning. Forever a strategist.

"We're going to survive this together," she reiterates, clenching her jaw hard lest she start to cry. "And don't you dare try to claim otherwise."

His eyes are soft but he doesn't flinch. "If only one of us makes it out, Hermione, it's going to be you."

She can hear all of the words he isn't saying. That if it comes to it, he'll put her safety ahead of his to make sure she survives.

"Not acceptable," she breathes. "You aren't allowed to leave me alone."

"You'll be alright without me," he says, clipped and emotionless, and she wishes she could break open the shield with which he's cloaked himself. "You're the one who deserves to survive. To see a life beyond all of this."

"I don't—" The words slide out as a gasp, a borderline sob, and she wraps her arms across her front as if she might hold the pieces of herself together. As if, in any plane of existence, she might be able to carry on without him at her side. "I can't—I don't want to be here."

"I've looked into it," Draco says as if she hasn't spoken, the line of his jaw hard. It occurs to her that this is how he keeps himself together. How he can move towards what's coming with his head on straight. "Spells and counter-curses to undo whatever you might have done to your parents' memories. I have a notebook of research tucked away in the house for you. You have options—and you can get them back. To be honest, I'm quite certain the bonds are strong enough that you would simply be able to use the magic to counteract the spell you cast originally."

"I won't be able to get you back," she grinds out. When he only glances away, pursing his lips, she exclaims, "Look at me! You are not leaving this world without me!"

Draco blinks at her.

"It's a contingency," he says softly, and the words are less convincing than any she's ever heard him utter. "Just in case things go downhill. I need you to make sure you get yourself out."

"Then we'll both get out."

Through several shattering heartbeats, they scowl at each other. But Hermione refuses to give on this—she can't.

"What good is all this powerful magic we've built if it doesn't help us stay together in the end?" she asks, scarcely a breath.

Draco shakes his head, half-hearted, and his shoulders fall. "I never meant to make it out of this. You knew that from the start."

"You promised me," she whispers, "that whatever happens, we'll fight together. Because no matter what you might think, I won't be okay without you. You're the most important person in my life, and I can't even begin to think how I might go on without you."

Silent tears prickle at the corners of her eyes and slide free of their own accord, streaking tracks down her cheeks as she stares at him unblinking.

He releases a sigh, pulling her close into his chest. "It isn't my plan to leave you alone. I want to make it through this, if for no reason other than to see what might wait for us on the other side. But I simply don't want to leave you with any illusions. And if it comes to you or me, I have to put you first."

"That doesn't sound like you," she sniffs, swiping at her tears.

Draco releases a wry, humourless laugh. "You're right. It doesn't. At least, the version of me before I had you."

"Don't leave me," she breathes. Squeezes his hand tight. "Please. Have some faith in us."

"I have endless faith in you," he says quietly. "I only know that we've lost the element of surprise we could have used when we first took the bonds. He knows we're coming, and he knows what we're capable of. He'll have strengthened the obscure magic that protects him—and even I don't know how it operates."

"We know we can beat him."

His eyes slide up to meet hers, glossy storm-cloud grey. His fingers twist to entwine with hers, and he nods off towards the distance.

A sudden wave of trepidation seizes her chest as she follows his gaze, some part of her afraid of what she might see. Even as she knows—moments before she spots them.

Hermione sees her dad first, a full head of unruly curls like her own, and she can scarcely see her mother through the sudden blur of her vision. She grapples hard at Draco's hand, squeezing tight, unable to bear the sight of her parents after so long.

After the way she removed herself from their memories, sent them across the world, and went six long years without seeing them again.

Not even once.

"I can't," she gasps, despair a bitter twist in her heart as it plays a mournful rhythm. "I can't approach them."

Because she knows deep within that she can't allow herself this. Not until everything is done and dealt with. Not until the war no longer haunts her as a permanent fixture in her life, and she can begin to come to terms with everything she's done.

With the person she is now.

"It's okay," Draco says, pressing his mouth against her curls. "You don't have to do anything now. I just wanted you to see—to know that they're still here. And no matter what else, they're still your parents. They'll remember you if you want them to. They'll accept you, and forgive you for whatever you fear they might not."

Hermione swipes the tears away, determined to make the most of this moment, even though every second of it is bittersweet.

She almost forgot what they looked like, trapped for so long in her memory.

Even now, years later, her mother is beautiful; dark, expressive eyes and a bright smile. As a girl, Hermione could always understand exactly how her father fell for her mother. And her father, tall and sturdy, a dimple in one cheek, always quick to a smile and full of knowledge.

She watches as they draw closer, walking the path ahead of them, carefree smiles on their faces as they engage in easy conversation. Hermione watches, unable to stem the flow of tears. And only for a moment, her father's focus lands on her.

Just for a second, his smile falters—but then it returns. Something warm and reassuring, and though she knows he doesn't remember her, it doesn't matter. Because he's still her father, and no magic can undo that.

"I can't do this," she gasps, clenching Draco's hand harder, almost unwittingly, in her grip.

"You can," he says. "And soon you will."

And she knows right then that whatever game he meant to play in showing her this, whatever resolve he meant to inspire, he's achieved it. Because at this moment, all Hermione wants is the chance to come back, to set things right with her parents after six long years.

She's missed them more than she allowed herself to think about. More than she can rightly comprehend.

Her heart feels like it might simply burst through her chest in its haste, and she doesn't know how to set herself to rights after this.

Tugging Draco close as her parents carry on down the road, as though her life hasn't just undertaken a monumental shift simply at the sight of them, she gives herself over to her grief on the edge of the park.

"I hate you for this," she breathes, clinging to the fabric of his shirt.

"I know."

"And I'll never forgive you if you aren't with me when we help them."

Sadness flashes in his eyes, belying the smirk that tugs at his mouth. "I know," he says again. "But you don't need me for anything that comes next. I promise."

"You're wrong," she whispers, turning back to face him. He brushes the tears from her cheeks and she lets him, despite that she feels hollow with every second that ticks past. "And if you don't fight to stay with me for everything after this, I'll haunt you from this world into the next, Draco Malfoy."

"After a good long while, I hope," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her brow.

His flippancy stings, even though she knows why he's doing it. Why he's acting as though it doesn't matter if he doesn't survive.

Because they knew all along their chances were slim. They've always known the odds are against them, and even now, even when the end could be so near, that hasn't changed. Their biggest challenge is still ahead, still looming with every breath they take.

And no matter what power they possess, there are still so many variables. Their enemy still seeks to end them instead of allowing them near enough to end him.

Fear keeps her from sleep every night as the final confrontation draws near. And no matter what they do, no matter how many details they organise, how many times they go through everything that is to come.

They still don't know if they'll make it out of this in one piece.

If Draco wants to make sure she stays alive, she'll only have to fight harder to ensure it's him who comes through this.

Because Hermione's never been afraid of death. Not for years. But what she does fear is taking on the world alone, without him at her side. And she knows with every thread of her being that she can't let that happen, no matter how the battle goes.

"Okay," she breathes at last, drawing strength from the idea that she might one day see her parents again. That they might not hate her forever, and that she might be allowed some small shred of hope. "I've seen what I needed to see. And we'll come back. After."

"After," he agrees, bringing her close to him. "We'll figure this out, just like everything else."

She notes he doesn't say anything more about it—and so neither does she. And maybe they can pretend just a little longer that everything will go right and they might finally get a chance at the life she dreams of night after night.

The days slide past, and Hermione doesn't know what to make of them anymore.

Every detail feels as though it's arranged.

George and his network of informants have passed along false information to what remains of the resistance. To the discordant mob that used to be the Death Eaters.

The magic in the bonds is strengthened in such cohesive force that Hermione can hardly focus on anything else.

And all around her, the mood is subdued.

Harry and Luna are seated on the sofa in quiet conversation while Theo and Neville linger in the kitchen. Draco sinks into a seat at the kitchen table across from Hermione, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

He plants a blank sheet of parchment and a self-inking quill on the table in front of him, dropping his head over the back of his chair. As one, the room's focus shifts towards him.

"Is there any reason," he drawls, "why we're prolonging this?"

"No," says Neville, pulling up a seat at the table. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking..." Draco straightens in his seat, drumming his fingernails on the table. "That we're putting off the inevitable because none of us is ready to face that this is going to happen. And that it might not go well."

Theo meets Hermione's gaze, shifting on the spot. She can't help the way she searches out Harry and Luna, her heart seizing in her chest.

"Of course it isn't going to go well," Neville says gruffly. "But what, out of the last five years, has gone well?"

Before Draco can respond, before the rest of the room can wrap their heads around it, Neville reaches for Draco's parchment and quill, situating it in front of himself. He scrawls two words on the page.

Two days.

Neville gives the rest of the room a moment to object, and when no one says anything, he rolls it up into a tight scroll and hands it to the owl perched inside the window ledge.

They all watch through the window for long minutes after the bird vanishes, and Hermione becomes acutely aware of her pulse beating behind her ears.

"Two days," Draco says, giving voice to the sentiment, the fear that's taken the room. "George will make it happen." His eyes drift up to find Hermione's, and his foot nudges hers under the table. "I don't know about anyone else, but I could use a fucking drink."

An hour later, Draco sips his third glass of whisky at the kitchen table, observing Theo and Neville involved in the most obscure yet pedantic game of cards he's ever seen.

"I don't think either of you really know the rules," he comments, leaning back in his seat. It's been so long since he's allowed himself to unwind even a little—aside from the few wonderful days he spent with Hermione in Spain—and the whisky feels smooth on his tongue.

He's always forced himself to maintain a level head. To keep his guard up no matter what.

And now, safe within his own wards, feeling on the precipice of something that will either go well or it won't, a not-insignificant part of him wants to enjoy an evening with the people he's come to view as friends.

"We know the rules, you just have to learn them," Theo scoffs, nearly knocking Neville's potted plant to the floor as he reaches across the table. Draco catches the pot and sets it gently on the floor.

"I don't want to play," Draco says, eyelids fluttering shut. "It looks like shite anyway."

Neville squints at the cards in his hand, and Draco can't tell whether he's attempting to make a play or if his vision is blurry from the alcohol. They've each had more to drink than him, and Draco considers whether he ought to have a few sober-up potions on hand just in case something happens.

He sinks deep into his seat. Instinctively, he reaches for the thread of magic that connects him and Hermione, relieved to find her tangle with him.

Sometimes the days when he operated alone, refusing to let anyone else in, feel like a vague memory in light of how thoroughly things have changed. It's surreal in so many ways.

He jerks his focus back to the game when Theo smacks Neville's hand away from the deck.

"It's not your draw," he clips.

"It absolutely is," Neville retorts.

"Not," Theo huffs. "I still have a play."

Draco rolls his eyes. "This is absurd. Where did you even learn this game anyway?"

For a moment, neither of them speaks as they communicate something silent.

Then Neville says, "Seventh year. We learned it from a book of card games Theo found in some dusty corner of the library."

Draco's gaze slides between them, caught off guard. He had known the two became close back then but never thought to ask about it.

Now, he feels the stinging of shame that he didn't.

"How did that happen, anyway?" he asks softly. "You two."

Theo's expression shifts with discomfort, and he lays his cards face down on the table.

"It was when the Carrows became especially bad." He hesitates, focus sliding to Neville. "You remember how it was, Draco—they wanted us to do their dirty work for them."

Draco remembers. Even with all the atrocities he's committed in service to the Dark Lord, he can still remember what they were forced to do. The young students' screams.

"Yeah," he says, voice hoarse.

"This one," Theo goes on with a nod across the table, "kept stepping in to take punishments for the lower years. Bloody Gryffindors."

The air falls sombre and Neville offers a half-hearted chuckle. "Let's just say I spent a couple of months growing familiar with Theo's Cruciatus." Then his face softens. "Until he stopped."

"I was sick of your dumb face," Theo says with a snicker. "And one of the others figured out a way to mimic the effects of the spell well enough to appease the Carrows. Everything but the pain."

"You did?" Draco's head snaps to face him. "No one ever told me about that."

"Yeah, mate." Theo's cheeks grow pink. "No one knew if you would give up the game to Snape and the Carrows. You were the most loyal of us."

A deep pool of shame swells within the pit of his stomach. Suddenly, he finds he can't look at either of them and his cheeks burn. It strikes him all at once as though the thought carries physical weight that he started pushing Theo away even then.

They've been friends since childhood—or maybe Draco was never the friend Theo really needed.

Not if he's learning of all this now. That Neville was there for Theo when Draco wasn't.

His fingers tighten around the glass of whisky, and he takes a swig only for something to do, the sharp burn of it hot in his veins.

"I wouldn't have done that," he says at last, and he wonders if they believe him. "Not to you."

"Yeah," Theo says softly, clapping a hand to Draco's shoulder. "I know that now. But at the time... I mean, we all would have paid if they found out what was really going on. Merlin..." He releases a low, humourless chuckle. "There was a time when all of that felt so important. Getting through Hogwarts with Death Eaters running the school. And look at all that waited for us."

The air remains stifled, tense with the memories swirling around them.

"It isn't any wonder we tried to find ways to distract ourselves back then," Neville says, gesturing towards the card game they're playing now. "And I guess we sort of just fell into something."

Theo clears his throat, leaning back in his seat. "When the war got bad and the sides became black and white, Neville and I lost contact for a long time. Until one day we saw each other at a skirmish and... I don't even remember exactly how it all went down. But it was shortly after that I fell into the role with Foray."

Draco wonders why he never asked after all these details before. Maybe in light of everything else going on, it didn't feel as important.

He leans forward, not quite able to meet either of their eyes. "I apologise that I wasn't there. Not like I should have been. Those last years feel like a blur now after everything else." He glances at Neville, brows furrowing. "And I'm glad he had you."

"Fuck off," Theo huffs. "You had enough on your plate. We all did. I never held it against you."

He's never deserved a friend like Theo Nott, but Draco is just selfish enough to want to keep him anyway. "I was just... I don't know. Worried after my parents. Stressed out about everything going on at the manor when the Dark Lord set up camp. Merlin, it is weird how everything felt so bad then. We had no idea what was coming."

"None," Theo says softly. He reaches for his cards, a grim smile tugging at his mouth as he glances from Draco to Neville. "But we all know better now what really matters."

Neville's answering smile is the quiet reassurance Draco's soul needs. "That we do."

Hermione finds Harry and Luna in the yard, the pair of them perched on a picnic table they scrounged from a secondhand store. The moon is high in the cloudless sky, and Hermione settles herself at Harry's side.

"Hello, Hermione," Luna says softly, peering up at the sky. "Lovely night, isn't it?"

Hermione wonders how Luna's survived this long without losing that whimsical side that's always struck her as unique—while simultaneously, she's glad of it. That despite all the things this war has ruined, it hasn't killed Luna's spirit.

And she knows Harry has a soft spot for the blonde as well. Maybe he has for longer than he's admitted to her.

Until recently, there was no sense in having hope for anything. Now, she wants to think that Harry and Luna might have a chance at a future together.

If all that comes of this is a chance for her friends to be happy in a different world, she'll take it.

This war has never been any real sort of existence for any of them. For Harry, who spent his childhood embroiled in misery, then escaped to the wizarding world only to realise he had a vastly powerful nemesis since he was a child. Even then, they ought to have seen it coming—but as children they never expected everything that was to come.

That they would spend all of their youth and early twenties fighting for their lives.

And for Luna, bright and eccentric, a dreamer more than anyone Hermione knows. She hasn't had much opportunity to spend time with Luna, separated as they were in different safehouses, but she can still see the spark in her that war hasn't quite managed to dull.

All at once, Hermione mourns the life they could have had. If the war had ended at the Battle of Hogwarts as they'd hoped.

She tries to imagine the sort of people they would have grown into, and she can only imagine they're all shades of who they might have been.

For the last few years, she's tried to avoid even thinking about things like this. Dwelling on what ifs and what could have happened is dangerous in a world of strife, when every day counts and she's been forced to keep focused on any given task ahead of her.

As a result she's never allowed herself to think of the future—but the past haunts her like an unwanted guest.

Now, as they watch the war's hold on England wane and combust, everything feels so much more real. Like something else might actually be within reach at last.

Hermione can't decide whether the thought is hopeful or heartbreaking.

She thinks of Neville, remembers the soft but brave young boy he had been—and looks now to the trained killer the war has produced. Of Theo, who she never knew, but knows he never wanted to play a role in this war.

And Draco... who isn't even remotely the spoiled young boy he had been when she first met him at eleven.

They've all had to adapt, but she doesn't think all of it has been for the best.

Hermione forces a smile, realising she hasn't answered. "It's a beautiful night," she murmurs. The air is chilly with winter's touch, but they've cast temperate spells on the yard. It's a rare clear night where they can see a few stars spotting the sky, and Hermione finds herself searching the night for something she can't name.

Luna sighs, resting her head on Harry's shoulder. He glances towards her before wrapping her into his arms, and Hermione's smile grows a little truer. Harry doesn't say anything, and she recognises the part of him that's quiet and pensive, exhausted by the world around him and searching, desperately, for a spot of reprieve.

"I think it will be nice when all of this is over," Luna says quietly. "And I try to tell myself everything will be alright, because even if it isn't, I'd rather spend my final days with peace in my heart than worrying about an outcome I can't control."

Melancholy seizes Hermione's heart tight like a vise, even as a few pieces crumble for each of her friends.

Exhaustion grows within him as the night creeps towards dawn, and by the time the rest of them return to Grimmauld Place, Draco has managed to subdue most of his anxiety.

He finds Hermione settled on the sofa, a sleepy smile on her face as he takes the seat next to her.

Hermione remains silent, and he wonders whether she's thinking about her parents. About their friends. About what's coming for them in the days to come. He can't imagine a world where she isn't.

It was a low move to take her to Australia—to show her what she could have if she fights to survive this. But Draco can't bear the thought of her dying to keep him safe—when he's done the most horrific things of them all to survive.

He wonders whether she'll hold it against him if he doesn't survive the altercation to come.

The thought hits him in the chest harder than he expects.

There's no legacy for him at the end of all of this, he already knows. He's known that for years, and knows that most people will only remember him for the negative he caused. For all the death he wrought at Voldemort's right hand.

But Hermione... if he dies in two days, she might remember him for the piece of shit he's always been—and not all of these memories they've built together. The future they've allowed themselves to dream up.

He can't handle the thought.

"Have a drink with me," he says, reaching for a partial bottle. He summons two empty glasses, pouring a small measure into each, trying to ignore the shake in his hand. To her credit, Hermione doesn't mention it either.

She takes one of the glasses from him, pressing it against his own.

His eyes burn.

"To what comes next," he says, the words a hoarse whisper. He can't meet her gaze as he takes a swig, focusing on the hot burn of the whisky as it runs down his throat and heats his insides.

She remains silent for a long moment after she sets her glass down, then says, "To us." Her eyes are bright but clear when he forces himself to look at her. "To something beautiful coming out of this mess."

A breath catches in his chest, and moisture stings at the corners of his eyes. A wry huff of laughter slides free. "To everything we've accomplished."

A soft smile lingers on her lips. "To love in the midst of war."

It's the most cliche of all, and if his heart didn't hurt so much, he might roll his eyes. He only captures her mouth in a kiss, something cold and desperate nudging at the back of his mind. That she needs to survive above all else, and he'll do anything within his power to make sure it happens.

Chapter End Notes

Please note: Chapter 49 will not post next week, but two Tuesdays from now on May 30th. It's a big one, and I want to be sure I have the time to give you all the best chapter I can. Thanks for understanding <3

And thank you all so much for reading. I really hope you enjoyed today's chapter - the thought of this story coming to an end is getting to me lol. Take care friends xo

Chapter 49

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione jolts awake from a restless sleep, mind and heart racing with the after-effects of a nightmare. The sky is still dark beyond the window, only the slightest hint of pale yellow beginning to rise above the horizon.

Draco's eyes are fixed on her in the darkness. His lids are heavy, the skin beneath them shadowed, and his lips part to speak though he remains silent.

It feels too early to be awake, while at the same time, like she's missed something important. Like time has no bearing.

"Did you sleep?" she asks, voice hoarse.

He shakes his head a little, blinking hard, as though he can't quite keep his eyes open.

Hermione presses her eyes shut again for a long moment. "You need to get some sleep."

Magic shimmers in the room, floating in the air above the bed, and she wonders whether she released some shreds of the bonding magic in her sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time.

"Can't," he says at last, sinking half of his face deeper into his pillow. "Tried."

Her heart sinks at the uncertainty in his voice. For as long as they've been together, he's been nothing if not sure of himself, of the steps they've taken to reach this point. Now, his eyes on her are lost, as though he doesn't know where they are. Where they're going.

A sudden burst of panic swells within her. She sucks in a sharp breath, the situation crashing down on her all at once.

"We can do this," she whispers, uncertain whether it's for his benefit or his own. "It's going to be fine."

Draco doesn't respond, his gaze remaining on her.

"We're prepared," she insists.

At last, he says, "And if it isn't? If we're not?"

An impulsive thought hangs on the tip of her tongue, and though she doesn't dare speak it, she knows it's on his mind as well. The thought is almost surreal.

Then they'll die.

And all of this—everything they've done to try and end the war, to restore some sense of order to the world around them—will be for nothing.

Her eyes spike with hot tears, but she doesn't have the energy to push them back.

"Then at least we'll be together," she whispers. Because it's all she can manage.

It's the only reassurance she can find. That if they're going to die today, they won't be alone.

It does little to console the despair in her soul.

Because they don't know what's ahead of them, and none of them know if they'll see another sunset. If they'll wake up again tomorrow.

They've tried so hard and so long to keep the melancholy at bay, and now that Hermione's allowed herself down this road, the fracture in her heart spreads wide.

All of a sudden, she doesn't have any more words.

She only stares at Draco, silent tears spilling across her cheek and into her pillow, and she wishes all of this were a nightmare, that none of this had truly happened. That she might simply wake up into a different existence entirely.

He reaches for her, as if to brush away the tears, but drops his hand partway.

They need to be strong and united today, if ever, but a wall of fatigue crashes down that she can feel through both sides of the bond. As though they've reached the edge of their capabilities, moments too soon.

So she blinks back the tears as well as she can, shifting slightly towards him; an effort to seek comfort in his presence if nothing else.

Draco releases a sigh, wrapping her into his arms, and draws her close. She can feel his heartbeat, rapid against his cool skin, and there's this. That he's alive. They're both still alive, against all the odds they've already faced.

Neither of them knows what the day will hold, but she has nothing left to hold onto but this.

She rests her cheek against his heart, winds her arms around him, and lets her eyes fall shut. His lips brush her temple, a barely there touch, and through the bonds she can feel everything they can't speak out loud.

It's tentative and on the verge of helpless, but it's all she has.

And she clings to that last thread as she slides back into sleep.

All of Draco's thoughts and motivations are a riot of chaos, and he wishes they would settle.

He didn't sleep a wink, too many fears keeping him from rest. He already knows he'll regret it, but there's nothing for it. The sun is up, the day is upon them—and he has no choice but to proceed forward according to the plan.

It won't be the first time he's fought without sleep.

The only thing that concerns him is that his reflexes are slow, his body and mind sluggish, and if he puts Hermione in danger over it he'll never forgive himself.

She sits at the kitchen table, staring down a partial bowl of cereal though her skin is a little green.

"How would you feel," she says without looking up, "if your last meal was a soggy bowl of cereal?"

Draco grimaces at the morbid statement. "Best not let it be the last."

Still, she vanishes the bowl and rises to her feet, slipping away towards the bedroom. They've both been on edge for the past two days, despite the number of battles they've been involved in over the years.

It should feel instinctive. But something about today doesn't feel like anything else. Something about knowing what's in the works—how this could all play out if the details go as they should.

Hermione's despair makes it along the bond to reach him, and Draco lingers in the doorway with a sigh. She pulls on her leather boots from her days in the resistance, loading herself up with as many blades as he's ever seen on her at once. Never mind the way extraneous magic has been pouring off her for days.

That there's so much raw magic built up between them that Draco sometimes finds himself suffocating under the power of it.

He’s always known them to be her armour.

"Hey," he says softly, sinking into the bed at her side. He grazes her fingers with his own, relieved when she links her hand with his. "We're going to do this, and it is what it is. Yeah?"

"Yeah," she breathes. "I just—there are so many things that could—"

"There's nothing more we can do." He forces himself to meet her gaze. "And stressing out about matters beyond our control isn't going to help anything."

"You didn't sleep."

Draco shrugs, glancing away. "I'll be fine."

He doesn't know how to tell her that fear kept him awake all night. Fear that he might never again see her. That he didn't want to squander his last hours with her in something so frivolous as sleep.

"Okay." Hermione draws in a deep breath, then releases it, slow and shaky. She gives his hand a squeeze. "We know the plan. We have the magic. And we're in this together. What more could we ask for?"

A chance, he wants to say. A chance to make it through this to what lies beyond. After all this time, he yearns for it in a way he never could have comprehended before they ventured down this path.

"Nothing," he says at last, pressing a kiss to her mouth. "Exactly this."

He's certain that if he allows himself to dwell on the thought of losing her, he might never leave this room. So Draco rises from the bed, releases a careful breath, and prepares for the day ahead.

The cue from George arrives as anticipated.

Everything is in place.

Draco crumples up the sheet of parchment, drawing a thread of magic free to set it alight in the air in front of him. The ashes crumble to the ground at his feet and he stomps a fragment of paper into the street.

"You're good to go," he says quietly, watching Hermione draw her coin. Watches as she sends a message to the one Death Eater whose access they can rely on.

Yes?

It takes less than a minute for Adrian Pucey's response. Yes.

"Yes."

Draco casts a glance around the group. His eyes linger, only for a moment, on each of them in turn. Potter and Lovegood—Theo and Neville. And at his side, Hermione pockets her coin.

"The Dark Lord and Cassius Warrington are both present," she says softly. "Kingsley will briefly establish the anti-Disapparition wards as discussed. It should be just enough to keep everyone fighting."

"One way or another," Draco says, "this ends today."

The morale amongst the group has been surprisingly upbeat, and Draco wonders if they're all as ready for this to be over as he is. No matter the outcome.

He wonders if this is the last time he'll see any of them.

"For what it's worth," he says, lifting his chin, "it's been an honour to fight with each of you."

His chest grows tight as the words grow soft. He's never been much for friends—certainly not during the years spent in the depths of war—but he can't deny he's come to rely on the people before him as true friends.

Another of life's cruel ironies.

"Reconvene here when everything's over," he adds, and no one responds. He wonders if any of them expect to walk from this.

The thought of anything being over doesn't even resonate.

They all watch as Potter and Lovegood Disapparate first—reconnaissance and distraction. Potter still carries more relevance than anyone else present. And Draco can't help but think that Lovegood's skills as a healer may come in handy.

It isn't the moment for sentimentality, when everyone's said everything they needed to—or had time for—but Draco's chest tightens when Theo's hand entwines with Neville’s, the pair of them steeling their expressions as one.

"I'll send Kingsley a Patronus," Neville says when they separate, and the four of them stand in wait while his hedgehog chases off through the afternoon sky.

All of the pieces are converging before them, but Draco can't allow himself to feel anything. They've come this far—but none of it matters if what comes next doesn't go right.

They can only allow a few minutes before they need to leave, and Draco's heart thunders in his chest while the four of them stand in a silent tension, the feel of it prickling along the back of Draco's neck.

At last a silvery-blue lynx crashes to a half in front of them, and speaks in Shacklebolt's voice. "Noted. Raising wards in three minutes. Be safe."

Theo's audible breath of relief speaks for them all.

Another piece of their plan slotted into place.

Hermione's magic nuzzles against his own through the bonded pool they've submerged their water inside, densely packed and playing a fiery game against his senses. He longs to unleash the magic, to let it all free.

And they will.

Before the day ends, Draco has no doubt that everything will have changed.

He can't allow himself to dwell any longer, so he meets Theo's gaze with a brief nod. "Let's go."

And the four of them Disapparate from the London house for possibly the last time.

Hermione isn't certain what she expected when they pieced this final thread together—or maybe she's simply been out of the fighting for long enough that the chaos threatens to intimidate her from the moment they land.

Maybe it's because the stakes in this game are the highest they've ever been.

Despite that the midday sun is high, the sky is blotted out by the flashing lights of spellfire. Their plan to get both sides together, locked in combat with George's assistance, has clearly paid off.

The area where the final stand is to occur is a damaged and war-torn region along the boundary between Muggle and magical London. Buildings in various states of destruction dot the streets, allowing for shelter and dispersion. Already, chaos erupts on all sides.

She scans the distance for any signs of Harry or Luna, and can't spot them. For only a moment when they arrived she saw Neville and Theo before the pair of them vanished into the fray.

She can't allow herself to dwell on where her friends are. On how this all might play out.

Because Neville and Theo have a task of their own. They'll go after Warrington—and she wonders if Neville will be the one to bury a curse through his heart.

Draco's made no secret of the fact that he wants to be the one to put down Lord Voldemort, and she can't hold that against him. If anything, she wants it for him if only to quell some of the strife in his heart. After so many years of being mistreated, tortured, abused at the man's wand, she longs for him to find peace in the aftermath.

A part of her suspects it might be the only way he can move on—though she doesn't know what that will look like for any of them.

If there really is peace ahead after everything they've done.

A rumble of magic stirs in her blood at the sight before her, and she digs deep into that side of her that's existed only for survival for the last five years. There's no room for contemplation and consideration—for fear.

Because all they have now is war, and the extinguishing of it.

Draco grips their power from his side of the bonds, and she understands the sentiment implicitly within every fibre of her being. She sets her sights on one Death Eater, knowing every step towards the Dark Lord is a step they need to take.

Hermione sinks into her magic, into the coil she's spooled together for weeks. The overflow of magic so strong they've had to release it in bits and pieces.

She catches Draco's eye, sees the burn of fury he's cultivated for years. Fixes her focus back on the Death Eater in her path.

And releases.

Minutes slide past and trickle through hours, and still the fighting carries on.

Hermione wonders if every fighter remaining isn't as tired of this as she is. If just maybe, everyone is ready for this to be the final stand, no matter how it plays out. If their manipulations and manoeuvring to get everyone in the same area at the same time—a stroke of George's brilliance—hasn't paid off as well as they could have possibly hoped.

All around them, bodies lie crumpled on the ground, and Hermione hasn't allowed herself to look too close.

She doesn't know what might happen to her resolve if she were to spot Luna or Theo. Harry or Neville.

The only one she's kept close with is Draco, because their magic always seeks to bolster each other's—and she needs to be by his side when everything falls into place.

A short while ago she saw a team of fighters in official Ministry of Magic robes parade past—Kingsley's Aurors then. When they spoke with Kingsley in advance of the fight, he expressed a desire to take some of the Death Eaters alive. To question and imprison them.

They had only been grateful for another element of support.

The sun begins to dip towards the horizon and still the fighting continues, still Hermione draws within herself to release scraps of magic, a little at a time.

Some part of her wants to fire indiscriminately, to open her magic to those who still stand before her—but she fears hitting the wrong person, and in the darkness and the chaos, it would be all too easy.

To strike an Auror. To hit a friend.

Every time she sees Draco, charging a vicious path across the shattered cityscape, her heart clenches.

This is everything they've fought towards for months, desperation driving them to find something different at long last. And she doesn't know what to do now but to fight, to pour the magic free, basking in the power of it.

Draco's magic brushes against hers, cool and enticing, and she refocuses in his direction.

In the distance, still dozens of fighters between them, she catches sight of Lord Voldemort. Even from so far away, his red eyes glow with rage, with wrath, with the impotence that comes from watching the last of his fighters take a stand.

From watching them go down, one by one. To spells from the resistance, to the magic Hermione and Draco have honed into a blade, to the Aurors.

And she basks in his fury too, knowing the sort of misery he's created for Draco over the years. She digs into her own rage, into the way he's treated the man she loves, the way he's beat him into the ground again and again.

She wants to fire at him, to unleash the magic roiling within her—but Draco's soothes her.

Close. They're so close.

They can withstand just this bit more.

And despite all of their hesitation, all of the caution they've allowed, the bonds are strong. This is magic that goes beyond anything Hermione's ever known before, and between her and Draco, they're able to withstand all of the enemies that come at them.

Many of the Death Eaters, upon seeing Draco's presence, turn the full force of their anger towards him—and that anger becomes the last thing they know.

Because for as much as Hermione's dug deep within herself to the storm of magic and fury, he's done even more so.

Hours earlier, he sank into a part of himself that knows nothing but vengeance and death. If she didn't know better, she wouldn't recognise the man he's become.

But she knows so much better. Knows that this is the person Draco needs to become to face the miserable tasks ahead of them. The way he has to block out all the rest in order to kill—to slaughter—those who were once under his command.

No Death Eater who's set their sights on him has walked away.

Even after their efforts with the resistance, many still fight at Warrington's side—fighting a war in which they've been embroiled for years. A war they can't walk away from even now.

Or maybe they don't fight for Warrington at all, but themselves. The hopes they've clung to all this time, even knowing this will be their ruin. In some instances, when Hermione recognises someone from the resistance—a former housemate in a safehouse, or someone she's seen at her side in battle—she feels a pang of regret.

Sometimes, she turns away. Selects another target instead.

Because it was never about killing everyone. Not even Draco wanted to see everyone dead when he laid out his initial plan.

It's a part of the reason they sought to reestablish order in wizarding society before everything else fell apart. The reason they wanted to expose Warrington before he could drag the entirety of the resistance's forces down with him.

Despite the abundance of magic they've slowly knitted into a vicious shield, Hermione can feel Draco's hesitation as well as she knows her own. They've both witnessed the way the magic takes over—the way it can drain their energy as the cost for its massive power.

They've experienced it more than once. The first time against Yaxley—and more significantly, after the raid on the Malfoy Manor dungeons. Neither of them can afford to lose control today.

Not when the cost of a slip-up could be both of their lives.

And there's more still to face ahead.

She catches Draco's cool gaze in a quick glance—enough to ensure they're both still together, still on the same page. She allows only a nod before they advance.

The fighting falls into disarray as the sun vanishes, the sky darkening around them. Those who still fight are exhausted, drained of magic and energy, hungry and dehydrated. The radius of battle has widened into the blocks surrounding them, and every so often, Draco can see a flash of spellfire lighting up the night sky in the distance.

He spies a small team of resistance fighters down the road, and he ducks behind a nearby building, dragging Hermione with him. His heart thrums the same desperate cadence it's taken to all day, torn between an offensive drive to fire and put an end to this all, and a defensive need to survive.

A hand wraps around his shoulder, and just before he can swing an arc of magic towards it, he catches sight of Theo.

"Fuck's sake," he hisses, subduing the fresh swell of power at once. "I almost attacked you."

Neville comes up alongside Theo, looking worse for the wear but still standing and whole. Draco allows himself a measure of relief in the fact as the four of them assess each other.

"You're both okay," Hermione says, swallowing. "Good."

"Yeah," Neville says stiffly. "Saw Harry and Luna maybe half an hour back."

"Good," she says again, her shoulders crumpling. "Haven't seen Warrington."

"We have," Theo clips. "Barricading himself behind resistance troops, the miserable sod."

Draco's upper lip curls with a sneer. "His plans to get out of this went south, so now he's doing whatever he can to make it survive."

"He won't," Neville says darkly. "Kingsley's Aurors superseded the Anti-Disapparition wards, as he wanted—but I've only seen them take a few Death Eaters alive. Honestly, I think everyone else has stopped trying."

A curse slides from his gritted teeth as he ducks, just in time to miss a spell flying overhead. The four of them drop into a crouch as a cloud of rubble erupts from the top corner of the building they've utilised as a partial shelter.

Swinging an arm around the corner, Draco fires a warning shot of raw magic, and he feels the ground rumble where it impacts. His chest lifts and falls with the exertion they've expelled, with the long hours of adrenaline.

All of a sudden, Hermione releases a quiet hiss, firing a short burst of magic at the ground some distance away. Draco follows her attention to see Potter in hiding, wide eyes landing on the four of them.

Potter beckons, jerking a thumb over his shoulder before vanishing into a building halfway down the block.

"Come on," Draco says quietly, rising to peer across the road. Scanning for magical signatures, he nods once before the four of them make a painstaking trek across the heart of the fighting zone.

Although much of the battle has subsided from earlier—aided by the loss of fighters—those who remain are ruthless. And the six of them belong to neither side, nor are they with the Ministry.

They're as rogue as it comes, and no one will refrain from attacking them.

With this thought in mind, Draco collects a thread of the magic and fashions it into a shield—not strong, but enough to repel a curse or two that might catch one of them by surprise. Any sort of exposure is opening themselves up to attack, no matter the magic they have at their disposal.

And if Draco has his way, they'll all walk away from this fight.

None of his team are the primary targets today, despite that they've orchestrated many of the pieces into place.

Except for him. He already knows he's one of Voldemort's prime targets. He'll face the path he's brought upon himself if it means the rest of them get away unscathed.

But he'll fight like hell in order to walk away.

Every spell he casts is calculated, every movement precise to constrain the energy and power he still has. Hermione understands the same—they both saw what happened with the raw expulsion they released at Malfoy Manor in rescuing Theo.

They slip across the road and behind Potter, who protects the entrance into a building with his wand aloft. They enter single-file into the darkness—most of the buildings in this area lost power over a year ago and Muggle-repellent charms have ensured no one comes around.

But one wall on the upper floor has several tall, thin windows, and it's enough to let in the moonlight and allow them a vantage point over the street below.

Lovegood's on lookout, dirty and dishevelled, and it looks as though she's done a quick job of healing a wound on one of her legs judging by the heavy bandages. Relief crosses her face when the rest of them gather on the second floor, but no one immediately speaks.

For Draco, it's a much needed reprieve from hours spent down below in the thick of the battle, and he allows himself a good look around. Everyone looks exhausted, banged up and filthy, but they're all standing.

"We're all still here," Neville says at last, breaking the tension. "So there's that at least."

Hermione laughs. "So far so good."

Draco can't find any levity in his soul, but he's distracted from trying when he finds Longbottom's gaze locked on him. As though he has something else to say, something specific—but after another lingering moment, he glances away.

He hasn't been able to miss the strange way Neville's acted recently—but he hasn't had the time or mental energy to dwell on it with everything else happening. It will have to be something they discuss later.

"So where are we at with everything?" he asks, raking a hand through his hair. "Warrington's still around somewhere, and the Dark Lord is still alive. Forces on both sides are dwindling, but everyone else has committed to this."

"Kingsley's been hauling fighters off from both sides," Potter says. He gestures towards Lovegood. "Luna took a hit around half an hour ago which is when we found this place."

Lovegood nods, shooting Potter a smile. "We were going to return down below and see if we could find any of you, but you've all found us instead—is anyone wounded?"

Neville and Theo exchange a glance.

The next twenty minutes pass while Lovegood patches up various small wounds and injuries, but they've been fortunate that no one's taken a serious hit. Draco rummages in his satchel, passing around a magically extended skein of water and a few packs of jerky, and he can tell everyone is grateful for a rest.

Hopefully, in the end, it will mean the difference between finishing this out and surviving.

Neville slips up alongside Draco while Lovegood assesses Hermione's magical core, and a shudder of nerves darts through him at the look on Neville's face. As though he knows something, but doesn't know how to share it.

"What?" Draco drawls at last. "Just spit it out."

He doesn't miss the way the man clenches his palm together briefly before pressing it against his torn jeans. "It's nothing—it's probably nothing. Just... be careful. If you go up against him. Be careful."

He can't quite dissect whatever it is Neville is truly saying, but he nods stiffly. "I will."

He's distracted from the conversation when Lovegood waves him over. And before he can deny her, she begins casting diagnostic spells on him.

"Best to make sure your magical core isn't burning out," she says absently.

Draco can only imagine the state of his magic after so many hours of fighting.

So he peers through the window, watching the flashes of magic as silence takes over the room.

"How did you get into healing?" he asks softly, realising he knows almost nothing about the woman. That she fell into the situation and effectively became one of them as a byproduct of association.

She hums, each spell a gentle brush against his magic.

"I suppose I always wanted to help people," she says, waving her wand almost idly in an arc. "We had more resistance healers early on when the war began to worsen. One of them agreed to take me on as an apprentice."

She falls silent for a moment, her gaze following his to the fighting below. "After he didn't make it, I had to learn everything else on my own. The resistance has kept me busy ever since."

"If you weren't doing this?" he asks, soothed by her easy countenance. "What would you do?"

A soft, indulgent smile crosses her face. "I'd like to see the world. I don't think we're meant to exist like this, fighting to survive every day. I think we're meant to live."

"Yeah. I think so, too."

When they fall silent, Draco considers the woman. He can see what Potter might see in her—the ways they balance each other out.

"Everything looks good," Lovegood says at last. "Your magic is still strong. Take care with it and you'll be okay."

Maybe she knows the task that lies before him. Maybe she doesn't. Either way, he finds he appreciates the reassurance.

"Thank you," he says, reaching to shoulder his pack once more.

Fatigue weighs heavily on his shoulders—he can see the same in all of them. It's been a long day of fighting, but moreover, they've been working towards this for months.

They've been entrapped in a war since they were teenagers.

His mind is fresh from the brief rest.

From the flicker of hope he can't force himself to ignore. They're at the end of this war—he can feel it within himself.

And Draco's learned to trust his instincts.

Just as soon as the thought passes his mind, he sobers. Hermione stands in quiet conversation with the rest of them, observing the fight raging on below.

Draco wonders if this is the last time they'll all be together and whole.

The thought hurts worse than he expects. For so long he operated alone, forcing himself to depend on no one but himself, and now the thought of losing someone he's come to see as a friend is a bitter sting in his chest.

If, Merlin forbid, he were to lose Hermione.

Every so often, all of it feels surreal. The fact that they've spent so long fighting for their very existence—and now more than ever.

Now on this precipice of whatever comes next.

This quiet, dark moment, with the people he's come to respect and care about, feels almost like a breath of air.

A deep inhale.

He swallows thickly as he allows himself a moment of peace in the midst of war. For the first time in as long as he can remember.

As if they all feel the same way, no one makes a move to leave for several minutes. No one speaks, each of them observing the battle from this vantage point.

"Something's happening," Potter says at last.

The breath rushes from the room.

Draco moves closer to the window, magic stirring once more in his veins. The shouting has grown louder and more centralised, and he's shocked to see how the fighters have diminished from hours earlier. From their limited position overlooking the decimated street below, Draco can see everyone heading in one direction.

He wonders whether the Aurors are still rounding anyone up, or if they've left the fighting to diminish to ashes.

He doesn't even know if the Anti-Disapparition wards remain, or if everyone still here fights to put an end to this at long last. If they're all fighting tooth and nail to be free of this accursed war at last.

Before he can even make sense of anything, he finds himself rushing down the stairs, concealment charms flying from his hands as he stands in the doorway on the bottom floor.

Blood hammers in Draco's ears, thudding in his veins, as the street before him falls empty. An eerie sort of silence follows as Hermione slips past him and into the street beyond, magic gleaming in the air around her.

"What do you reckon it is?" Neville asks, jamming his hands into his pockets.

Draco shakes his head once, gazing in the distance where everyone went. "Something big."

"A showdown," Hermione offers. "A final stand of some sort."

"Must be," says Potter, releasing a heavy breath. He waves a hand one a vague gesture towards the darkness. "Shall we?"

"If the Dark Lord is there," Draco says softly, "I'm there."

Hermione's magic reaches for his, their power entwining, and he marvels at the unfathomable depths of it. As if, with all the magic they've expelled this evening, the deep well they've accumulated has only grown, replenishing itself with the sheer force of will. He coils his own magic back around her, their power merging as one until he doesn't know where his begins and hers ends.

It's enough to bolster his waning energy—because she's always been the courageous one.

"This is what we've been working towards," Neville says, clenching his affected palm into a fist. "And this is where it ends."

Somehow, Draco believes him. Not by the conviction in his voice—but something deep within him that suggests Neville actually knows. Again, his gaze lingers on the man's hand.

In a flicker of an instant, everything clicks.

Everything Neville said recently that didn't make any sense—the strange postulations he brought up. Some part of Draco splits in two at the thought, and when he locks eyes with the man, he knows he's right. That whatever happened that day with the spell, with the Asp Encircle, Neville gained some sort of Sight.

His insides curdle as he nods.

As his mind lingers on one of the last conversations they had.

If you knew a thing... and you knew it could ruin someone's final days on earth... would you tell them?

Draco coils his magic with Hermione's even tighter, layering magical warding into the very fabric of their bonds. And he stares hard at Neville. Willing the man to crack a joke or say something to dispel the sudden melancholy in his soul.

None of it was hypothetical at all.

His head spins at the thought, but when Neville feels his focus, he only twists his mouth to the side, claps a hand to Draco's shoulder, and says quietly, "We'll see what the night brings."

It isn't nearly enough to break the tension in his soul.

If he thought he was immune to the horrors of war, he was wrong.

Even now, after everything he's seen, everything he's done, the raw desperation of the fight is startling. Bodies lie sprawled on the ground everywhere, so many left unclaimed and twisted on the ground in the aftermath of hours of magical warfare.

This section of London is destroyed, annihilated by a cacophony of spellfire.

Draco's soul prickles with unease.

Still, they fight.

Years of pent-up rage unleashed in full force, Death Eaters against resistance, and he's surprised anyone is left to fight at all. It's wrought with desperation and recklessness, a sort of agonising hatred that's only built over the years until it's all broken free now in an eruption of pain.

He doesn't want to look at it—but he knows he's played his role in everything just as much as anyone else. More than most.

Over the course of the night, the fighting has devolved into something fueled by vengeance. Forgoing the quick and easy killing curse, the fighters have dug deep for all manners of atrocious curses. No one has slid through unscathed.

Draco catches sight of Warrington within a small battalion of resistance fighters—those who have remained loyal to him despite everything. And maybe, in the end, the man did have a shred of decency.

Draco would have expected him to flee for his life.

But he can't be bothered with Warrington at the moment. Because only a handful of Death Eaters, battered and bleeding, stand in the way of the Dark Lord.

Voldemort himself is ragged from the hours of battle, fury gleaming in his red eyes and magic billowing from him in waves.

Without knowing the depth of protective magic the Dark Lord imbued into his own soul, Draco has no way of knowing whether the bonds they've cultivated are enough. He’s clad in magic like a shield of his own, and Draco never knew the specifics of it. He doesn’t know if this will work—or if everything they've fought for will backfire.

If they'll all die here tonight, too.

He can feel Hermione's desperation, her devastation, through the magic of the bonds, and he clings to the essence of the person she is as he's come to know and love.

If they're going to die here, they'll go together.

He thinks again about what Neville said. About his own initial reaction in the face of it.

And he doesn't wish he'd known. If these were his final days, he spent them with the people he cared about—and that's all he could have asked for when the rest of it is laid bare.

Draco doesn't see any sign of the Aurors or Shacklebolt, and he wonders how many cells in Azkaban are filled tonight. Both Death Eaters and resistance have played a role in bringing everything to this point—and he wonders how many trials will come in the following days.

What truths will play out—and what secrets might be revealed in the end.

He can't allow himself to dwell on these things now, as he reaches out for the Dark Lord's magic, sifting through the thick layers that protect him and stifle the air around him. It's the darkest sort of magic, the sort that goes against everything natural about the magic from the earth.

It's no surprise, given the lengths he went to in order to establish his Horcruxes. Those are all gone—he lost the last of them at the Battle of Hogwarts—but Draco's known all along that there have never been any lines Voldemort is unwilling to cross to ensure his own longevity.

His own legacy, fucked up though it is.

Carefully sifting through the wards, Draco releases threads of magic to test his defences. The Dark Lord has yet to notice him, yet to engage him in battle, but he knows it will only be a matter of time.

Hermione's power brushes against his, entwining in an intricate twist, like an offering of everything he's going to need for the confrontation ahead. All of herself, laid before him.

He can't help the way his attention is drawn to her, only for a moment—and it isn't nearly enough. Everything they've done, everything they've become to each other—he's never truly deserved her. Her faith in him now feels like more than he can bear.

So he returns to the task at hand, unable to sink into the depths of his despair when he's so close.

Layer by layer, thread by thread, he unwinds the Dark Lord's protections. Long seconds pass, minutes he can’t afford.

The lineage bonds are powerful, and they've imbued them with stealth, with as much concealed magic as they've been able to spool together. And now, he will undo the man who twisted him into this worst version of himself.

Draco will die tonight if it means the Dark Lord does, too.

Voldemort's magic resists, reviling the intrusion, but still he works on it, relentless, dismantling the wards and charms and all manner of dark spells the likes of which Draco doesn't even recognise. It’s careful work, patience that threatens his will, be he carries on.

Hermione's magic brushes his, following his lead, and together they work to bring about the end of the most evil person Draco's ever known.

Across the block, where the battle still rages, Draco catches sight of Warrington. He forces a thick swallow, watching as Potter and Neville engage in the fight, unable to draw his focus from the task at hand. He thinks he spots George Weasley fighting with them.

Good. Maybe they'll take care of the prick and Draco won't have to.

He needs Warrington to go down. He needs Voldemort's attention to remain elsewhere.

Still, Draco can't avert his focus. The magic he's facing is ancient and arcane, an abolition of everything he knows and respects about magic. He strengthens his own Occlumency walls, secures himself from any form of interference.

It takes every ounce of energy to even begin to undo the protective spells.

He knows if he looks to the fighting—if he sees Theo or one of the others go down—his resolve will falter.

At last, the edges of Voldemort’s magic come loose, a frayed corruption he feels only when he really focuses on it.

From there, it's simpler. He tugs the thread, willing it to come free like a loose bit of yarn on a jumper.

If he can do this, if he can manage to release Voldemort's magic protection, they will face each other at last on equal footing.

Adrenaline courses through him, hammering in his ears as a tremble threatens to take over his hands.

Hermione's magic fortifies his, and he latches to the support with a surge of gratitude.

For no matter what else happens, he isn't alone. If he goes down, he knows she will take up the mantle.

And she won't stop until their fight comes to an end at last.

Painstakingly, he peels back the magic, allowing it to dissolve under the force of his own, manipulated to his will. Threads of his own magic seep in, undoing the Dark Lord's protections from within.

A sheen of perspiration breaks out on his brow despite the nighttime chill.

A volley of shouting sounds from the heart of the battle, and Draco curses under his breath when his focus wavers.

He needs to do this while the Dark Lord is distracted. While he doesn't have a chance to notice his protection is dissolving.

His hubris always was his biggest fault.

Draco needs this, desperation and longing coursing through him, and he can feel his methodical process slip.

He presses damp palms to his jeans.

"You can do this," Hermione whispers at his side.

It's then that he can feel the force of her magic funnelled into him. Shields and concealment and disillusionment.

Whatever she can do to allow him this time, to keep him hidden along the shadowy edges of battle.

He's well familiar with operating in the dark.

Bolstered by her support and encouragement, he carries on, a thief finessing the most elaborate of locks.

And the stakes have never been higher.

With the first magical edges frayed, the next threads come a little easier, a little smoother, until he's able to dismantle Voldemort's protections in earnest—and still the Dark Lord doesn't catch on. Years of sitting idly by have dulled his senses, his receptivity to magic—and that's something Draco has on him.

He never had the chance to grow rusty in his fighting and strategy. Not when he was forced to be in the thick of it every damn day for years.

His pulse races when he reaches the heart of Voldemort's protections—so close now he can taste it on the air. He can feel Hermione's anticipation, even as the battle escalates around them. Draco doesn't know if any of the people still fighting expect to make it out. If any of them truly thinks to see the end.

All at once, something shifts.

The connection he's created between his own magic and the Dark Lord's vanishes, like an invisible wall snapping down.

When he looks up, Voldemort's red eyes are on him.

He smiles.

Draco feels the concealment charms flicker and wane, and despite Hermione's magic tightening on him, he knows it's too late. He's been found out, caught in the act, and so close to the end.

Unwilling to allow even the faintest shred of uncertainty, he smirks back.

"Draco Malfoy," Voldemort says, his high voice carrying over the sounds of battle. "My faithful lieutenant."

Draco wants to laugh, a burst of mocking incredulity rising within him. With the cards all laid bare, there's no reason for him to hold back anymore. "I haven't been faithful to you for years," he says quietly, somehow knowing his old master can hear him.

The Dark Lord takes several steps towards him, closing the distance between them, and Draco can feel dozens of eyes slide to land on him. As though, despite the battles they're all caught up in, this is the most interesting of them all.

And maybe it is.

"I know that now," Voldemort purrs, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "And how you had me fooled." His gaze flickers to Hermione at this side, nose wrinkling with distaste. "Until you let yourself grow sloppy."

Even as denial flickers through the back of his mind, he doesn't refute it. In the months leading up to his defection, he probably let certain things slip. Maybe, for the first time in years, he had something to fight for.

Maybe it was obvious.

"If you think I didn't see through you, your bonding magic," Voldemort says, "you're less competent than I ever thought." His face darkens, eyes narrowing. "And if you think I would let your betrayal slide—your utter disregard for everything I've given you—you're sorely mistaken."

Draco's chest tightens with a burst of adrenaline, anxious energy hammering behind his ears. It's no surprise that he figured out the magic of the bonds—not after their invasion of the manor. Maybe he even pieced it together when Draco killed half a dozen Death Eaters during his own escape.

But moments later, Voldemort waves a hand at the empty space next to him, and Draco's heart stutters a beat.

As though an invisible wall has vanished, Lucius Malfoy stands before him, hair lank and hands bound together.

The reveal leaves Draco on the wrong side of control, and for a long moment, he only stares at his father, a strange mingling of despair and rage darkening the edges of his vision.

Lucius is unkempt, his shoulders slumped, eyes dull. Draco wonders how long the Dark Lord has had him like this—if despite the warnings to his mother, his father stumbled into something he should have avoided.

It would take altogether too many years to come to terms with the reckoning he feels, and Draco doesn't have time.

But he can't tear his eyes from his father's as they hold his own, dark and beseeching.

Instinctively, his fingers twitch towards his wand, but the magic sweeping through him in waves is so much stronger.

"And?" Draco drawls, sinking into the side of himself that can't crumble under this. Can't give in after they've come so far. The person he forced himself to become in order to endure at the Dark Lord's side for as long as he did. "What do you want me to do about this?"

"Nothing."

In the split instant that follows, as Voldemort's face darkens—when Hermione's magic tightens around his own—Draco understands. Even now, he can't escape the Dark Lord's punishment.

Even now, when the man has to die at his hand.

It happens so fast he scarcely has time to blink.

In the flash of neon green that brightens the night around him, Draco watches the life vanish from his father's eyes.

He sucks in a sharp, sudden breath, his head spinning and spinning. So quick, so easy—a spell Draco himself has cast more times than he can count. A spell to which he's seen friends and comrades fall. But it never felt like this.

It never hurt like this.

Somewhere in the edges of his periphery, Draco catches Theo's stare on him. But he doesn't know what to do with anyone. Can't even fathom the thought of Hermione at his side, an excess of magic pouring from her in waves that tease his deadened senses.

Despite everything and the fact that he needs to fight, needs to resist, to protect those who matter and who still breathe, he can't tear his eyes from his father's form as he slides lifeless to the ground, a heap of robes and tangled blond hair.

Several breaths pass, and it could be hours.

A sharp jab from Hermione on the other side of the bonds turns his vision red.

For all of the problems that Draco and his father have had, some naive part of him thought he would always be there. That, one day, he might be able to come to terms with the pain his father has put him through. That he might be able to reconcile everything into something else that makes sense.

Now, rage sweeps through him, sharpening the tremble in his hand into a hard agony that solidifies anything he might allow himself to feel into stone.

Voldemort only stares at him, eyes dancing with mirth in the face of Draco's pain. In the wake of his raw fury.

A sound slides from his throat that he doesn't recognise as coming from himself, and magic is flying from his hands, stronger than he's ever felt, just beyond the edges of his control.

Maybe he doesn't have control at all. Maybe the magic has seized on his despair, his wrath, his vengeance, pouring from within him, as much a part of him as the blood in his veins.

Vaguely, he can sense Hermione fighting with him, but he can't quell the adrenaline rush enough to fix his focus on any one thing.

All he sees is the amusement slides from Voldemort's face.

He wants his pain. He wants his death.

Wants him dead on the ground, buried beneath it, gone from this world.

Draco fires a burst of magic, enough to brighten the sky as though it's no longer night. His teeth grit so hard his jaw aches, and the magic bites back against his spirit with a vicious recoil.

He doesn't care. Doesn't care what this costs him. He'll drain the magic if it means Hermione survives. If Theo and Neville and Harry and Luna survive.

Moisture pools at the corners of his eyes and breaks free, edging down his cheeks, and instinctively he knows it isn't tears but magic, wet whispers of black against his skin.

Beyond the pounding in his ears, he can tell the fighting has broken out again. He doesn't know who still fights. Whether Warrington is still alive, or if Neville's found him yet.

All he knows is this raw fury, this blood lust that consumes him.

Voldemort fires back, digging into some well of magic within him—and maybe it's the need for victory that drives them both; the only thing left at the end of it all.

Wave after wave of magic pours from within him, digging deeper into the pool of magic they've gathered for so long, for this very purpose. And Draco has nothing left but this.

The edges of his vision are a blur—but as long as she's standing, he has something worth fighting for.

He throws magic with reckless abandon, pushing Voldemort back, overpowering even the wrathful corruption in the Dark Lord's soul with that of his own.

He sees the spike of fear. The wash of doubt. The sudden surge of panic.

He absorbs it all, uses it to bolster the outpouring of magic, and advances, seeing only red and ruin.

Spells fly at him, cast by Voldemort and the few Death Eaters that remain at his side, but lost so deep into the power Draco hardly notices as they glance off his magic. For so many years he's forced his anger down, forced himself to play the subservient role that meant he could survive.

For nothing.

All of it was for nothing.

His father is dead at the hands of the man that ruined his life, and all Draco knows how to do is kill. It's all he's done for so long that he slides back into that side of him as he fights with everything he has.

Even as his heart races, his hands are steady, instincts sharp.

He strikes Voldemort with all the magic he can dredge forth, watches it hit. Some part of his soul that isn't dead to the rest of it needs this as badly as he needs air.

And it isn't enough.

The thought strikes him, rattling in the back of his mind, empty but for the rage. It's enough to stay his next attack.

The last shreds of protection he wasn't able to dismantle recoil against his magic, pushing back his fatal blows and absorbing the heart-stopping power of it.

It isn't enough.

The Dark Lord is ragged under the force of the onslaught, his chest heaving, robes singed and dishevelled.

But he's still alive. Survived the force of the magic, the brunt of Draco's wrath.

For all he's done, all he's sacrificed, the hopes they've hinged on this moment. The words cycle through the back of Draco's mind on a horrific, destructive, broken record. It isn't enough.

As it catching on at the same moment, the Dark Lord turns, and his red eyes burn.

In a fraction of an instant—less time than it takes Draco to blink—the Dark Lord releases a spell. It brightens the night, neon green, and Draco catches the trajectory.

Aiming true at Hermione's heart.

As she pours everything she has into him.

He turns to her, digging deep for every last shred of magic he has, and borne of nothing more than instinct, he throws all of his magic into protecting her, saving her, taking her pain.

The Avada rips through the air.

Draco doesn't know how to breathe, all of himself given over to it, to keeping her alive. His magic reaches to divert the spell.

He catches the horror in her eyes in the final moment before everything slides away into darkness.

The instant the magic strikes him, Hermione screams.

She doesn't recognise her own voice, a mangled cry of his name, breaking at the end.

Her heart beats once, twice; her eyelids slide shut and open again.

For several moments, she stares as Draco's knees give out, his form slumping towards the ground. It's by instinct more than anything else that she waves a hand to soften the blow.

Long seconds pass.

Hermione's heart clogs her throat, beating a slow, insistent rhythm, and a breath slides from her lips.

Her head spins, doubt and shock and denial a furious storm within her as she stares and stares. As every part of her shuts down in the wake of his fall.

Draco's eyes are open but unseeing, unblinking, his expression caught in a discordant place between fear and determination.

Nothing makes sense.

This doesn't make sense.

Because there's no way—

There’s no fucking way.

"Draco," she gasps, dragging in a deep breath, choking on it.

He lays in an unsettling heap on the ground, his chest unbearably still.

All at once, everything else ceases to exist but for this. That Draco's fallen, that Draco's dead—

She sucks in another sharp breath, the sound of the clash raging on around her striking her all at once. Some part of her can't think, can't dwell on this, can't comprehend the sickening crack that begins in her heart and rends her in two.

And then, as though withheld by some indeterminate delay, the magic strikes.

It hits her with enough force that she stumbles back a step, thrashing through her and spilling violently from her core. It chases the breath from her lungs, the strength of it enough to darken the edges of her vision.

All of the magic. Everything Draco expended from the bonds in the moments before he fell—everything she fought with to protect him after his father’s death.

Every shred of it collides with her soul, the power of it so complete, so all-encompassing she can't contain it all. Can’t comprehend the neverending might of it.

Between the two of them, the bonds were powerful.

Now, no longer halved, the power is incredible.

Now, it sluices through her, flooding her veins, surging through her heart. Hermione allows it in, feels it build within her, the absolute raw power of it overtaking every part of her, obliterating her pain in favour of something else.

Something inhuman.

Her eyes snap up.

Voldemort is staring at her, smug, delight and victory blatant on his pale face. The sheer force of her rage, her fury, her desperation is a rush in her veins. Raw hatred floods through her and she sees scarlet.

Light bursts from her palms, almost of its own accord, and she narrows her focus on the magic that still protects him—the magic they didn't manage to undo in time.

She slashes through his protections, shredding the remaining magic to dust. With the full force of the bonds concentrated within her, Hermione feels the magic grow in strength, threefold, tenfold. She tears through the magic that keeps him safe as though it were nothing at all, like a hot knife through butter.

What remains of Voldemort's protection falls away and he stumbles a step backwards, any trace of cruel malice vanishing in an instant and replaced by intense focus.

Now, it's a fight to finish the task Draco wanted to accomplish all along.

She can’t think of anything else. Not now.

She blasts a stream of magic at the Dark Lord, freezing him to the spot, her magic twisting around him to hold him in place. It takes almost no effort at all, for as abundant as the magic is that burns through her. She'll kill him for this and it will be the only death that matters.

Hermione's eyes heat with the sting of tears, her heart aching with the need to collapse and break down. But she can't. Not yet.

She can't allow herself to look at Draco's lifeless form. His empty eyes. Not if she wants to fulfil his last wish.

Because she knows if she starts crying she'll never stop.

"Move!" Someone shoves past her, and though only a minute has passed since her world shifted irrevocably, she blinks, surprised, jarred from the focus that's gripped her. From the strength of the magic flowing through her.

Neville bends at her side, his hair dishevelled, and in the distant flashes of spellfire, she can see the anguish on his face as he stares at Draco's prone form.

Only for a moment—before he lifts his magically cursed palm and slams it hard into Draco's chest.

Hermione sucks in a breath as time shifts, hanging suspended for a span of seconds where she can only blink, incredulous, as the purple swirls spill from Neville's hand and seep through Draco's jumper.

"What are you—" she begins, the words scarcely a whisper.

Withdrawing his hand, Neville stares at the skin, flexing his fingers and rotating his wrist. His palm is neutral once more, any vestige of the magic imbued from the Asp Encircle gone.

For a painfully long moment, nothing happens.

The seconds tick past, each movement sluggish, her breaths falling slower.

Hermione is aware of the fighting stall around them, a tense tableau of life and death, but all she knows is this. She bends down, releasing enough magic to keep Voldemort subdued—but she can't bring herself to look away from Draco.

Adrenaline thuds behind her ears with each pulse of her heart. She has no concept of time any longer—as though it slowed to a crawl when Neville arrived. And maybe it did.

Maybe the way everything around her means nothing is because it is nothing compared to this.

Maybe time stalled altogether, inching past in only the seconds it must.

She knows no bounds of magic anymore. She's seen too much to trust in limits.

Hell, maybe it's her magic operating of its own accord. Halting the steady march of time for this new, strange power. She’s so desperate for this, for the thought that there might be something other than Draco dead at her feet, that she wonders if the full-fledged magic hasn’t shifted to allow it.

Crouched beside Neville, she breathes, "What did you do?"

Even the moment feels slowed down in a way she can’t measure.

He swallows, eyes skittering to meet hers. As though they're trapped in a bubble insulated from everything else. His jaw hardens. "What the Asp told me to do."

The words strike her and she sucks in a sharp breath.

They both wait, staring, the moment surreal in the middle of a battlefield. Around them, no one else moves, frozen mid-strike, mid-spell. Hermione counts the beats of her heart, idly aware of the silent tears clinging to the corners of her eyes.

When Draco's eyes slide shut and then open, slow and lethargic, she doesn't immediately believe it isn't her own fragile wishes fabricating what she so desperately longs to see.

But a furrow tugs at his brows, lips parting with a soft intake of breath.

A sob slips from her mouth.

Confusion lingers on Draco's face, and for several breaths, none of them says anything. Hermione claps a hand over her mouth, scarcely able to trust her own eyes.

Finally, a slow grin tugs at Neville's mouth and he says, "Nice nap?"

"Shitty nap," Draco huffs, grimacing, and his eyes snap back to Hermione. Tears break, unbidden, and slide down her cheeks before she swipes them away, shaking her head in disbelief. The sound of his voice—when she thought she might never again hear it—threatens to break her into pieces.

But instead she rises to her feet, reaching a hand for his, and tugs him back up.

For a moment, he only stares at her, lips moving despite that he doesn't speak. So much hangs unspoken, so much emotion for which she doesn't have any words, and she only nods. So many things she can't explain, and just for now, she can't find it in her to try.

"We have a battle to finish," she whispers, squeezing his hand as hard as she can manage.

And she releases her hold on the magic, feeling it slide from her into him, watching his eyes widen at the force of it. She embeds the power back into his side of the bonds, passing the pendulum but for a small amount she keeps for herself.

This is the moment he has patiently waited on for years.

With the passing of the bonds, time slides back into its proper configuration, the strangeness of it jerking her back to the present. To the situation at hand.

Neville stands at Draco's other side, wand in hand, and she catches sight of Theo watching, warmth and amusement glinting in his eyes.

Something akin to relief skitters through her—but they aren’t done. She can't see Harry or Luna in the crowd, but forces herself to focus.

Draco flexes his palm, as though testing the magic flowing through him, and his gaze lifts to land on the Dark Lord who sought to extinguish him. Who tortured and abused him for years in his service. Who, despite everything Draco did to support his cause and command his troops, treated him like less than nothing.

And now, all of Voldemort's protections are gone.

For the first time since he lost his Horcruxes at the Battle of Hogwarts, Lord Voldemort is as mortal and exposed as anyone else.

It takes Hermione several breaths to realise the battlefield around them has fallen still, and those scant few who still fight have turned to watch the exchange. Raw incredulity hangs on many of their faces, and she wonders how many of them saw Draco fall.

Protecting her.

She clenches her magic tight around him, enforcing the surge of power roiling within him. Encouragement and support. All she has left to offer him in the face of this task that has been little more than a far off hope for so long.

Voldemort sneers, his red eyes darting between them, and she wonders if he knows he's about to die.

Draco doesn't speak as he lifts a hand, breaths falling steady and even from his lips. His grey eyes burn like ice.

When Voldemort raises his wand, every spell he fires glances off, harmless, crumbling in the incinerator of raw magic emanating from Draco's form as he allows it to accumulate. It's enough to brighten the night sky, surreal in its beauty as it fills the air.

Growing more agitated, the Dark Lord doubles down, casting spells rapid-fire at Draco, at Hermione, panic crossing his face when none of his spells land. When he realises he stands alone at last.

And when Draco allows the magic free, a burst of power the likes of which Hermione has never seen in her life—a blinding flare against the dark sky—tears spring to her eyes at its great, horrific splendour.

What once was Lord Voldemort evaporates into nothing but dust and ash, motes of brightness that spark once before disappearing into nothing.

As though he never existed at all.

Silence falls upon the ruined street.

Expression blank, Draco stares at the spot where his former master stood. Shrugs the strap of his satchel over one shoulder. Drags a hand across the stubble on his jaw. Jams his hands into his pockets.

Everyone watches, wands lowered, as he turns to walk away, magic glimmering in his wake.

And the weight that's sat on Hermione's heart for years lifts.

Hermione lingers for a long while after the battle falls quiet at last. Maybe an hour, but she can't be certain. She doesn't even know if time is working as it's meant to, or if she and Neville caused some sort of temporal shift after Draco died and she simply can't detect it.

Her heart hurts at the sight of everything happening around her.

The Aurors returned, collecting the bodies, and a squad appeared to cast a variety of disillusionment spells on the area. Some of the fighting spilled well into Muggle London, and she can only imagine the cleanup that will follow.

Some part of her feels numb to it all.

Maybe she's so far beyond exhausted that she can't comprehend the basics anymore.

Harry appears at her side, taking a seat on the ruined ledge she's claimed for her vigil. He's worse for the wear but alive, and in the distance she can see George and Luna.

"So George showed up," she murmurs, eyeing the two of them.

"Yeah," Harry says. "I guess in the end it was his idea of doing the right thing."

So much of the battle is a blur, even now, even as she's begun to piece together the parts she didn't witness.

The way the fighting reached a head when Draco went down at the Dark Lord's wand. How George appeared at the eleventh hour in time to bring down Cassius Warrington. She doesn't know if Harry or Neville truly wanted the task for their own, and a part of her wonders if they were grateful they didn't have to face it. Maybe George needed to do something in the end, even if it won't bring back the brothers he's lost.

The last of the Death Eaters scattered when the Dark Lord fell—but Theo suspects they'll be tracked down come morning.

Given the Auror presence she sees now, she doesn't doubt it.

Idly, she wonders whether Pucey made it out of the country to meet up with his sister in time. A part of her hopes he did.

"Yeah," she says after a belated beat. "I'm glad he made it."

Harry shrugs one shoulder. "Told me earlier Fred would have been ashamed of him if he didn't step up when it mattered most."

Hermione swallows at the thought. At the bitter reminder of how they lost Fred. How they lost Ron. They've lost so many people, and it's surreal now to think that she won't have to exist with death as a constant companion any more.

"Neville's okay?" she asks, remembering the way he rushed in and saved Draco. She'll owe him for the rest of her life.

Nodding slowly, Harry blows out a long breath. She wonders how long it will take for all of this to settle in.

The war is over.

It feels like a fever dream.

"I think so," Harry says. "I saw him and Theo talking to Kingsley a while ago."

Hermione almost can't believe that they all made it through the fighting.

Not quite all of them. She thinks of Lucius Malfoy, and the way he had been Draco's final punishment from the man who ruined his life for so long.

She hasn't seen Draco since he walked away from the fighting, but she can feel him through the bonds. Can feel his magic twine with her own, and she instinctively knows that he needs the time alone to process everything that's happened.

Harry slings an arm around her shoulders, and she sags into him, the last of her adrenaline seeping away through her skin and leaving only fatigue in its wake.

"I can't believe it," she admits. "That it's finally over."

She doesn’t voice the thought that still threatens her resolve. That Draco’s alive. She’ll never forget the moment she saw him fall.

"Neither can I, honestly. This has been our life for so long and... now what?"

They sit in silence, mulling over the thought, and Hermione says, "I have no idea."

He squeezes her shoulders, drawing her close, and presses a kiss to her hair. "You did it. All of this—you actually did it." He falls silent, and his hold around her is a soothing balm. "I should have trusted you all along, and I'm sorry I didn't."

"You were right not to," she whispers. "I was in too deep with Draco even before I knew what he was planning to do."

Harry hums, raking a hand through his hair. "I guess it all worked out in the end."

She thinks again of Draco, immobile on the ground. Of his dull, lifeless eyes. And she knows she'll have nightmares of that very image for the rest of her days. Instinctively, she reaches for him through the bonds, and finds relief when his magic coils around hers in return.

"Yeah. I guess it did." Allowing a smile to cross her face, she turns to face him. "And what about you?"

Harry keeps his face intentionally blank—the sort of expression she can see through immediately—and he shrugs. "Luna said she wants to leave England for a while. Guess I might go along."

A burst of laughter breaks free, catching them both off guard in its sincerity. Surrounded by such a desolate landscape, the sound feels wrong. "Of course you should."

He snickers under his breath. "I don't know, Hermione. Maybe we can try to live—but I think that will be a big ask. At least for now."

"I think you're right," she says, sobering. "But if anyone can try something else, surely we can."

"After everything we've been through," he says softly, "we can do something else. That has to be easy, right?"

She catches the wry humour in his words, but a smile tugs at her own lips all the same. "Must be." She thinks of her parents in Brisbane—the spells Draco found. "Easier than living a war?"

"Merlin, I hope so." Harry gives her shoulders a squeeze. "Go get some sleep, Hermione."

She wants to refute the thought. Some part of her isn't ready to go—as though she needs to sit in it. As though there's any sense in absorbing all of this for any longer than necessary. Like she can't quite come to terms with the thought that it's over.

She nods all the same, but when he stands, she remains on the crumbling stone.

"Good night, Harry."

Harry shoots her one last grin—his eyes bright with something like genuine warmth for the first time in years—and Disapparates.

The air around her is silent, and she can't remember the last time she knew peace.

Hermione releases a long breath and goes home.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading friends. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! We're downhill from here xo

I have exciting news to share! A wonderful team in the HP fandom community has put together a Wizarding World WIP fics discord server (18+), and agohs will be one of the featured fics (through its conclusion and for a while after). Please come on in and discuss/flail over your favourite WIPs! Here is the server invite. I hope you join us!

Chapter 50

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

A week slides by, minutes trickling into hours into days, and Hermione drifts between reality and the facade she can't manage to take off.

Most of the time, she doesn't know what to do with herself.

For so long, she's existed in a state of preparedness and anxiety, counting days by the next battle, the next mission, the next near miss. She's lived in perpetual fear for her life, the lives of those she cares about, and every so often, she forgets that it's all over now.

Everything changed so insurmountably that night in the wreckage of London that she can't make sense of it all.

She still wakes with a jolt, reaching instinctively for a blade sheathed beneath her pillow. She still casts innumerable spells before venturing out from the yard of the London house. Still lives by instinct and adrenaline and the need to survive from one day to the next.

Now that peace is upon her, she doesn't know what to do with it.

Draco has been quiet since the battle, since his father died and he died too—and only by the grace of some strange magic that took up residence inside Neville did he survive.

Hermione doesn't know what to do about that, either, when he's been assured and decisive ever since she came to know him.

She doesn't know whether the magic damaged some inherent part of him—or if he's simply processing everything that's come to pass.

Even as close as they are, she never truly understood the relationship between Draco and his father, and maybe he needs time to mourn all of the things left unspoken between them. The complex dynamic that existed between them since Draco was a teenager forced into the cause of a madman who subsequently dictated every aspect of his life.

She can't begrudge him his silence.

For as long as Hermione can remember, she's been entrenched in war, and now all of them are lost at the thought of what comes next.

Twice, she's gone to Grimmauld Place to visit Harry and Neville, Luna and Theo, and the depth of her gratitude surprised her.

That somehow, after everything they were up against, they all made it out.

Not whole, and not unaffected, but alive.

She suspects that's as good as they're going to get for now. Maybe one day they'll be able to look back on this with a clinical, indifferent lens. Maybe not.

Maybe the course of this war will dictate the rest of their lives. Despite her best efforts, she can't quite picture a life where this doesn't hang over her, joyful and carefree as though she hasn't spent the majority of her formative years in a living hell.

A quiet knock sounds on the door and she flinches, drawn from her thoughts. Even though the war is over, they haven't released all of the wards on the home, and she reaches instinctively for her wand. Any of their friends would simply Apparate inside.

But before she can make a move, Draco walks past her with an apologetic grimace, fingers grazing hers. He reaches for the door, and Hermione relaxes into a smile when she sees Narcissa on the threshold.

Although they knew to expect Narcissa at some point in the coming days, the thought slipped her mind amidst the jumble of wispy thoughts that refuse to slot into place.

"Mother," Draco says, brushing a kiss to Narcissa's cheek. "Come in."

Hermione casts a surreptitious glance around the home. They've never pretended the London house is anything other than it is—a little run-down, a little plain.

But Narcissa beams at the home as if it's on par with the villa where she lives in Spain. As if their furniture isn't mostly purchased from the liquidation store and their lamps aren’t mismatched.

"Hello, you two," she says, sweeping Draco and then Hermione into an embrace. When she draws back, holding Hermione by the arms, her smile falters. "How are you doing?"

Hermione wonders whether Narcissa can see the tumult of existence that Hermione feels upon herself through every waking moment. She brushes a kiss to the woman's cheek and murmurs, "We're getting there. And you?"

Narcissa's smile is fortifying, and Hermione might miss it if not for the fact that she knows to look. "It will take some time for things to feel settled again—but I suppose I'm not the only one."

They hadn't known how to tell Narcissa that Lucius wouldn't be returning home—but the woman had already suspected. Despite Draco's warnings, Lucius had refused to ignore the call of his master. The situation still turns Hermione's stomach, knowing he walked into his doom.

Knowing, at least in some way, they were at fault for Lucius Malfoy's death. She knows the weight of it sits heavier on Draco's shoulders than he's ready to admit just yet.

"This is lovely," Narcissa says, smiling once more around the small sitting room.

A quiet laugh breaks from Hermione's lips. "You don't need to lie. We know it isn't anything special—but it's ours."

Narcissa's blue eyes sparkle. "That's exactly why it's lovely."

Draco clears his throat, jaw clenched hard. "I'll put on some tea."

Even though the Death Eaters all cleared out from Malfoy Manor, there are too many bad memories associated with Draco's ancestral home. He hasn't mentioned whether he might one day want to live there, and Hermione hasn't cared to bring up the subject.

They have time to make these sorts of decisions now—a thought that still catches her by surprise every so often.

Hermione isn't certain whether they'll even want to stay in London long term.

Maybe the reason she's been hesitant to discuss anything too far in the future is that she isn't entirely certain where they stand now. Their mission is accomplished; the reason for their marriage and bonding is behind them. He hasn't said anything about the subject, but a small, dismal voice in the back of her mind suggests that maybe Draco doesn't want to spend the rest of his life with her anymore.

That maybe all of what they felt for each other after enough time had passed was based simply on a mutual desire for a far off outcome.

But then he looks up, catches her eye, offers that secretive smile she knows he reserves for her, and the voice falls quiet.

It's simply another life now. One they'll need to learn and experience.

Hermione trails after Draco into the kitchen as he sets the kettle on the stove, and she begins to assemble a plate of snacks. Narcissa drifts after them, smiling at the small kitchen.

"Can I get you anything?" Hermione asks, turning towards the woman as she settles herself at their small table.

"Tea is fine, thank you," she returns, hands finding her lap.

The sight of Narcissa Malfoy in her proper robes, not a hair out of place, observing Neville's potted philodendron makes a sudden surge of mirth bubble up in Hermione's chest. She manages to quell it before a laugh bursts free.

Setting the plate onto the table, Hermione takes a seat, the pair of them sitting in silence as Draco pours three cups of tea then takes his own seat. The quiet slides into something tentative, something like peace.

Draco takes a sip of tea and asks, "Will you be staying in Spain?"

"I haven't decided yet," Narcissa says, fiddling with a paper napkin. "For the time being, yes. Though it does feel strange now being there alone with only the elves. I may eventually find somewhere else to plant roots."

Clearing his throat, Draco glances away. When he sets his teacup on its saucer, Hermione can see a slight shake in his hands. She reaches for his magic through the bonds, grateful when he returns the gesture. "I suppose it does," he says at last.

"And for the record." Narcissa's voice is stronger, her chin held high as she turns to Draco. "Because I know I haven’t said it often enough—I am so proud of you."

Draco's mouth thins into a hard line, a furrow lifting his brows. A glassy sheen coats his eyes as he nods once, staring at the window. He reaches for his mother's hand atop the table with a squeeze, and offers a quiet, "Thank you."

Narcissa's eyes are red but she doesn't cry. "And don't think for one second I blame you in any way for your father's death. He chose his path long ago."

"Yeah," Draco whispers, some of the tension sinking from his shoulders. "Yeah. I know."

It's a side of Draco she doesn't yet know, so far removed from the warrior, the lieutenant, the strategist. He's lost and broken, and Hermione's heart hurts at the sight of him.

But she thinks maybe they need to tear down in order to rebuild.

"Can we talk?" Draco asks, looking up from the book he's been staring at, eyes unmoving, for the better part of half an hour.

Hermione's heart jolts at the question, but she settles beside him on the sofa. "Of course."

A painfully long minute passes wherein he doesn't speak, before he finally lets out a sigh and drags a hand down his face. "I know I've been... distant."

"We've been through a lot." She reaches for his hand. "It's understandable."

"I don't..." He trails off, his fingers unresponsive in hers. "I know the circumstances around this have changed. And I don't want you to think you don't have options." His eyes lift at last to meet hers. "I don't want you to feel trapped."

"Trapped." She repeats the word though it tastes all wrong on her lips. "I don't feel trapped."

He looks away. "We both know you didn't want to marry me."

Hermione's heart sinks into her stomach, beating a feeble cadence within the pit of her being. "But I did. And we're together now."

"You don't have to stay."

All of her worst fears clang through the back of her mind at the words, her body going cold all at once. "What are you saying? You don't want this anymore?"

"No," he says, eyes wide. "Not at all. Merlin, no—I do. But only if you still want this. Now that everything's changed."

"Draco..." Hermione sighs, releasing some of the sudden heart-wrenching despair. "I never once lied about how I feel about you. We may have married out of obligation to a cause but... I thought all of this became real along the way."

At last, his hand grows responsive in hers. "I thought so too."

"I love you," she breathes, bringing his palm to her lips. "And that hasn't changed just because we aren't fighting for our lives any longer. If anything, almost losing you made me realise exactly how much you mean to me. How much I want to spend the rest of our lives together away from all this."

"Okay," he says, the word sliding from his lips like a heavy exhalation. "That's good."

"Prat," she hisses. "You scared me."

A hint of amusement quirks at the corner of his mouth, but it’s meagre. "I don't know if I can give you everything you deserve. I feel like... like I'm half of myself. Like I don't know how to be anyone other than who I've been, even though the world around me has changed."

It's the first time he's opened up about any of this since the war ended, and Hermione sinks into the sofa at his side, pressing her shoulder against his. "I get it. I feel the same way. And I think this is just going to take us time to get used to something different."

"Maybe." He shrugs one shoulder, staring at the floor. "I can't stop thinking about the way I almost died—well, did die—and how I would have left the world not having given you nearly as much as you deserve."

The words strike her hard in the chest, her heart tightening with despair. "You've given me everything, Draco. You gave all of us a way out. You gave me a chance at a new life, and I'll never forget that." Her voice breaks. "When I thought you were dead, I couldn't—I didn't—"

She claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. For a week now, she's tried not to remember the sight of him, unseeing and broken on the ground.

He pulls her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her as the tears begin in earnest, holding her as though he'll never let go.

"It's alright," he breathes. "We're both still here."

It's the only thing she can cling to—that no matter what else they've been through, they have a way forward. An opportunity for something different.

After so many years spent forcing herself to be strong, Hermione finds now that she can't hold back the pain, the exhaustion, the despair that's played about the edges for so long. Her silent tears seep into his shirt as she indulges herself in his hold for long moments before she draws back.

"What do we do next?" she asks, every part of her lost and adrift.

Draco presses a long kiss to her brow. "I keep asking myself the same thing. And I don't know the answer to that."

She meets his eyes, finding some of her own fatigue there. "Do you want to stay in London?"

Releasing a breath, he shakes his head. "No," he says softly. "At least not for now."

The same sentiment has been heavy on her heart for days. Every time she looks out the window, expecting to see spell fire on the horizon. Every time she startles awake in the night in a panic.

This may have been her home for a long time, but there isn't any part of it that doesn't feel tainted now.

"We should go somewhere," she whispers. "Get away for a while. Just the two of us."

They both have a lot to work through, their own demons to face. And then, maybe, they'll be able to move forward into a different sort of life together. One a little more permanent—one more like a future, and all that comprises. They've never had cause to seriously consider what the rest of their lives might look like—if they decide to have children one day—but now they'll have time for such things.

"I thought," Draco says quietly, "we might take a trip to Brisbane. And then... decide from there."

Hot tears sting again at the corners of her eyes, but she blinks them back. Maybe some part of her is finally ready to face her parents again—maybe she has been since he took her there to see them. "Brisbane sounds good."

The air is hot on her face despite the chill inside. For all she's thought of this moment, as a dream, as a hypothetical far off wish, she doesn't know how to face it now that it's upon her.

"I don't know if I'm ready for this," she breathes, a sudden and vicious swell of panic gripping her heart. "If I'm ready to face them."

"You made it through a war," Draco drawls, mouth twitching. "Surely this isn't what brings down the great Hermione Granger."

"Malfoy," she corrects idly, eyes sliding to meet his. When she catches the heat in his stare, she sees through what he's trying to do.

Only days earlier, they were in this same place, contemplating the same path—but then it all felt hypothetical. Like a decision she might not even have to make. And now, standing on Australian soil, Hermione is paralysed by the thought that her parents might not want her in their lives again.

She's made too many bad decisions, done too many terrible things.

She'll only disappoint them—and she loathes the thought of that even more than the possibility that they won't remember her at all.

Years ago, she came to terms with the idea that she may never speak with her parents again. It was always preferable to seeing them dead in a bid for information about her or her friends.

Now... with the prospect of such a decision ahead of her, she's terrified.

As though reading her mood, Draco sobers. "This is your decision," he says, "and you're free to make it however you like. Now, or in the future."

The words are reassuring in a way she didn't realise she needed—Draco's confidence in her has come to mean more than she ever anticipated—but nerves still riot within her. Even now, in Australia, she doesn't know if she's ready.

"If they hate me?" she asks in a whisper. "After they learn the truth?"

"That you did all of this for their safety?" A furrow knits his brows. "That you did what you had to do in order to make it out of the war alive? I don't know your parents, Hermione—but my mother knows every awful detail of what I've done, and she hasn't turned her back on me yet. I know she would rather I did what I needed to do for the cause of war than to see me dead."

The words make a little too much sense. For a moment, Hermione tries to put herself in her parents' shoes.

Maybe she's done too many things, spent too long fighting dark magic with dark magic. She fears some part of her is corrupted beyond repair.

But she has time ahead of her now. Time she can use to try and make something better for herself. For the life they'll spend together.

Even so, she whispers, "I don't know."

They're in the same park where they landed the time before near her parents' house, and Hermione settles herself atop the hill. The sun is beginning to sink towards the horizon, and she squints in the bright golden light.

To her combined relief and gratitude, Draco sits beside her, long legs stretched out in front of him. "Here are our options," he says quietly, conversationally, picking at the grass beneath his trouser leg. "We go back to London, and you can think on this a while longer. If you decide to cast the spell, I'll support you. If you decide you'd sooner leave well enough alone, I'll support that too." He pauses a moment, and Hermione waits with rapt attention. "We can stay here in Australia for a while. Merlin knows we could stand to get away from the cold."

"I don't know if your skin could handle this heat for that long," she whispers, a laugh slipping free despite herself.

He grimaces. "You're probably right."

"Or?"

He casts her a sidelong glance, taking her hand into his. "Or you take a leap of faith. Perform the spell—get your parents back after all these years. If I lost you... I know I would be thrilled to get you back."

Her eyes sting at the words, and when she looks up again, she catches sight of her parents walking through the park. A deep-seated bolt of longing chases through her at the way they talk and laugh together. The pain is so strong, so acute, that she doesn't know whether she can bear it.

"What if they're happy without me?" she breathes.

Draco gives her hand a squeeze. "What if they're missing you and they simply don't know it?"

With a sniffle, Hermione rests her face on his shoulder, unable to tear her gaze from her parents as they stop and settle onto a bench along the path. "And if the spell doesn't work?"

He tugs at the bonds between them, a reminder of the strength of the magic they still possess. "I think we can make something work."

Hours later, Draco finds himself alone in the park once more, the sky black overhead. A wry smile tugs at his mouth as he jams his hands in his pockets.

As he hoped they might, Hermione's fears that her parents might no longer want her ultimately came to nothing. The spell itself was remarkably easy to lift with a little manipulation of the bonding magic, and after some initial confusion, the three of them fell into an emotional reunion.

He could see it, every time she spoke of her parents. All of the efforts she made not to speak of them. Not to think of them, when doing so only reminded her of what she had lost.

And he knew she simply needed a nudge in the right direction.

The watery relief in her eyes was enough for him, and after allowing Hermione to introduce him, he slipped from the house to allow the three of them the time they've been long due.

He can't deny the moment is bittersweet.

For over a week, Draco's attempted to come to terms with the loss of his own father, but he can't quite manage it. They were on rocky terms since Draco was still at Hogwarts, but despite all of the negativity that festered between them over the last number of years, Lucius Malfoy was still his father.

Draco looked up to him all through childhood. And in the days following his father's sudden death, Draco's found himself dwelling on some of the happier memories he has of the man.

Back when things were so easy in comparison. Before the war crept in and darkened all of the shadows hanging over them.

He can see the bravery in which his mother has shrouded herself. Draco knows she's tough—but despite everything, his parents loved each other. This won't be easy for her either, but he knows better than to think she'll admit anything like that.

Not yet, anyway. Not when they're all still trying so hard to hold it together.

The war took more of a toll on him than he even realised at the time, and it's only now, in the peaceful aftermath, that Draco's been forced to come to terms with so many uncomfortable truths. About the lengths he pushed himself to—the many dreadful lines he willingly crossed in the name of survival.

The cold cruelty that carried him through so many years. The necessary evils—only now he's realising more and more that maybe they weren't so necessary after all.

He doesn't know what he might have done otherwise—whether he could have done things differently and still walked away from it all in the end. All he knows now is that he doesn't care for the man he sees in the mirror.

Maybe it will take time—but maybe he never truly will.

He once told Hermione that he didn't remember all the people he's murdered. Now, the thought infuses him with a deep well of shame.

Even in times of war, there's hope. Honour. Maybe even dignity.

Draco knows he forsook his long ago, and there's no undoing that. All he can do now is attempt to move forward. He doesn't doubt that Kingsley Shacklebolt is up to the task of bringing order back to the wizarding world, daunting though it may be. They've already seen the evidence of it.

Many of the central players in the war didn't survive the end of the battle—but some of the lower ranked fighters fled the battle once the Anti-Disapparition wards fell. Draco hopes some of them are able to move on. To find a new existence, a purpose, in the time they now have ahead of them.

It's all any of them can do now.

Hermione reaches for him through the bonds, her magic coiling tight around his own, and Draco returns the gesture. He can feel her relief, her excitement, and still, a few shades of caution. It will take time for her to return to a place of trust with her parents.

But they have time now. A luxury he thought he might never again have.

She tugs again—a message. An offering.

He peers up at the sky. Breathes in the night air. Then rises to find his wife once more.

Neville and Theo come by the following week, after largely vanishing since the war came to a close.

There's something about them Draco can't place, something like happiness or exhilaration—he can't remember the last time he saw Theo genuinely happy—and it throws him off guard. It isn't until he looks down, catching a glint of silver on each of their hands, that he understands.

He sniffs, crinkling the bridge of his nose. "You might have at least invited us if you were going to get married."

Theo flashes him an apologetic grin. "Mate, we didn't invite anyone."

"We didn't want anything fancy," Neville says, warmth tugging at the skin around his eyes. "But neither of us wanted to wait."

Hermione gapes at them, her eyes travelling to the matching silver rings on their fingers. "You eloped! You prats."

"It was Theo's idea." Neville beams at him as though it were a stroke of genius. "Neither of us wanted to mope around after the war so we just left and..."

"And got married." Draco purses his lips, put out that his closest friend got married and didn't bother to invite them. But when he truly thinks about it, his wedding was none too exciting, and Theo had ended up hauling their incapacitated bodies across the grounds.

So maybe it isn't a valid argument.

"Where did you go?" Hermione asks, reaching for both of their hands to look closer. She beams between them, and it takes Draco a moment to realise why she's so excited despite the fact that they didn't even have a proper wedding.

For as long as they can remember, this sort of thing simply hasn't happened. It's a glimpse of the normal sort of life they might eventually have. And when Draco considers it, Theo is his first friend to actually get married, outside of himself and Hermione.

It's a sobering thought.

So many things might eventually become commonplace that they have no idea how to deal with right now.

"Let me guess," Draco says, rolling his eyes, "you ran away to Las Vegas."

Theo and Neville exchange a look, as though speaking to one another without words, before Theo says, "That was Neville's idea."

"It wasn't," Neville says.

"How did you know?" Hermione asks, turning to him with wide eyes.

Draco snickers, eyeing the pair of them with amusement. "Because I've known Theo my entire life. And this is exactly the sort of thing he would do for a lark."

Somehow, the easy conversation with friends does wonders to ease the melancholy that's been lingering in Draco's soul. In the days immediately following the last battle, they were all so numb that there wasn't room for anything other than sorrow and exhaustion. Now, even a couple of weeks out, everything else feels just slightly brighter.

"We obviously don't have a wedding gift for you," Hermione says, eyes sliding to meet Draco's.

"We don't need anything," Theo says. "Neither of us are keen to keep squatting at Harry's place, so now that we're back in England we're going to look into a house together. Nev's gran is getting older so we'll be staying close to London."

Draco finds he's proud of Theo on so many levels. Theo's dad squandered the majority of their wealth when Theo was at Hogwarts, selling their ancestral property to get the debt collectors off his case, and when the war developed in earnest Draco offered Theo a place to live in Malfoy Manor.

He's been drifting between their London house and Grimmauld Place ever since it ended.

"We'll get a decently sized piece of land," Neville goes on, "where I can keep a greenhouse and grow specialised ingredients for potions and healing."

When he realises how much thought they've given this plan, Draco smirks. It sounds exactly right.

"Fine," he says, rising and slipping into the next room. He returns with a sack of galleons, planting it on the sofa between Theo and Neville. "This ought to be a start. Congratulations on your wedding."

Both of them gape at the hefty bag.

"You just had that lying around—" Neville begins.

"That'll help," Theo quips with a grin. "Thanks mate."

Hermione beams at him.

Shaking his head, Neville says, "Thanks, Malfoy. It's much appreciated." A tentative peace falls over the small group and he adds, "Have you seen Harry and Luna?"

"You just missed them," Hermione says with a soft smile. "Harry sent a message to my coin that they left for South America yesterday."

Draco eyes her for a moment. Despite the brightness in her words, he knows she'll miss her closest friend. But they too understand the drive to get away from London, when so many bad memories linger here.

If nothing else, they'll all be able to keep in contact.

"Feels strange," Theo says, "doesn't it? Doing things."

Draco snorts at the phrasing, but the words strike him square in the chest. "Things other than fighting, you mean."

"Yeah."

"I think," says Hermione, "it'll feel strange for a while."

The sentiment strikes them all again, and Draco shifts closer to Hermione on the sofa, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling. "It definitely will," he agrees. "I think it feels like I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like I'll wake up from a good dream and realise none of this happened and we're all still trapped in a war."

"You're not," Theo says, flashing him a grin. "So get on with it."

"What are you two going to do now?" Neville asks, elbowing Theo in the ribs.

"We aren't entirely decided yet," Hermione says. "Though I think our plan is to leave London for a while."

Draco points a finger at Theo. "You can't have this house."

Even when they discussed the matter as a hypothetical, they agreed to keep the London house even if they leave—as an easy place to stay if and when they return.

"Actually, speaking of that," Draco says, digging in his pocket for a carefully folded photograph with a tentative look towards Hermione. "I've done some looking around and... I might have done something impulsive."

"Impulsive? You?" Her brows fly up, but her eyes sparkle with mirth. "What could you have possibly done that's—"

As he hands her the photo she falls silent, unfolding it and staring for a long moment at the magical image on film. Several seconds pass, confusion furrowing her brows, before she sucks in a sharp breath.

Draco's heart thuds in his chest as he watches her expression shift from bewilderment to recognition—and the moment the photo in her hand clicks. He peers down from her side, observing the mostly motionless photograph aside from the way the foliage blows with a slight breeze.

"Draco," she breathes, "is this—"

His cheeks warm, and he suddenly feels the need to explain himself. "It came up for sale and someone else was interested so I had to move fast and—" he falters with a grimace, feeling the heat of Neville and Theo's stares. "I wasn't sure where you wanted to go but..."

"It's a bookshop," she whispers. Her fingers tighten on the edges of the photograph. "You got a bookshop."

Adrenaline thuds behind his ears as she continues to stare at the photograph, her eyes skimming it over and over as though she might be able to catch the details of it in the small photo.

"Technically, you have a bookshop."

Theo and Neville exchange a smile; Draco's chest tightens with uncertainty when Hermione's eyes spike with tears that she belatedly swipes away as one begins to slide down her cheek.

"Where is it?" she whispers.

"It's in Brighton."

She sucks in a deep breath, claps one hand over her mouth, and shakes her head a little, as though with disbelief.

Draco eyes her a moment, drawing a deep breath. "It has a café."

At last, she wrenches her focus from the photo and turns to stare at him, her eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. "It has a café," she echoes quietly, her voice thick with emotion.

"The paperwork isn't quite finalised," he says, "so it isn't too late to back out—"

"Don't you dare," she says, a smile tugging at last at her lips. "Draco, it's perfect." She brushes again at the tears, one hand dropping to clasp his. "I can't wait."

All at once, relief swells within him, clutching his heart tight at the look on her face. He hadn't truly known, when he submitted the paperwork to purchase a little coastal bookshop, whether they had been serious all those weeks ago. If it was something she really wanted to do—if it was the sort of life they could fall into.

But it took him only minutes to reach a decision.

No matter what they decide to do in the long term, they have time to explore their interests, come to know each other in a different way. They have time for experiences and opportunities that come their way. For so long, Draco didn't think he would ever have an existence to outlast the war, and the knowledge that something else now stretches beyond it is humbling.

He suspects Hermione feels the same way.

"Who ever would have thought," Theo says softly, "the four of us could have a chance at happiness."

A sombre quiet falls over the room, despair settling in Draco's soul. Maybe they don't deserve it, at the end of things. They've all done so many terrible things—and they've all come out the other side.

"Not me," Draco admits, feeling the truth of it in every fibre of himself. His gaze snags on Theo—his oldest friend and the one who's faced everything at his side. Neville—the friend he never saw coming. The man who saved him from death.

And Hermione. The woman who came into his life when he needed someone the most. Who, despite the odds, has his whole heart. Her eyes sparkle when they meet his.

Somehow, she loves him too. Draco means never to take her love for granted.

He thinks for a moment of everyone else who brought an end to the war at long last. Thinks of the shift towards a new sort of future after so many years of death and destruction.

He swallows, the tension settling from his shoulders at long last; the sensation is unfamiliar and welcome.

A hint of a smile tugs at his lips. "We'll just have to make the most of it."

Chapter End Notes

It is so bittersweet to share this. Only one chapter remains, and I sort of can't believe it. Thanks for sticking by me this past year <3

See you next Tuesday for the last time xo

Chapter 51

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Three years later

More often than not, her nighttime hours are restless. A mixture of old memories and new fabrications—and though the night terrors are predictable and frustrating, even now, it's the strange dreams that often linger in the back of her mind.

Hermione blinks into groggy wakefulness, eyes bleary, soul weary. Her heart hammers as wisps of the dream float away, as unlikely as they were bizarre, and she doesn't try to recapture them. She's better off relieving her mind of any recollection in exchange for an early morning sun peeking through the curtains.

By the knit furrowing Draco's brow at her side, she knows he's reliving one of his personal demons, too.

A part of her longs to sag back into her pillows, searching for another shred of rest. To cling to the final moments of the early morning.

Moments later, her wand's alarm buzzes on the nightstand; her heart stutters one beat before continuing its steady thrum.

Draco's eyes snap open wide.

"Good morning," she says, a smile spreading across her face.

It takes only a moment for the haze in his eyes to clear, the remnants of whatever haunted his sleeping hours scattering like dust. A hint of warmth crosses his face. "Morning."

He always catches her off guard in the mornings. The way he's a little less guarded, a little softer. His eyelids flutter for a moment, face halfway buried in the pillow, and a quiet breath slides from his lips.

Sometimes she catches herself wondering about who he might be—who she might be. Who they might be together.

If they would be together.

She never finds answers when she indulges such thoughts, and more often than not she quells them before her brain can wander in that direction.

Because everything they are, together and individually, is borne of the strife they faced in their youth. The horrors they survived during the years of their early adulthood. The life they lead now. The dreams they chased and those they let slide in favour of peace.

Draco stifles a yawn behind his palm, and she observes the shadows beneath his eyes.

They've both learned well enough not to linger on the memories that keep them from sleep. And little by little, it improves. It will continue to improve—it has to.

"Get some more sleep," she breathes. "I'll see you in a while."

Draco rolls his eyes and his mouth twitches. She's never known him to sleep in, but it doesn't keep her from offering.

"I'm up," he says, dragging himself from bed. For only a moment, Hermione allows herself to observe his strong frame, filled out since the long days when anxiety and stress and fear drove them.

Hermione rises, stretching out her languid muscles, reaching her arms up high.

Catching by surprise, he snags her in his arms and brings her body flush against his. A burst of laughter falls from her lips as he plants a chaste kiss to her lips.

Resting her hands on his arms, she smiles up at him, catching the brightness in his eye despite the darkness she knows still lingers.

"It'll be a good day," he says. A promise; a manifestation.

Simple knowledge. Every day is good when she thinks of the days past.

"It will," Hermione says. She thinks of the day ahead, of everything she's planned. She presses up on her toes, planting another kiss to his lips. "Happy birthday, Draco."

The Brighton sun sparkles in a blue, cloudless sky, a late spring breeze skittering past. Their southern England abode hangs on the coast just outside the heart of town, birds crying out overhead as they circle in search of a meal.

Inside the town, the early morning bustle of the incoming tourist season fills the streets as Hermione unlocks the shop, breathing in the scent of which she'll never tire.

Books.

Books upon shelves of books, a labyrinth of twisting aisles connecting cosy seating areas. A table piled high with new releases greets her at the entrance as always—but it's deeper into the shop that Hermione favours.

The old books, the rare editions, the original signed copies. The ones she often needs to hunt down, to barter for, to win. The ones that, when an eager buyer brings them to the register, she often releases with a bittersweet pang.

She keeps those rooms carefully controlled for temperature and humidity with a vast array of spells otherwise undetectable.

She could lose herself among the stacks—and has more than a few times.

A rich aroma wafts towards her on the air, and she finds a few patrons already seated at the small array of tables in the adjoining cafe.

"Good morning, Petra," Hermione says, offering a warm smile to the girl who looks after the café and keeps the visitors well looked after. "It smells excellent in here."

Petra flashes an easy grin, collecting a pot of coffee for some of the regulars' refills. "He's outdone himself with today's selection."

"I'm sure he has," Hermione returns, slipping behind the counter.

She finds Draco in the kitchen, gaze intent as he dices a pile of carrots, two large pots already simmering on the stove. Hermione peers at the contents of the first, breathing in the complex array of ingredients.

He watches her, amusement glinting in his eyes. "Yes?"

"Yes," she agrees. "It smells amazing."

Draco waves an idle hand, as though it were nothing. She knows better—knows it's never nothing. That he infuses as much care into this as he does any other aspect of his life.

She knows he wouldn't trade this early morning routine for anything. The quiet peace in creation, the meticulous work that allows him time to think and to dwell, to release the memories that still haunt him. To set his mind for the day ahead.

And the patrons love it, too. They line up at the café every day at lunch for a chance to taste that day's offerings, though no two soups are ever the same. They carry a circulating range of sandwiches, salads, and pastries, too, prepared by the café's other chef Bernard—but Hermione's never known Draco to miss this portion of the day's prep.

"Potatoes," he says absently, reaching for a leek. "I felt like potatoes."

Hermione peers into the next pot, bright and vibrant with an earthy aroma of tomatoes and herbs. "I'm sure it will be delicious."

If someone had told her, when Draco Malfoy spent his days attempting to track her down and wipe her from the earth, that he might one day find solace in cooking, she would have laughed in their face.

But something awoke within him after the war—within them both—and she knows neither of them would trade the quiet life they now live.

"I'm meeting with Theo at—" He glances at his watch— "two o'clock. To go over some details for the apothecary."

Hermione nods, watching his careful work. She might have known this would take given his propensity for potions back at Hogwarts—but it's the fact that he chooses to do all of this by Muggle means that sometimes still catches her off guard.

"Send my hellos," she says quietly.

The apothecary is Theo's newest business endeavour—a prime location in a carefully rebuilt Diagon Alley—in symbiotic coordination with Neville's greenhouse enterprise on the large expanse of land they purchased outside of London.

Neville's finally been able to indulge his love of plants in abundance, and Theo's apothecary will be an extension of the same.

Draco's involvement is, at its foundation, financial investment—but Hermione knows he and Theo have been working on a certain amount of potions development and brewing as well.

Neville and Theo have just adopted their second—a baby girl named Lydia—and she knows they could both use the extra help. Especially with their first, Frankie, freshly three years old.

"You’ll be back this evening?" she asks, keeping her tone casual.

Although they still own the London house they painstakingly pieced together as a haven of sorts during the war, they haven't been back to stay there overnight in more than a year. Still, neither of them have brought up the idea of ever selling it. Some part of her still wonders if they'll one day move back to London. If enough of their demons will ever rest behind them.

Hermione suspects too much still lives in that house, even without them. So many old memories of those late days at the end of the war.

As a general rule, they rarely mention Malfoy Manor. Narcissa hasn't touched the manor since the war ended—since Lucius died—and Hermione doesn't know if Draco ever intends to live there again.

One of the strangest things about living with a lifetime in mind is that they can take their time with these sorts of decisions. They aren't living day to day, wondering if they'll be alive in a week, in a month. When the time is right, they'll know.

"Late afternoon at the most," he says with a nod, eyes snagging on hers. "We can do dinner or something?"

"Dinner or something," Hermione muses. "Sounds perfect."

"Okay." Draco's mouth curves with a secretive smile—the one she likes best. "Now begone with you. I'll save you a bowl."

A smile lingers on her face as she ducks from the kitchen and returns to the shop.

Each day towards summer is a little busier, the days growing warmer as tourists come to Brighton in droves. Although she loves the summer months for the vibrancy they bring to the town, a part of her enjoys the slower pace of winter, too.

At first they hadn't been certain whether they even wanted to stay in England after everything that happened.

But this has always been home, and with the war over, it's been an effort to rebuild. Many of their friends are still in England. Hermione's parents, after the spell was finally reversed, decided to move back—and although Hermione suspects they may never have a relationship like they did when she was a child, they're all willing to try.

Narcissa moved closer to home, too, taking up residence in one of the Malfoy properties in Wales.

Long years have passed, but with Kingsley leading the Ministry, British wizarding society has fallen into a semblance of order.

And maybe, after everything they fought for in order to end the war and bring about peace, neither of them truly wanted to leave.

The last message she received from Harry on her old coin, he was in Belgium with Luna—but she knows at some point they plan to settle down. To return home.

Although this life may not be what Hermione might have once dreamed for herself, she's content. For so many years, she didn't even allow herself to think of a future because she didn't imagine she would have one.

For too long, she lived by the wand and the blade, driven by fear and doubt and desperation.

She's felt the shift between her and Draco, especially in recent months. Every so often one of them makes a comment about a family—about the idea of children. It's something they both want, in time, and Hermione can sense that they might be moving towards that next stage of life. Her heart has begun to long for a family of her own, although some days she still basks in the calm and insular life she leads with Draco.

For now, she's content to play at auntie with Frankie and Lydia.

Every step they've taken since the war ended has been about creating the life that suits them, that carries both of them forward individually and together.

When Hermione returns home that afternoon, Narcissa has already let herself in, sipping tea by the large bay window in the sitting room. Hermione can hear Patroclus already working in the kitchen, and she smiles as she greets the elf before preparing herself a cup.

"Is Draco still away in London?" Narcissa asks by way of greeting, a small smile pulling at her mouth.

"Yes." Hermione settles in the armchair by the window, taking a sip of tea. "I heard from Theo a while ago that they're thoroughly distracted with potions. Neville will be by soon."

"And your parents, dear? Will they be joining us?"

Hermione hesitates for a moment as the thought washes over her. Every so often, it still catches her off guard to have her parents in her life again. All things considered, they took the full story of it remarkably well—or at least, better than she always feared they might. "They are," she says softly. A wash of emotion strikes her hard and she blinks a few times. "They should be here in an hour or so; they've decided to get a hotel and spend a few days in Brighton."

Another indulgent smile crosses Narcissa's lips. "I am happy to hear it." She sips her tea. "I must tell you, Patroclus has been beside himself with excitement to cook for Draco's birthday."

Hermione catches the gentle ribbing behind the words, when she had initially tried to insist she should prepare something for the small surprise gathering they've prepared. Narcissa insisted she be able to enjoy the party.

A knock lands on the door, and Hermione's eyes snap towards it. She tamps down the old instinct that has her reaching towards her wand and rises to answer it.

When she sees Harry and Luna on the threshold, her eyes instantly begin to sting.

"Harry, Luna," she says, a breath hitching in her throat when Harry draws her into a forceful embrace. "I wasn't sure whether you would make it."

"We wouldn't miss it," Harry scolds, drawing back to hold her by her arms. A wide grin brightens his green eyes.

He's scruffier than she remembers, his hair a bit longer and a thick layer of stubble on his face. They both look tan and a little worn out, as though they've spent too many months living without a defined location.

Which, Hermione knows, they have.

Luna pulls her into a tight hug next, her eyes bright with happiness. "It's been too long since we've seen everyone," she says quietly when they separate, "so this was the perfect excuse to bring us back home for a while."

Harry and Luna follow her into the house, and only minutes later Neville Apparates into the sitting room—setting off another warm round of greetings.

The banality of it strikes Hermione hard, and she clenches her cup of tea between shaky hands as she watches her friends regale each other of recent adventures. Her eyes burn, brows knitting together. Her heart clamours somewhere between her chest and her throat.

Narcissa walks up alongside her. "It will get easier," she says softly. "Carrying on with life. Letting go of the fear."

"Has it for you?" The words fall from her lips as a whisper. She catches her mother-in-law's gaze briefly. "After everything? After losing Lucius?"

It's a tough topic, but she's come to know the woman well enough to realise that Narcissa doesn't shy away from tough.

"Some days." Narcissa lets out a breath. "And sometimes all I want to do is to dwell on all the things that went wrong. How things might have been—but that doesn't help anything. I have to remind myself that I still have Draco and you. That there are more days to come, and we're still here to experience them."

"Yeah," Hermione whispers, allowing the words to settle her nerves. "I suppose sometimes I wonder whether we're deserving of all we have. Or if something is going to happen to pull the rug out from beneath us."

A sad smile crosses Narcissa's face. "I felt that way when peace came about after the first war. We had many comfortable years together before the second one began." She hesitates for a moment, sipping her tea. "And all we can do when life turns on us is to face it head on."

Despite the sombre turn, Hermione feels oddly reassured all the same.

"Of course," she allows. "And today we're having a party."

They share a grin before Narcissa says, "Draco is going to be so annoyed."

She walks towards Neville, and Hermione suspects she's interrogating him about the new baby. Sometimes Hermione thinks Theo and Neville's children are the reason Narcissa hasn't bothered her and Draco about having children, and she's relieved of it.

Hermione watches as Luna hangs an odd-looking streamer along the sitting room wall, and a smile tugs at her lips when she finds Harry observing her as well. She nudges him in the shoulder with her own.

"I've missed seeing you," she says softly, taking him in. His eyes gleam with a sparkle she doesn't recognise—or simply hasn't seen in years.

"You too," he says, wrapping an arm around her. "We'll be making more of an effort to stick around home for a while—but if I'm honest, it's been nice. Getting out there—seeing some of the world."

"It's done you well," she observes. "Draco and I will join you two on a trip somewhere."

Harry grins with a wry, "Deal."

They both look up at another knock on the door, and Neville swings it open to allow Pansy and George access, the former's belly swollen with their first child. Hermione waves as the pair slip into the house.

"So," she says quietly to Harry, "tell me about your trip."

The afternoon drags on towards night by the time Draco tears himself away from his work. He glances at his watch, a bitter unease pooling in his stomach when he realises he's returning later than he intended. It's been a busy day but an exhilarating one.

For as much as he thrives in the slow pace of their life in Brighton, a part of him has enjoyed spending more time in London again, joining Theo in his new apothecary endeavour. Keeping his body busy keeps his mind distracted—prevents him from thinking too hard.

Holds the memories at bay.

Each fills a side of Draco that he never would have thought to indulge before. These are the sorts of dreams he wouldn't have even known what to do with. Sometimes, he thinks it's the sort of life he never deserved.

His life with Hermione is everything he could have ever hoped for with another person at his side—and to have friends and family who care for him sometimes still catches him by surprise.

As does the thought of having anything at all beyond the dregs of a prolonged war.

Exhausted, Draco says goodbye to Frankie and Lydia—having spent the day with Neville's gran while he and Theo finalised some details—and Apparates back to Brighton.

He thinks only for a moment of the London house, and despite all the terrible memories he has of the war, there were a few good ones made in that house too. Some with friends Draco wouldn't trade for the world.

Something feels strange the instant he crosses the wards, and old instincts flare within him before he can suppress them. He can detect more magical signatures than Hermione's—but he relaxes when he detects his mother's as well.

He lands in the sitting room, caught momentarily off guard by the sheer amount of people in the house. Draco frowns, eyes tightening for several moments until they all exclaim at his presence.

"What," Draco drawls, "is going on here?"

Theo claps him on the shoulder. "Happy birthday, mate."

Draco blinks at him. "I was with you two minutes ago." He catches Hermione and his mother beaming at him together, their faces warm with delight, and he shakes his head in incredulity as he takes in the sparse decorations. "This is a surprise party."

"You could be a little more enthusiastic," Neville clips with an easy grin.

As he looks around the room, he sees them all. Neville and Theo—Potter and Luna. Pansy and George in the corner. His gaze lingers on Hermione's parents standing near his own mother and he manages a tight nod. Hermione steps closer, flinging her arms around his neck as she plants a kiss to his cheek.

"Happy birthday!" Her eyes are bright as she beams up at him.

His throat tightens, heart stuttering, skin hot. He takes in the people surrounding him—all of the people who matter to him packed into his house—and he clenches his jaw hard.

"This is..." he trails off, lost for words. Not quite trusting himself to speak.

Sometimes he doesn't know what to make of his life. Of the way everything changed. Of the future ahead.

This is one of those moments, and it strikes him hard.

"Thank you," he says, forcing back a thick swallow. Emotion grips his chest and doesn't let go. "All of you for coming. This means a lot." He's never known very well how to express himself in the face of the unexpected, and even less so since all the important aspects of his life have been in his own hands.

So he's all the more relieved when Patroclus emerges from the kitchen and announces dinner is to be served.

The evening slides past in a blur of activity, and Draco can't remember the last time he so thoroughly enjoyed a birthday. Growing up, he had been spoiled and conceited, but even amidst the gifts the day was always cold and contentious.

During the war, he sometimes forgot his birthday altogether.

And all of the ones since the war came to an end, he spent quietly with his wife.

This—being surrounded by family and friends—is a balm to his soul he didn't know he needed. The days are smoother now, quieter, encompassed with enjoyment and contentment, but despite it all he can't quite chase away the ghosts that haunt his steps.

The memories that sneak up on him when he's awake and asleep.

All of the things he's done, the lives he's taken, the heinous tasks he's performed. All in the service of someone who, in the end, stole his own father before they were ever able to come to terms with each other. For a man who would have killed him without a second thought—and nearly did.

The party is a stark juxtaposition—a reminder that those things don't have to dominate his life anymore.

After indulging in Patroclus' delicious cooking, Draco settled in for the evening, catching up with Pansy and George, hearing about Potter and Luna's expeditions through unnoticed and obscure corners of the world.

Visiting with his mother and Hermione's. Trading recipes with Hermione's father.

Sipping whisky with Theo and Neville while they share tales of Frankie and Lydia.

All the while, a smile curls at his lips, an easy enjoyment borne of the simple pleasure of wonderful company. He spends the evening simultaneously alight and overwhelmed, and by the time the last of their friends trickle away, he's exhausted from a long day.

It's the best day he can remember in all of his years.

Left alone with Hermione at last, he stares at her, a gentle smile tugging unbidden at the corners of his mouth.

"You," he drawls, "threw me a party."

Her eyes crinkle at the corners with warmth. "You needed a party."

It's a strange thing to consider, given the context. He needs food and shelter and life's small comforts. He needs her. "I appreciate it," he says all the same. "It was nice to see everyone."

Especially the friends they practically lived with towards the end of the war. Neville and Theo and Potter. After the fighting came to a close and they all drifted their separate ways, months passed before he didn't feel alone all the time.

Hermione reaches for his hand, tugging him close. "Let's go for a walk?"

Although he's tired, his mind still races. He entwines their fingers with a nod, leading her from the house.

A network of walking paths leads from their property towards the coast, the air salty with just enough of a late night chill to invigorate his waning energy. His mind reels after the day behind them, busy with a hectic churning of thoughts.

"Thank you," he says as they drift along the path, neither of them in a rush. "For today."

He catches her smile in the moon's glow. "It was your birthday. And Theo and Neville did a lot of the planning. Keeping you away from the house."

Draco chuckles, shaking his head. "I should have known when Theo wanted to go over formulas six times." He thinks of the day, a smile lingering on his face. "Lydia is really growing fast. You'll need to go for a visit soon."

"I will," she muses.

The air between them falls tense, a little stifled as it sometimes does. The longer they're together, the more settled they feel. They've danced around the topic for months, as though both of them are a little afraid to be the one to bring it up. He can sense it more and more.

Draco releases a sharp breath. "What do you think?"

Her eyes slide towards his. "About children."

"Yeah."

"I think..." she pauses, eyes skimming the starlit sky above them. "It might be something to consider. If you think we're there."

Clenching her hand a little tighter, he fights to quell the stuttering cadence of his heart. "I think maybe we're getting there."

Hermione turns towards him, a tentative smile tugging at her mouth. When he looks close, he can see her eyes are a little wet. "Okay," she breathes.

After everything they've been through, this feels like one more step away from the past that chases them. Another decision of their own making.

Their lives are flexible, their parents nearby.

Growing up, Draco never knew if he wanted to be a father. If he would be a good father, or if he would simply take on the negative characteristics of his own.

Now, he feels it in his soul.

"When we're ready," he says, bringing her knuckles to his lips. "I can't wait to share this next adventure with you."

No longer is life a chain of horrors strung together, but one crafted of their own making with gentle care. His eyes sting, and he doesn't think it's the night air.

"I love you," Hermione says, turning to face him. A tear slides down her cheek, though a beaming smile spreads across her face. "And I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else."

His heart stumbles over its next beat.

He presses a kiss to her mouth. "I love you." He meets her gaze, his heart beating like it may burst out of his chest. His words feel heavy. "I can't regret the path that brought us here, because otherwise I may never have known the value in this. In the life we've built together."

"This life," she echoes, her face a mixture of warmth and incredulity and the love of which he'll never tire. "And everything that comes next."

He gazes at her. Takes her in, allows his magic to graze hers, feels the gentle coil of hers in return. He wants never to take a single second of their time together for granted.

Everything that comes next.

Draco finds he likes the sound of that.

fin

Chapter End Notes

One year ago on my birthday, chapter 1 went live; a year has passed and tomorrow is my birthday again. I can't believe some of you have stuck with this story for a full year. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing and sharing. I always said I didn't think I could do a full length war fic, but in the end it's one of the things I'm the most proud of. Thank you for joining me <3

Thanks to my alpha Kyonomiko, and to sweetestsorrows for beta work on most of this fic. To ectoheart for the gorgeous cover art. And to everyone who's read this story, who's left comments and kudos and reached out on social media and shared it with their friends. You've made agohs an absolute joy to share.

I don't have a next dramione fic in the works yet, but since some of you asked, I'll still be kicking around fandom even while my focus is primarily on original fiction. Please come hang on twitter for updates about writing (and sometimes my houseplants) at indreamsink.

Lastly, my dear friend eggbagelsjr is hosting a live read of agohs on the RoR discord server, with chapter 1 this Friday, June 16, at 9pm EDT. I hope you can join us!

Thanks for reading, friends, and for making this story a memorable one. Catch you next time xoxo

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51