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Chapter Text

Hermione held her breath, her eyes wide with fear and her heart racing.

The terror she felt made her freezing muscles stiffen even more as Draco Malfoy's pupils stared back at her: two black pools surrounded by a thin silver ring, as cold as the air all around them and almost brighter than the full moon above their heads.

The rational part of her mind kept telling her that he couldn't see her, let alone hear the accelerated beating of her heart, which threatened to burst out of her ribcage and seemed to thunder through the silence of the forest like a drum in a church.

She could have walked slowly to the tent where Harry was sleeping and he wouldn't have discovered her presence; she had just finished reinforcing her protective spells, and they were working. She was sure they were.

Yet she didn't move.

Something prevented her from leaving. Fear paralyzed her muscles from head to toe, constricting her lungs and making her breathless. Those two pools, as black as a shark's eyes, continued to stare at her, and the terror that he was actually seeing her caused a shudder that made her wince.

Her fingers were gripping her wand so tight that, had she been lucid, she would have thought it was going to break. He took a step forward, and her knees began to tremble. When he was inches from her, separated only by an invisible barrier, Hermione saw him inhale.

The corner of his mouth curved just slightly upwards and the thin silver circle of his iris disappeared completely, succumbing to the darkness of his pupils. Then his mouth opened, and Hermione was finally able to look away from his eyes and direct her gaze to his lips.

She watched his tongue barely run along the outline of his lower lip as his voice drifted through the silence of the forest.

"I know you're there. I can feel you."

***   

"Malfoy," a voice shouted. 

Hermione closed her eyes. Not moving from her position, she let out the lightest breath of relief. He needed to respond to the call, to divert his attention from her. Seconds passed.

 She didn't need to see him to know he was still there. She sensed his warmth beyond the invisible barrier that hid her from him. The few seconds she spent with her eyelids down seemed endless, and when she finally heard the sound of his feet moving on the wet ground she allowed herself to breathe in.

She slowly opened her eyes, finding that Draco had moved away. She just stood there for a few more seconds, watching the broad outline of his shoulders as he headed in the direction of the call, her mind far too clouded with fear to understand what was different about him. She waited for the slow alternation of his steps to bring him to the edge beyond which the darkness would finally engulf him, but, just as he reached that point, he stopped.  

Hermione held her breath again as his head slowly turned.  Although he couldn't see her, he looked straight in her direction.

She felt his gaze break through the barriers of her spells and even the fabric of her threadbare clothes, imprinting itself like a brand on her skin. 

"I'll come back for you," he whispered through clenched teeth, finally turning and sinking into the darkness.

***

All he could think of was her.

It had taken all his self-control to push him to follow that idiot of a snatcher to the forest last night. Still, he knew it was the best thing to do. Whoever she was, she was his . She had to be. What he had felt, coiling his blood… and he hadn’t even seen her face yet. He could have, if that idiot hadn’t gotten in the way. 

He knew she was there: other than her smell, that intoxicating jasmine scent, he could smell her fear, feel the adrenaline running through her blood. His dick grew hard at the mere memory. She was his , he could feel it in his blood. 

He couldn’t believe this had actually happened. Now of all times, even. When Grayback had bitten him, just a few months ago, Severus had warned him that this could eventually happen. He had dismissed it with a shrug, believing them to be just empty, meaningless words. Some wolves went crazy, looking for their mates around the world without ever finding them, others run away from them, the magic firing on the most improbable person. What were the chances of him actually finding her ? 

He hadn't even thought about it before last night.

 However, what he had felt just at the smell of her… he wasn’t going to run away from that feeling. Not now. It was the best thing that happened to him in months, the only thing after a long time that had made him feel fucking alive.

" Luckily , the full moon wasn't near" Severus said while checking the bite on his right shoulder. "The right potions should keep any transformations under control”.

He sighed, annoyed at the looks of pity his former professor kept giving him. He wasn't really sick. In fact, he felt nothing at all.  It had been far more painful to have the black mark stamped on his forearm. The small accidental bite of a werewolf was nothing in comparison. 

" Good," Draco exclaimed, standing up and heading for the door. If Severus kept giving him that pity look, he was going to stun him "one more potion to take before I go to sleep. I've faced worse". 

He really meant what he was saying. He couldn't have cared less about that bite. Since taking the mark, he had stopped caring about what happened to him. He felt like he had already died, and now was just going on with his life waiting for the moment someone of the opposite faction -or maybe of his own one- actually killed him.

Severus stared at him with an expression he couldn't quite understand. "It's not that simple, Draco."  At least he seemed to have stopped looking at him like he was a defenseless little pet. "You may not transform, but there will always be something different about you. Every wizard's blood reacts in unique ways to the bite of a werewolf, and only the strongest wills can resist certain instincts. Occlumency will help you, but-".

If he hadn't seen nothing but death for the last few weeks, he would have even laughed at those words. Instead, just a small grin formed on his face. "Perfect. It seems like occlumency solves everything. Anything else?"

Severus tightened his lips into an even thinner line than usual, glaring at him from under his big nose. Thankfully, he remained silent.

 Relieved by what was apparently the end of a pointless conversation, Draco left, finally closing the door behind him and rushing into the open air.

 His fingers were gripping his wand with such force that his knuckles turned white as he walked outside. He felt warm. Despite the freezing air of the Manor's surroundings, he felt suffocated by what he was wearing. He tore off his cloak, heading toward the apparition line faster than usual, the blood boiling in his vein slowly taking hold of his brain.

From that day on, spending nights in the open air had become a habit. Apart from that, however, that stupid bite had not brought about such a big change in his mood and in his routine. At least until last night, until he had felt her presence. Something had lit up inside him. He didn't know if it was possible to turn it off, and he didn't care. He didn't want to. He wanted that fire to take over him completely.

Since the Manor had become the Death Eaters’ headquarters, the Library seemed to be the only place in the vast house where he could exist, far from duties and expectations. For the Dark Lord’s servants knowing how to read was not a necessary skill, so Draco wandered peacefully between the shelves, certain that no one would come looking for him or disturb him there. Severus had vaguely explained what the concept of a mate meant for werewolves when he had first been bitten, but Draco hadn’t allowed him to go into further detail. Now, however, the curiosity to learn more about what was happening to him was almost as strong as the desire to find her. That would have to wait a little longer, though, so he decided to learn more about it in books.

He spent the day reading, losing himself in the words. Page after page, the chaos in his mind seemed to take on a more orderly form, rationalizing itself. The bite of a werewolf could bring, in addition to the transformations, the discovery of one’s mate. Apparently, the strange magical reaction triggered by the mixture of the wolf's venom with wizard’s blood could activate something, some dormant, ancient magic. The type of magic that could remain dormant forever if one isn’t lucky enough to meet their mate, their other half, the person whose magic was the opposite of theirs, their twin flame, from whose union extraordinary powers would be born.

 This person could also have been bitten by a werewolf, or they might have magical DNA that make them different from everyone else, special. The book wasn’t clear on this point, only providing cases of unions between witches and wizards, both victims of werewolves, or a rare case in which one of the mates was half-witch, half-mermaid. It was fascinating and terrifying, but Draco gladly embraced the shiver, the adrenaline that ran through his veins at the thought. It was what he needed to feel alive.

He wondered who or what she was, the presence he had felt in the forest. Perhaps someone who had been bitten by a wolf and was now hiding from the hunters, maybe even from Greyback himself. A primitive and brutal anger, along with a visceral desire to protect her, enveloped him. He would find her and make sure that anyone who was looking for her would leave her alone. Then he would take her with him to the Manor. From what he had read, she would soon feel what he felt; all they needed was to touch, and then the magical reaction that connected them would be triggered, like a waterfall sweeping them away. Was it foolish? Definitely, but it was the only thing that made him feel alive. 

The night after that, his feet landed again on the exact spot where that smell had invaded his nostrils, intoxicating his every sense. 

Something triggered inside him, but he wasn't turned on by it. He did not feel the same rush of adrenaline as the previous night. No, it wasn’t as strong and intense as it had been just yesterday.  He could smell her scent in the air, testifying that she had passed by, but he couldn’t smell her . The blood boiled in his veins as his heartbeat quickened with anger. Why had she left? Has someone taken her away?

They should not have done that. 

Without full awareness of what he was doing, but guided by the animal instinct he had been forcefully suppressing for the last twenty-four hours, he let his feet carry him in the direction from which her scent seemed to be coming. He could scent her magic trace, feel it call to him, even. 

He was going to find her. 

***

"Hermione, can you explain why this rush?" gasped Harry as she gathered up all their things with the speed of a hawk, stuffing them into her magically enlarged handbag. "We've never moved from one place to another without even spending the night. And I've never seen you so scared..."

Hermione tried to calm her heartbeat with a series of deep breaths. "Those snatchers were going to find us”.

"But they didn't. Maybe it would have been safer to stay there. They wouldn’t check the same place twice"

"Yes, they would," Hermione whispered to herself. She hadn't told Harry about her encounter with Malfoy. Just thinking back to last night paralyzed her nerves with fear. 

All she knew was that she was afraid to see him again, and thinking back, it wasn't him she feared the most, but herself. The thing that had really terrified her about that meeting wasn’t the possessed look with which he had observed her even though he could not see her, nor the fact that he could somehow feel her from beyond the barriers of her defensive spells. 

No, it was of herself that she was most afraid. Ever since he had materialized in her field of vision, her muscles had paralyzed, no longer responding to her commands. She was scared of the way her own body had reacted to his presence. 

She knew he would come back for her, and she wasn't certain of that just because she had heard him say it. No, she had read it in the way his eyes had looked at her. 

"Let's move further south," she said. "We'll stop at the edge of the village, so we'll have a way to go get food."

From Harry's silence, she could tell she had convinced him by appealing to his hunger. They hadn’t eaten in days, and inside her stomach nausea, hunger and fear were battling for dominance. 

Silently, if not for their stomachs rumbles, they apparated dozens of miles south from Dean’s forest, now nearly a hundred miles from where Draco and the snatchers had seen them the night before.

Despite the distance, Hermione’s heart wouldn’t slow down. 

She left it to Harry to go to the village disguised by a simple illusion spell to get supplies. Under normal circumstances, she would never have allowed this. He was the number one wanted man, pictures of his faces hanging on every available surface. Just now, though, she needed a moment, only a few more hours to gather herself. She was stressed, sleep deprived, hungry, and Ron’s departure had just pushed her off the edge. Yes, that was it. 

She spent a great amount of time casting protective spells around their tent. 

Harry stayed silent throughout the evening, not uttering a word even as they ate what little stale bread he had managed to pick up from the nearby village. When bedtime came, noticing that one of her hands was still clutching the wand with such force that her knuckles had turned white, Harry began to stare at her in bewilderment.

He rrested a warm hand on her shoulder, and she couldn't help the shudder that went through her.

"Hermione."

She took a deep breath, turning to face him.

"You didn't sleep at all last night. Let me keep watch now."

Her hands trembled, but Harry clasped them on his own. "It's okay, they won't find us. I promise."

She was far too tired to even protest. The adrenaline, which had not stopped running through her veins since that meeting, had consumed all her little remaining energy.

 Harry, without another word, helped her up from the corner of the tent where she had squatted with all her books and dragged her onto her sleeping bag.

That warmth,albeit slightly, loosened some of the tension in her muscles.

"Thank you," she said to him in a feeble voice.

Harry gave her one last look before grasping his wand and heading outside. "Rest, Hermione, please. I can't do this without you."

Surrendering to what her body craved, she wrapped herself in her sleeping bag and closed her eyes. Exhausted as she was, she sank quickly into darkness.

When she opened her eyes again, the sun was already high in the sky. She felt well rested, which helped to calm her nerves. She followed that ray of light that entered between the crack of the tent door, finding Harry sitting against the trunk of a tree just ahead.

"You should have woken me up," she said, sitting beside him and observing the deep circles under his eyes.

"You hadn't slept for a whole day. You needed the rest."

“Fair” she smiled, “your turn now”.

Although she was displeased that Harry had spent the entire night - and most of the day-  on guard duty, she could not blame him. She had really needed that rest: now she felt she had recovered, at least partially, her lucidity. And that fear that gripped her stomach and constricted her lungs was a little less bothersome.

She spent the rest of the morning enjoying the small joy of the sun's rays filtering through the tree branches, her ears strained in search of any strange noise.

When, now late in the afternoon, Harry awoke, she felt much calmer. She began to think that maybe she had been overreacting the previous evening.

The rumblings of their respective stomachs filled the silence. When Harry suggested that they wander through the village again, ignoring the instinct buried in a deep corner of her stomach, Hermione said it was a good idea. After all, they had gotten away with it the day before. Just for today, and then they would apparate again. Somewhere even further away, looking for clues about the horcruxes. 

They moved separately and disguised, trying to draw the least attention possible to themselves. Harry had only been gone a few minutes. The sun's rays had just begun to take on orange hues, the blue-gray sky now tending toward dark blue. 

A light breeze caressed her skin, the coolness a sharp contrast against the sun that had warmed her face all evening. She closed her eyes just for a second, breathing it in, letting the coolness settle into her lungs, hoping some of it could transfer to her boiling blood. 

Then she opened her eyes again. A gasp caught in her throat.

He had just apparated right in front of her. His gray eyes pierced her face, freezing her in place. Despite the sheer terror that ran along her skin, she remained still. No sound left her lips, and even the air that entered her nostrils frozen in fear.

It was some of the scariest thing she had ever seen. Those black pupils were darker than the moonless sky, and they were surrounded by a very thin, almost white, ring which made them even more terrifying.

He had promised, two nights ago, that he would come back for her. And he had. He had come back, alone this time.  She stared in horror as his white hand lifted and rested against the invisible barrier behind which she was hiding.

She had reinforced the spells and added runes: the mere touch should have caused him a painful shock and jolted him backward. However, despite the sparks she saw shooting into the air at that contact, Malfoy didn’t flinch. 

His gaze was fixed on her. His hand pressed on the barrier, a painful burn mark slowly forming on his palm. He began to push against it.

Hermione gasped.

His pupils dilated even more. "You're here."

Gathering all of the strength she had left to unlock her paralyzed muscles, Hermione began to back away slowly, straining to hold her breath and not make a sound, continuing to repeat to herself that he could not really see her.

His hand began to bleed from the burn, but he didn’t stop. It was as if he felt no pain, and his magic was apparently stronger than the barriers Hermione had spent hours reinforcing

She had barely taken three steps when she saw her spell crumble before her eyes, like dust dissolving into the atmosphere

Instinct led her to turn toward the tent, and as her feet prepared for the fastest sprint they had ever faced, and her lungs filled with air ready to let out the loudest scream she was capable of, two big, strong arms surrounded her.

One of his hands went over her mouth, stifling the scream that would have alerted Harry to the danger. The other encircled her waist, lifting her with ease.

She kicked as hard as she could, but her energy was directed toward the void.

Malfoy continued to hold her, his powerful arms wrapped around her body.  Then he sank his head against her neck, and the blood froze in Hermione's veins.

She stopped wriggling as he… 

He inhaled against the skin of her neck, his lips grazing it. A low versus raised from deep in his throat, reverberating through Hermione’s ears. 

Another sensation, new and foreign, mingled with fear in her blood. 

His grip tightened around her even further.  She should have felt pain at the force with which his arm encircled her waist, yet this was not what she felt. She felt her own will slipping from her fingers as his tongue came out to wet the spot where his lips had just been. 

This wasn’t real. It didn’t make any sense, crushing with every notion of Draco Malfoy she knew. 

In that brief, short moment of lucidity, her eyes shot open, and she realized she was still clasping her wand between her fingers. 

She lifted her elbow as far as her grip would allow, and angling it behind her  back she shouted, "Stupeficium."

As she felt the spell hit him, she sprinted forward without looking back,  begging her own keen not to let her down. 

She knew she couldn’t outran him. She needed to apparate, but Harry was already too far to notice her. She looked around for any possible signs of him. 

A weight hit her back. The wand slipped from her hand as she came to the ground.

His body was heavy upon her, his chest on her back, crushing her. One of his hands encircled her side again, pinning her against him. The other plugged her mouth from this new angle.

"Why are you running away from me?" he whispered in her ear. Its gentleness contrasted the frantic movements of her body. “We are made for each other”

She bit his fingers.

The gesture took him by surprise enough to allow her, with all the strength in her legs, to slip from his grasp.

She reached for her wand, and after holding it, she turned around to face him.

He had reached for her already, and the tip of her wand crashed against his chest, much larger and muscular than she remembered. He looked down at the wand with a bewildered look, as if he was seeing it for the first time, taking it in. 

Something like recognition in his face. Then his gaze followed the arms that held it, the body it was attached to, until it landed on her face. 

Time stilled. They looked into each other's eyes for a whole minute, both breathing hard. She saw his pupils contract, then dilating again, then contracting. 

And then, all of a sudden, Malfoy leaped back, bumping his back against a three trunk. 

His hands clenched against the bark,  holding into it, almost. 

"Granger?" he grunted through gritted teeth.

Hermione didn’t answer. She didn't understand what was going on, and she couldn't shake the feeling of his body on her, of what his tongue had just done. 

"Stop it," Draco shouted, showing her his teeth.

Hermione swallowed, taking a step back.

"Go away," he ordered her, his gray irises more visible now despite the darkness. 

Still she didn’t move. It was like his words were muffled, hard to hear under the ringing in her ears.

 "I said go," he shouted again, louder.

This time, she complied. Still, as her foot started moving, she screamed one last spell. 

“Acciò”

Adrenaline boiled in her veins, and her magic... She felt as if someone had given her a jolt. It burned and pawed inside her chest, letting sparks fly from her wand, in her right hand, and Malfoy’s, in her left. 

With this new strength in her blood, she started running.

Chapter Text

Granger. Of all people, her. She was... He couldn’t even bring himself to think about it. Shame and disgust battled in his stomach, and he let them, so that other feelings wouldn’t resurface. It was better this way. He could tolerate these. He took triple doses of all the suppressive potions Severus could make in the weeks following that night in the forest, yet it never seemed to be enough. On the few occasions when exhaustion overwhelmed him, and he succumbed to the oblivion of sleep, the darkness wouldn’t hold him for long. He’d wake up seeing her. Seeing her face, hearing her voice. Hermione Granger, to all wizards and witches. Something must have gone wrong. What he had felt for her was exactly what all the books described, what Severus himself had told him. But how could this be possible? Had Granger been bitten too? A brutal, primal fury ignited his blood at the thought that someone had hurt her, and he hated himself for not being able to control his emotions. In a fit of rage and frustration, he hurled all the heavy tomes open on the desk in front of him to the floor. They fell with a dull thud that echoed through the stone walls of the basement where he was. He cursed.

He had forgotten he wasn’t alone. Severus turned, momentarily distracted from the bubbling cauldron of suppressive potion, which was filling the small room with a sharp, acrid steam.

“What’s your problem? Did something happen that I should know about?”

Draco gritted his teeth and turned his back on him.

Severus approached, placing a hand on his shoulder and pushing him to turn around. Draco had a visceral reaction to that touch, shoving his former professor against the wall with such force to make the shelves tremble. Vials of precious ingredients crashed to the floor.

He breathed deeply, pressing a hand to his forehead, mortified by the sudden gesture. It wasn’t like him.

“The full moon is near,” Severus simply said, standing up and restoring order in the room with a swift flick of his wand. “Yet you’re taking triple doses of the potion.”

“Could the moon be messing with my magic like this?” Draco swallowed.

Severus turned his back on him, probably to avoid triggering another reaction like the one before. He resumed adding ingredients to the cauldron. “Apart from Greyback, who takes the minimum dose of potion, just to be lucid enough to follow the Dark Lord’s orders, I’ve had direct experience with two other werewolves.”

“And?” Draco pressed. “Continue.”

“And my answer is no. For the dose of potion you’re taking, it’s not normal for you to be losing control, despite the full moon being close. It could be that I made a mistake in brewing the potion, or—”

“Or what?” Draco nearly growled.

“You need to tell me. Do you... do you think something happened that triggered a new reaction in your blood? Do you think you met someone special, Draco?”

“Damn it,” Draco cursed. “What if that’s the case? What should I do?”

Slowly, Severus turned. “Are you serious?”

“Answer my question first.”

“I can’t. It no longer depends on you. The potion must be applied to both of you for it to be effective.”

Draco closed his eyes, processing those words. “Even if she hasn’t been bitten?”

“Are you sure about that? Who is she?”

Draco hesitated, biting his tongue. He would never admit who she was, not even with a wand pointed at his temple. “I’m not sure of anything. I don’t know her, I just... met her briefly. She was wandering around Diagon Alley.”

“Mmhh.”

Draco held the man’s gaze, as if daring him to accuse him of lying, but Severus didn’t.

“Did you talk to her?”

“What? N-no.”

“I asked the wrong question,” Severus continued after a brief silence, “did you touch her?”

“No,” he lied quickly.

“Are you sure? Didn’t you get close to her, and her to you?”

“No,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “This is good. I don’t know how you managed to control yourself, but... you did well. Perhaps I should give you more credit.”

“She didn’t—” he started, regretting it a moment later. But it was too late now, he might as well finish the sentence. “She didn’t seem to feel it.”

Severus took on a thoughtful expression. “Strange. It should be almost impossible.”

“Almost?” Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Well, we know very little about all this. If I knew who she was, what kind of blood runs in her veins... If she too was bitten by a wolf, as is likely, she should have felt the same force that you did, with the same intensity.”

“And what if that’s not the case?” Draco asked through clenched teeth.

“If there’s no wolf blood in her veins at all, or any magical creature’s blood, it’s likely that the magic in her blood is less... forceful.”

Draco felt a pang in his chest. By Salazar, what was Granger thinking? That he had gone mad, probably. From what he knew of her, he could imagine her mind asking a thousand questions about his behavior. He hoped she didn’t know enough to get to the truth. “So what happens now?”

“I’ll try to prepare a new potion for you, for now. But it would be easier if she took it too. The magic would calm down. It doesn’t matter if she’s been bitten or not, what matters is that the magic in her blood and yours respond to each other, feeding off one another. We need to suppress both.”

“Are you suggesting I should go find her?” Draco’s heart sped up at the mere thought of seeing her again.

“No,” Severus shut him down immediately. “It’s already a miracle that you managed to see her without touching her. If you were close again...”

“What?”

“Magic would push you to get closer, skin to skin. Listen to me—” He looked into his eyes. “You’re free to do what you want with this. It’s not a curse, but—”

“Get to the point,” Draco ordered, as sweat trickled down his neck from the mental effort occlumency demanded, necessary to keep any thought of her at bay.

“If you two touch, the bond would activate, forcefully. I’m not saying it’s impossible to extinguish in that case, but... almost. Very, very difficult. But magic will take you much further. It will push you to throw yourselves at each other. It’s been described as an overwhelming desire. And if you let yourselves be overwhelmed, you will be bound, forever. The bond can never be broken—”

“I’ve heard enough,” Draco interrupted him, because the conversation, the images Severus’ words evoked in his mind... they should disgust him, but instead, he was feeling quite the opposite.

“Wait,” the wizard called again as Draco was at the door. “If you could tell me exactly where you saw her, what she looks like... I’ll find her, give her a dose of the potion. It will make everything easier to control.”

“No.”

“Draco.”

“I said no.”

“I can find her,” Severus insisted.

“No, you can’t. And you won’t.”

“If you ever meet her again, it will be difficult to control yourself.”

“I won’t see her again,” Draco said with certainty.

“What makes you so sure? Who is she?”

Draco stepped outside the door. “No one we need to worry about. We won’t see her again.”

At first, he felt the spark. Like the flame of a candle suddenly igniting in his chest, an adrenaline surge rushing through his veins. His senses sharpened, his heart started to beat faster. His magic vibrated, charged with tension. He hid his wand behind his leg so no one would notice the sparks of magic leaking from it. He had tried many of them since she had stolen his, but none seemed able to channel this new power.

Why did he feel this way?

Something had happened.

Every step he took toward the drawing room of the Manor was too fast and at the same time not fast enough. His body screamed at him to run, to hurry, while his mind kept warning him that something terrible was about to happen.

He could feel Greyback's excitement as he walked beside him to the place where they’ve been summoned. He clung to every bit of Occlumency he could muster.

The first thing he noticed, crossing the threshold with his gaze fixed on his shoes, was the unsettling silence that hung in the large room. Two Death Eaters stood in the center of it, gloating with triumphant expressions. At their feet, kneeling, were two figures. Draco didn’t need to look at them to know who they were. Very slowly, though, he raised his gaze on them.

Potter’s bruised face, unrecognizable from the swelling, was nothing compared to the condition of their bodies. He knew they hadn’t been captured without a fight, yet... Their clothes were dirty and torn. Granger’s hair was tangled, spread out everywhere. He could see a cut on her lip, a single drop of blood running down it.

A jolt ran through him, a primal instinct trying to take control. She was there, his mate, in danger, hurt. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to run to her, to protect her, to tear her away from those who had captured her. The wolf inside him howled, furious at Hermione’s vulnerability.

But Draco stood still, his face pale and rigid. He had to remain calm. He had to control himself. If he showed even the slightest sign of recognition, of weakness, his family and the other Death Eaters would never forgive him. And she... it seemed Severus had been wrong. She didn’t feel what he felt, at all.

“Draco,” Bellatrix’s voice rang out sharply, breaking the silence. Granger flinched. “Do you recognize these two?”

Draco knew his aunt would be able to sense any poorly constructed lie, any hesitation. Yet a war was raging within himself, and mustering a cool expression was harder than it had ever been.

Granger’s eyes sought him out, full of terror, but also confusion. She didn’t know. She didn’t know why he was so disturbed. He had realized the moment he locked eyes with hers in the forest: she didn’t feel what he felt. Severus had been wrong. The books had been wrong. What he felt was... one-sided.

Draco felt his invisible claws scraping against his will, but he pushed them down, deep inside. He had to be strong.

“No,” he finally answered, his voice flat. “I don’t recognize them.” He had put on his mask of coldness and apathy, as he had been trained to do all his life.

“Are you sure?” his aunt pressed, the sadistic smile stretching across her lips.

Draco nodded, his heart in turmoil, fighting not to cast a glance at her.

“Never seen them before,” he repeated, knowing that every second he spent without intervening put her in more danger. But he could do nothing. Not yet.

Granger was watching him. Was she surprised?

Her breath became more labored as Bellatrix approached, wild eyes gleaming with excitement at the thought of inflicting pain.

Draco clenched his fists behind his back, nails digging into his palms.

She was there, only a few steps away, and she hated him. He hated her too, or at least, he thought he did. Everything he had ever felt before the mark, and then the bite, seemed so frivolous and stupid now.

He sighed in relief when they gave the order to take them to the dungeons, waiting for whatever spell had struck the boy’s face to wear off enough to make him recognizable. This gave him time to think of a plan, to come up with something.

But soon enough blood froze in his veins, extinguishing the faint flame of hope.

"Not her," Bellatrix sneered. "Leave her to me."

He stilled.

“Draco?” His aunt called.

He turned around. "What?"

"Take our guest to the dungeons in the meantime."

It took all the self-control he could muster to hold back and contain his magic, to hide the small bursts of energy that were leaking from the tip of his wand. He approached Potter, whose face was disgusting and deformed, and whose curious and hopeful eyes were studying his strange behavior, observing the tight grip of his fingers around his wand, tracing up his tense shoulders… up to his face…

He grabbed him by the neck, shaking him.

"Let's go," he shouted, putting on a show in front of everyone. After a few steps, he whispered, "Don't say a word."

The torches in the dungeons cast dancing shadows on the cold, damp walls, a reflection of the terror that hung in the air. Draco descended the stairs one by one, his heart pounding in his ears, his throat tied up in a choking knot. He opened the cell and pushed Potter inside, hoping he was smart enough not to say a word. He searched for his eyes as he locked the cell.

Look at me, you idiot, he wished he could scream at him.

At the last moment, the boy lifted his gaze to him. Draco nodded, while his fingers remained still around the lock.

He left it open, hoping with all his heart that Potter wasn't stupid enough to rush out at this exact moment.

He wasn’t even halfway up the stairs when a terrible scream froze his veins. Terror and hatred constricted his chest. His aunt had begun.

He struggled to maintain a calm and casual step as he re-entered the drawing room, facing a scene that took his breath away worse than a punch to the gut.

Hermione was on the ground, her body arched in an impossible shape under the effect of the Cruciatus Curse. Bellatrix was laughing, her eyes wild and bright like those of a bloodthirsty beast. Bellatrix's sadistic laughter echoed against the walls, penetrating his bones.

Draco tried to hold his breath, but every fiber of his being was pulling him toward her. The wolf inside him was roaring. His magic was bubbling up, an incessant pressure under his skin. It was as if his very soul was trying to tear him away from this situation.

"Aunt," his attempts to keep his voice steady were in vain. His tone was different now. Low, restrained. He trembled with the effort of keeping his muscles locked in place.

The witch turned, almost surprised. The curse stopped, and Hermione's back slumped with a dull thud against the marble floor, her breath heavy and gasping. He could buy time this way.

"Draco? All done? I thought you would have more fun with that fugitive."

He straightened his shoulders, painting his face with an expression of boredom. "Low-life criminals don't interest me. It's only Potter that the Dark Lord wants; we should be focusing our efforts on finding him and not-."

He made a face of disgust as his eyes darted toward Hermione, lying on the ground. Her brown eyes were glazed over, and they met his with such desperation that his facade nearly shattered. But he couldn't. Not yet. He had to hold on, make sure Hermione was taken to the dungeons. Then she and Potter would escape, as far away from him as possible, and all of this would be over.

Bellatrix placed a hand on her chest, feigning outrage but clearly amused. "Well, the Dark Lord also ordered us to find all the filthy mudbloods. Like her." With the tip of her boot, she crushed Hermione's stomach, causing her to emit a whimper of pain.

Draco looked away, focusing on his breaths. In and out. In and out. "I'm almost done with her," she shrugged, a creepy smile painting her face. "Only one last touch left."

The minutes that passed felt like hours, whole days even. The grand hall of Malfoy Manor was shrouded in a chilling silence, broken only by the hysterical laughter of Bellatrix and Hermione's groans of pain. Each slice of the blade was met with a string of his control snapping. He trembled under the rising pressure of rage and despair. The smell of Hermione's blood, mixed with her suffering, was driving him mad. It was as if the bond between them was screaming to be freed.

Granger’s screams grew more heart-wrenching, and Draco felt the wolf inside him scratching, fighting for control. He was about to explode.

He tried to close his eyes, then to focus his gaze anywhere else.

He looked at his shoes.

In and out, in and out.

Toward the courtyard that could be glimpsed through the enormous windows, counting the birds he could see on the horizon.

In and out, in and out.

To the ceiling.

In and out, in and-

Something caught his attention then, truly distracting him from the heart-wrenching screams of his... of Granger. There was something about the chandelier. It looked like… like…

He heard the metallic sound of the hook holding the massive chandelier being loosened.

It was going to crush them. Both Hermione and Bellatrix.

He looked around the room until he spotted movement at the top of the stairs that lead to the dungeons.

Potter.

His grip around his wand tightened, his muscles prepared to spring into action.

He allowed himself to explode then, driven by another gut-wrenching scream from Granger. With a roar of anger that thundered in his chest, Draco lunged forward. The wand in his hand erupted into a flash of red light. "Stupefy!" he shouted. Bellatrix was caught off guard and flew backward, hit squarely in the chest by the spell.

Granger was still shaking on the floor, blood dripping from her arm. Draco reached for her, kneeling beside her, pulling her into his arms without hesitation and holding her tightly against his chest. The world around them seemed to dissolve.

"You’re safe," he murmured, more to himself than to her, feeling his heart race in his chest. "You’re safe, I promise."

From the top of the staircase, Harry suddenly emerged, his gaze fixed on them, his face a mask of shock and determination. He observed his friend, the way Draco held her, the way she herself, too exhausted, surrendered into his arms. He wouldn’t be able to let her go even if he wanted to.

Then he met Draco's eyes. "Are you with us?"

"What do you think?" Draco roared, anchoring himself to her, to the beat of her heart and the rhythm of her still-labored breaths. She was losing consciousness.

"We need to Disapparate, now!" Harry shouted, reaching a hand toward him, the other toward the little elf by his feet.

Draco looked at him, breath still ragged from the tension. "Where?" he asked, his voice broken with urgency.

"Shell Cottage!" Harry yelled.

Bellatrix was already back on her feet. Eyes blazing with rage, she cast spell after spell at them, magical blasts slicing through the air like lightning. Draco, with Hermione still in his arms, managed to conjure a protective barrier just in time.

"You won't leave this house alive, Draco!" Bellatrix screamed, casting an Avada Kedavra that struck a nearby piece of furniture, splintering it to pieces.

Draco felt time slipping away, the pressure of Malfoy Manor's magical defenses holding him like chains. But with a desperate effort, his magic rebelled against those barriers. He felt the energy flowing through him, foreign and strong, the power shaking the very castle as the protections shattered with a dull roar. “Hold tight" he shouted with the little breath he had left. Just at that moment, a glint of metal caught his attention. Bellatrix had hurled a knife. It was aimed at Granger, who lay helpless in his arms.

With a desperate, instinctive motion, Draco turned, offering his body as a shield. The knife struck his side, penetrating deeply into his flesh. The pain crashed over him like a wave, crushing both of them to the ground. Blood began to seep down his side, soaking his clothes.

Harry moved closer, gripping his wand with determination. "Let’s go, we have to Disapparate now!" he shouted.

Draco, trembling from the pain, nodded. "Shell Cottage…" he murmured, struggling not to lose consciousness as the pain became unbearable.

With a crack, the world around them faded.

Chapter Text

The air was damp and salty, the wind whipping droplets of water against his face as his feet struggled to stay grounded. All of his left side was burning, and he could feel blood sliding across his skin and soaking into his clothes. She was breathing faintly in his arms. Draco’s head felt lighter by the second, but he could have sworn he saw her eyes open, meeting his gaze. Her hand clutch at the hem of his shirt with weak fingers.

He kept holding onto her, even as his knees buckled, even as his body gave in to the toll his magic had taken overpowering the manor’s enchantments and  the steady loss of blood.

The world began to spin. As his vision blurred, he caught glimpses of the sea’s blue, a small cottage on the horizon and three figures approaching with wands raised. Instinctively, he shielded her with his body, just as someone else stepped in to shield him.

“He’s with us,” came a familiar voice. Potter, he thought. “He saved us. He helped us escape.”

He heard footsteps drawing closer.

“He’s hurt,” said a female voice. His head was spinning faster now.

“We need to get him inside.”

The world around him, already blurred, faded into grey… until everything turned black.

He smelled cleanliness. Simple detergent, fresh thick sheets, sea salt. A dull pain throbbed in his side as he slowly opened his eyes. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was.

A plain bed. A bare room. The only furniture was a small wooden wardrobe against the far wall and a nightstand, on which sat a glass of water. The curtains on the window to his left fluttered gently in the breeze. Sunlight streamed in, casting a warm glow across the space.

The last thing he remembered was escaping the manor. She was in his arms. Her screams. The knife his aunt had thrown toward her and then...

The pain in his side flared, and he brought a hand to it, realizing it was bandaged. He had been treated. He sat up in bed, too quickly, and his head spun. He shut his eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass.

A creak. The soft sound of a door opening and closing. When he opened his eyes again, someone was in the room.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Red hair. A vicious scar that ran down the side of his face. Bill Weasley. The eldest of the Weasley siblings. The one who’d been bitten by a werewolf. Life’s little ironies.

“I see you’re awake,” Bill said, holding out a tray. When Draco didn’t take it, he set it on the nightstand beside him. His stomach growled at the sight of the simple meal. He was starving.

How many days have passed? Where exactly were they?

But none of that mattered. All his questions melted beneath the one that hammered in his skull and burned on the tip of his tongue.

“Where is she? Is she alright?”

Bill raised an eyebrow, then narrowed his eyes, somewhere between surprise and understanding. Draco didn’t care. He just needed an answer.

The eldest Weasley shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “She who?”

Draco pressed his lips together, struggling to contain a spark of magic. Merlin, it was so much harder now. How long has it been? How long since his last suppressive potion?

“My-” he caught himself, biting down on his tongue. “Granger.”

“Why do you care about her?” Bill asked, scanning him from head to toe, sharply observant.

Draco felt like a magical creature under that analytical stare. Could he tell? Could he see it just by looking at him?

Maybe he should just say the truth. Maybe Bill would offer him a potion. But something, maybe pride, or maybe years of enmity, held him back.

“I don’t care,” he said through gritted teeth. He made to get up, only to realize he had no idea where to go. He didn’t know where he was, he was surrounded by enemies, and after what he’d done returning to the Manor was out of the question. For all the Founders’ sake… He hadn’t thought before acting. That much was clear.

He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, only then noticing that his chest was bare. Aside from the bandages wrapped around his torso, his upper body and arms were completely exposed. The Dark Mark and, more damningly, the bite just beside it, were clearly visible.

He swore under his breath and looked at the other man in the room. “So who knows now?”

“The bite?” Bill’s expression was serious. “All of us. Me, Ron, Harry, Fleur… and Hermione. We treated you. You were the only one injured, anyway. She’s fine.”

He said those last words slowly, as if studying Draco’s reaction. And despite all his efforts to appear indifferent, Draco felt the weight, the crushing tension, lift from his shoulders. A quiet sigh of relief escaped him and, unfortunately, did not go unnoticed.

He sensed the question coming even before Bill spoke.

“What happened between you and her?”

“What do you think?” Draco snapped. There was no point in denying it. If he was asking, he must already know everything that mattered.

“Does Granger know?”

Draco closed his eyes. This was humiliating. Mortifying. “No.”

Bill only nodded, face unreadable. Draco arched an eyebrow, suddenly on edge. “What?”

The redhead shrugged. “Nothing. It took Fleur longer to figure it out too, but then-”

“You mean…” Draco couldn’t hide the shock in his voice. “You and Delacour, she’s your-”
He couldn’t even say the word.

“Yes,” he replied. “I knew the moment I saw her. She didn’t feel it right away, not like I did, but… there was something.”

“As thrilling as this little confessional is,” Draco cut him off, because he didn’t want to think about what it must feel like for Weasley , of all people, to have found his mate. And that she wanted him. Had accepted him. Merlin, he needed a distraction, anything to shift the conversation.

“Why am I here?”

“You’re asking me that?”

Draco realized how ridiculous his own question was. They both knew exactly why he was here.

“She can’t find out,” he said at last.

“She’ll figure it out, sooner or later. Sooner, if you keep living under the same roof. And besides, you’ve already touched, so…”

“That’s none of your business,” Draco snapped, starting to rise. “I’ll need suppressive potions. As many as you’ve got. I had a lab at the Manor, but I doubt I’ll be able to recover anything from it. Maybe with the help of that house-elf.”

“You want to stay here?” Bill asked, surprised.

“What? You’re not keeping me prisoner?”

Draco caught the silence that followed and pushed on.

“Even if I wanted to, how the hell could I return to the Manor after helping the Dark Lord’s two most wanted escape?”
The memory, the emotions, the overwhelming surge of magic, hit him again. He brought a hand to his forehead.  There was no getting out of this mess. Only one option made any kind of sense: hide until the war ended, and hope Potter came out on top.

“And Hermione?”

Draco’s head whipped toward the redhead. Without the potions in his bloodstream, even hearing another male say her name stirred something primal in him.

Bill seemed to pick up on it.

“If you think you’ll be able to control yourself, living this close, then you’re delusional. And she will find out.”

“Just get me the potions,” he said through clenched teeth. Then added, almost grudgingly, “Please.”

Bill stood, nodding. “Don’t leave this room.”

“I wouldn’t know where to go anyway.”

***

Hermione stared at Ron from across the sofa.
When she’d first seen him, shocked and shaken upon arriving at Shell Cottage, she hadn’t even fully registered that it was really him. That he was there. And yet, it seemed he’d done nothing but search for them since they’d been separated. For some reason, aside from the relief of knowing he was safe and unharmed, she didn’t feel much else.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected from herself, but surely something more than this.

Now the redhead kept glancing at her from the other side of the couch. When she finally met his gaze, he took it as a cue to move closer.

“I’m really sorry, Hermione. Truly. I never meant to leave, I regretted it the second I lost you two.”
She’d heard that line more than once in the past two days, and she’d sworn she’d forgiven him. Still, he kept repeating it.
“But your enchantments were too strong. I couldn’t find you again.”

That last part… he’d said it before too. But now, for the first time, Hermione really thought about those words. Her enchantments had worked… so how had Draco managed to sense her through all those layers of magical concealment?

It could have been due to the heightened senses from the werewolf bite, she reasoned, now that she’d seen the evidence of Greyback’s attack on him, while he was unconscious and being tended to. That sort of magic affected every wizard differently: blood type, strength, proximity to the full moon, how much venom had entered the system… there were so many variables that could alter the way a wizard transformed after such trauma.

It was possible that whatever had happened to him had granted him this heightened perception. That still didn’t explain his behavior, but she was doing her best not to think about that.

She shook her head and focused on the problems they could address.

“The fact that Malfoy’s on our side matters. He can tell us how their headquarters is set up, what You-Know-Who’s next moves might be, he might even know where some of the Horcruxes are hidden.”

“The fact that he helped once doesn’t mean he’ll do it again,” Harry objected.

Hermione stood up, reached for her beaded bag, and spilled a good portion of its contents across the kitchen table. She didn’t fully trust Malfoy, but she couldn’t deny that he’d saved her. And when she’d been in his arms, the pain from Bellatrix’s torture had vanished.

And it wasn’t the first time. Even in the forest, as terrifying as he had been, he’d let her go.
Maybe he’d realized they were the right side. She wanted, no, needed to believe that.

“Found it,” she said, pulling out the small jumper she’d worn that fateful day at the Manor.
It had been shoved into her bag without much care that night.

“I don’t get it,” Harry said as she examined the garment carefully.
“I’m glad he did what he did. But what now? He obviously can’t go back. You think Bellatrix would take him back if he tried?”

Ron cut in. “He’s still her family, isn’t he?”

Hermione shook her head. “That doesn’t matter to Bellatrix.”

“I still don’t trust him,” Ron concluded.

“Even if he agreed to help with this plan, we can’t be sure his family hasn’t already started looking for him,” Harry said.  “And that he won’t just run the moment we leave him alone inside Gringotts.”

He wasn’t wrong, but Hermione had already thought of that.

“We listen to all the radio broadcasts. We’d know if he’d been added to the wanted list. Since it hasn't happened, it means his family is keeping things quiet. And besides—”

“What?” Harry and Ron asked in unison.

“He won’t be alone. You two will be with him—under the Invisibility Cloak. And I’ll be there too.”

“We can’t all just—”

Hermione held up what she was clutching between her fingers: a single, dark, curly hair.  It wasn’t hard to guess who it belonged to.

“I’ll need to brew some Polyjuice.”

“So you’re planning to brew Polyjuice Potion on my kitchen table?” Fleur cut in, entering the room followed by Bill. 

The three of them quieted. Although everyone knew of their plan of breaking into Gringotts, they still hadn’t revealed anything about the horcruxes.

Hermione kept gathering the ingredients. “Do we have any other option?”

Fleur let it go. 

One by one, everyone entered the small living room, spreading out between the tiny couch and chairs. It was time to discuss the plan. 

Malfoy was the last to enter the room.
The moment he set foot into it, Hermione felt a jolt shoot through her nerves. She hadn’t seen him since…
Since he’d saved her at the Manor. Since he’d gone against his family and taken a knife to the side for her. She still didn’t understand why he’d done it. And she hadn’t dared to tell anyone, not even Harry, about their meeting in the woods.
First, he’d let her go. Then, he’d helped her escape.
And now he was here. On their side, apparently. Maybe he was tired of the war, too. Maybe… maybe he’d never really believed in his family’s ideals to begin with.

Her hands shook as she handled the ingredients. She realized her heart was pounding wildly in her chest. When she lifted her gaze, she found his eyes already on her: deep black with a thin ring of silver around the edges. One blink, and he looked away, walking to the far corner of the room.

Bill, instead of standing by Fleur’s side like usual, stayed near Malfoy. He’d even vouched for him with the Order. She didn’t know what exactly had been said between them, but whatever it was, it had been enough to earn Bill’s full trust. That meant she had no reason to doubt him either.

Hermione wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers and cleared her throat, ready to lay out the plan.

 “We need to break into Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault at Gringotts.”

“You’re still not going to tell us why?” Fleur asked, arms crossed over her chest.

Harry jumped in. “We can’t. Not completely. But Bellatrix freaked out when she thought we might have been in her vault—and she didn’t want You-Know-Who to find out. It’s the only lead we’ve got right now”.

“You don’t actually think you can get in, do you?” Bill asked.  “That’s impossible. Even if you have Bellatrix’s wand-” He stopped himself, clearly remembering who was standing next to him.

Bill turned to Malfoy, and Hermione let her eyes follow.

 He was wearing one of Bill’s old sweaters, the only one big enough to fit him. It was strange how much he’d grown. He was taller now. Broader. She remembered him looking gaunt and exhausted the last time she’d seen him at Hogwarts. That must’ve been the result of Greyback’s bite.  Still, her eyes couldn’t help lingering on the shape of his shoulders, the way the fabric clung to the outline of his biceps.

“Hermione?”

Harry touched her shoulder, snapping her out of it. She blinked rapidly. Everyone was looking at her, except Malfoy. He had his fists clenched, his gaze fixed on the floor.

She felt a wave of shame rise in her, her cheeks flushing hot. She wanted to sink through the floor. Trying to collect herself, she forced her attention back to the conversation.

“Yes,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.  She held up a dark, curly hair.
“I’m brewing Polyjuice Potion. I’ll go in as Bellatrix. Harry and Ron will be under the Invisibility Cloak.”

There was a brief silence. Just as she was about to ask Malfoy to come with them, he spoke up first.

“I’ll come too,” he said, looking her straight in the eyes.

Hermione’s mouth went dry. The flush returned, spreading from her face to her neck, down to her chest.

“Th-that would be really helpful… if you came,” she said, turning her eyes back to the cauldron bubbling on the kitchen table.

As the major points of the plan were laid out, it soon became dark outside. Fleur moved back to the stoves to arrange some dinner. Ron and Harry helped Hermione move her brewing cauldron and her potions on a small coffee table, then moved to set the table for them all to eat. 

Hermione realized that Malfoy and Bill had moved closer to her.  She flinched when Bill placed a hand on her shoulder.  “Hermione, I need to ask you something.”

“Y-yes?” she was acutely aware of the icy stare burning into her back. 

Bill leaned in, his voice barely a whisper.  “We’ll need more potion than what you’re making for me. A lot more. I’ll make sure you get the ingredients.”

“That won’t be necessary.”  Malfoy’s solemn voice startled her again.

Instinctively, she stepped away from Bill as Draco moved farther into the room. He spoke only to the other man, never meeting her eyes.

“I told you to give the ingredients to me. I’m perfectly capable of brewing it myself.”

Hermione protested, sounding all shard and offended. “ I am perfectly capable of brewing this kind of potion.”

He still refused to look at her, even as he addressed her.  “Unlike the people you like to surround yourself with, Granger, I don’t need your constant help to survive”.

She opened her mouth to protest, but Bill touched her arm gently, stopping her.
“I’ll get the ingredients. Hermione, could you lend him your tools?.”

Malfoy inhaled slowly, his eyes flicking briefly to where Bill’s hand rested on her forearm.

“Alright?” Bill asked, carefully.

Malfoy’s fists clenched.  “Fine.”  Then he spun on his heel and stormed out of the room.

Chapter Text

Hermione had always found a certain peace in the night. As a child, reading stories by the window, wrapped in the quiet of the neighborhood where she grew up. At Hogwarts, with only the stars for company, the library cloaked in true silence. But especially here, at Shell Cottage. Too many people, too little space under the same roof. She was grateful for the place—for the hot showers and food on the table, for her friends, safe and sound. But she appreciated a bit of time alone, with her thoughts and only the bubbling of the cauldron to fill the silence, while the rest of the house slept. And so, there she was, working at night, finally surrounded by quiet. The bubbling brew, the curling steam, and the bittersweet scent rising from the potion kept her company as she prepared another batch of Polyjuice. Luckily, most of the ingredients had survived inside her beaded bag. The rest, Dobby had managed to find here and there.

She shook off the images of what had happened at the Manor. She could still feel the blade burning across her forearm. Sweat clung to her skin, but she refused to lift her shirt. As she worked, she whispered the steps of the potion like a prayer, then turned to grab the final ingredient.

She startled, the small vial slipped from her hands.

With a reflex too fast even for a seeker, Malfoy reached out and caught it.

Her heart thundered and her breath came heavy from the fright as she took it from his hand, her fingers brushing his for a second, just long enough to send a strange tingle down her arm.

She swallowed as he stepped back. When she had caught her breath enough to speak, she said, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Clearly not.”

The cauldron bubbled in protest. Hermione remembered the vial in her hand and turned away from Malfoy to add it to the mixture, stirring until the violent boiling began to settle. Then she looked back at him. His gaze had shifted to the spread of ingredients scattered across the tiny kitchen table.

“We’ve got plenty of ingredients. You can take whatever you need, even my potions book,” she said, gesturing toward the manual perched precariously on the edge of the table, wiping her suddenly damp palms on her trousers. “Or I could brew the suppressant myself, whichever kind you prefer. There are several recipes in there. It could be a way for me to repay-”

She stopped speaking as she realized that his sleeves were rolled up. Despite the darkness of the room, lit only by the light of the full moon outside, she could clearly see his mark, black ink on the whitest skin, distorted then, as it descended, by his other scar, the one that had turned him into this. 

They all had seen it already, so she thought he had no point in hiding it. She wished she could do the same. The air was warm, even at night, and she was already sweating under her long sleeved shirt. 

She shook her head, bringing her eyes back to his face. “I guess I never thanked you, for saving me. If you need anything…”

Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. She rummaged through her beaded bag until she found what she was looking for. She pulled out the wand she had taken from him that day in the woods and held it out, trying to push away the memory of his mouth on her neck. The warmth on her skin suddenly felt unbearable.

He didn’t move to take it. He had backed up to the far wall of the room and was standing against it.  Hermione swallowed and set the wand down on the table.

“Thank you,” he said at last. His voice rang out like a piano note in the stillness of the night. It was rougher than she remembered. “But I don’t think I need it anymore. My magic is... different now.”

Hermione nodded, unsure what to say. When she opened her mouth, he spoke first.

“Don’t pity me,” he said sharply.

“I don’t”.

“Yes, I can see it in the way you all look at me,” he continued, without anger, just quiet resignation and pride. “I don’t need your sympathy. I just need those potions.”

“Which ones?” Hermione asked quickly, driven by the sudden, urgent need to help him. She felt an odd sense of debt toward him. 

Malfoy hesitated, and Hermione waited.

“What you brew for Bill will be fine for now, and I can do it myself” he started. “But I need something else. Do you happen to have some mistiviper venom?”

Hermione’s mind started spinning. That was not a casual ingredient. It was quite rare and expensive. Her mind raced to remember which suppressive potions required it, but she couldn’t quite place it. It was not one she had ever brewed. 

Still, she had some.  Malfoy had saved all their lives. If a small vial of a rare ingredient was all he asked for, she would give it to him. She rummaged through her bag until she found the little pouch containing the acid-green liquid and held it out to him.

His expression was a mixture of surprise and relief, as if he hadn’t really expected her to have it. Hermione felt a strange flicker of satisfaction.

Even so, he made no move to step closer to take the vial from her. Uncertain, she set it down on the table beside his wand, then went back to stirring her potion. 

When she looked up again, he was gone.

***

Draco waited until the next morning, then again the following afternoon. When Granger finally finished brewing the Polyjuice Potion, he wasted no time starting on the suppressant draught he so desperately needed. His body was beginning to feel the strain of going without it. Sooner or later, he’d have to gather more ingredients, but for now, he’d make do with what he had.

He had seen Granger’s mind spring into motion the moment he’d asked for that particular ingredient. He just hoped she wouldn’t figure out what he truly needed it for. Knowing her, though, it was only a matter of time.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered whether it might be better if she did find out… or if he simply told her. He laid the ingredients out on the small coffee table, hunched over in a chair far too small for his new frame, and got to work. The air was stifling and warm, and her scent was everywhere, a torment to his sharpened senses, a constant, gnawing distraction.

Across the room, Granger was murmuring something to Potter, flipping through a small book of fairy tales. Draco couldn’t help but wonder what was really in those pages that held her attention so completely. She hadn’t let go of it since they’d arrived at the Cottage.

He had made a point of positioning the cauldron so the vapors drifted toward the open window. He doubted Potter or Weasley would recognize the potion he was brewing, not even remotely, but Granger? She was probably about to put the pieces together. A few more clues, and her mind would work it out. Still, he wasn’t in any rush for that moment to come. He dreaded the confrontation, even if it might make everything easier. The fire in his veins might quiet if she took the potion too.

Both Weasleys walked into the common space. Ron quickly joined the trio made up of Delacour and Granger, while Bill hesitated at the threshold.

His eyes flicked first to Draco, then to the ingredients in his hands. Eventually, he stepped inside and sat down on the small sofa.

“What is it?” Draco asked, his voice sharp with impatience.

Bill shrugged. “You’re wasting precious stores. If she doesn’t take it too, it’s pointless.”

Across the room, they saw Weasley, the most insufferable one,  greet Granger with a kiss on the cheek. Draco’s fist clenched around the knife in his hand, knuckles going white.

“I didn’t know your transformation came with a Potions Master’s degree,” he replied coldly. “You may have been a wolf longer than I have, but forgive me if I don’t take potion advice from you.”

Bill shook his head but lowered his voice. “That’s not actually what I came to talk to you about.  It’s about the mission.”

Draco clenched his jaw and kept working. “I’m listening.”

“The more time you spend with her, the harder it’ll be to walk away. And she’ll figure it out soon,” Bill said, drawing in a deep breath. “You should tell her now. Before you leave. Before something happens in the middle of a fight, and…”

“And what?” Draco snapped.

“You won’t be able to control yourself,” Bill said, enunciating each word. “You won’t be clear-headed. If she’s even slightly in danger, Malfoy, you-”

Draco cut him off again. “All I’m hearing is that both I and my magic could be an asset to the mission. My name and my face will get us into Gringotts, and my strength will help get us out. Where exactly am I wrong?”

“If she gets hurts-”

“I’ll be instinctively forced to protect her and get her to safety,” he said calmly, as if it were simply a fact, which it was. Despite the potions, that part of the bond remained. “I don’t see how that’s a liability to the mission.”

Bill pressed his lips into a tight line, visibly torn. “Ron and Harry will always be at her side. You get that, right?”

Draco took a moment to glance at the Golden Trio across the room. The two boys hung on her every word as Hermione showed them something in the little book. “Believe it or not, Weasley, I’ve endured worse,” he said with a dry, sarcastic edge.

“You don’t have to do this, you know. I want it to be clear that no one's forcing you. There will be risks.”

“What other choice do I have?” Draco muttered. “If you think my family would take me back, that I’d be welcome at the Manor, you’re delusional. I want Potter to win this stupid war just as much as you do.”

“And after?”

 “What do you mean?” Draco asked.

“What are you going to do then? Just go your separate ways? Pretend nothing ever happened between you two? You won’t be able to shake it off. You’ve already touched. You live under the same roof. Soon you’ll be even closer.”

Draco let out a noise halfway between irritation and indignation. “Let me worry about what happens to me when the war is over. I already have a father and I certainly don’t need a mentor.  If you’re afraid I’m going to lose my mind, kidnap Granger or stalk her or something, let me remind you she’s more than capable of defending herself.”

And she was. He could still feel the sting of the curse she’d slammed into him that night in the forest. Shame burned at the memory, and he forced it away.

“As for the mission,” he added after a beat, finally realizing what Bill was really concerned about, “Potter and your brother will be with us the whole time. They won’t let anything happen to her. I wouldn’t dare.  But since my word apparently isn’t enough…”

“All right,” Bill said at last, rising from the couch. “I’ll keep your secret, for this mission.
But if things spiral out of control, I will tell Hermione myself.”

He said her name slowly, deliberately, as if testing Draco’s reaction. Draco forced himself to stay perfectly still, not to flinch, not to betray a single thought.

“At that point, it’ll be her choice, whether to take the potion and keep you on the mission, to distance herself, or to-”

Draco’s teeth ground together. “There is no third option.”

Bill just looked at him with a resigned expression.  “If lying to yourself is what it takes to get through this… so be it.”

Chapter Text

Shell Cottage was filled with a tense silence, broken only by the soft rustle of waves against the cliff. Hermione ran a hand through her hair as she checked her beaded bag for the third time: clothes, canned food, water, a few books on runes and spells. The few potion ingredients she had left.

Malfoy sat by the fireplace, grinding dried leaves in a mortar. Hermione glanced at him briefly. He was focused,almost too much so. That morning, he had brewed two fresh suppressant potions. Since finishing the Polyjuice Potion, he had barely handed the cauldron back to her.

She tore her gaze away from the graceful motion of his muscular arms and focused instead on the clothes in front of her. With a simple spell, she transfigured them into something Bellatrix Lestrange might wear. A shiver ran down her spine as she pulled the witch’s wand from her bag, the one they had managed to steal during their escape from the Manor.

Once she had finished dressing in the transfigured outfit, it was time for the transformation. The potion was a dark green, almost grey, and gave off an acrid smell. Hermione pinched her nose and drank it down, feeling her bones twist and her features shift into those of Bellatrix Lestrange. Ron turned into one of the snatchers, while Harry wrapped himself in the Invisibility Cloak.

Draco was the only one not to change appearance. His family hadn’t reported him missing, so to the outside world, Draco Malfoy was simply accompanying his aunt to the bank.

When the transformation was complete, Hermione opened her eyes. Everyone was staring at her, a mix of intimidation and mild shock on their faces. Everyone except Malfoy. The intensity of his gaze reminded her of that night in the forest, when despite all the protective spells that should have concealed her he had looked at her as if he saw her clearly. His pupils were dark and dilated, his mouth slightly open.

Ron gave a short cough, breaking the tense atmosphere. “Well, that’s just creepy.”

“Thanks, Ron,” she replied, trying to adapt her tone to match the witch’s as closely as possible.

Bill had approached Malfoy, blocking Hermione’s view of him. She saw his hand on the blond’s shoulder and his head tilted forward, as if whispering something in his ear. She wondered what. In that moment, she saw Malfoy shake his head and avert his gaze. 

Harry, half-invisible under the cloak, led the way with confident steps. Ron followed close behind. Hermione waited behind, so that Malfoy would catch up and they could walk to the apparition line together. After all, they’d be arriving at the bank side by side, so it made sense to test the formation. 

She felt him stiffen the moment he came near.

They walked in silence, their footsteps sinking into the damp sand. Hermione realized she was struggling to breathe: the outfit was tight, her chest pressed by the dark leather corset. She brought a hand to its edge, trying to adjust it. Malfoy noticed the gesture, his eyes unintentionally falling to her chest, or rather his aunt’s. He looked away quickly, seemingly embarrassed, and she thought she heard him curse under his breath as he quickened his pace, leaving her behind. 

He didn’t take her offered hand when the moment to apparate came, instead grabbing onto Harry’s invisible shoulder.

The sharp morning sunlight made the white marble facade of Gringotts gleam. Hermione’s heart pounded against her ribcage as if it might burst out. At her side, Ron walked with the fluid stride of a typical Death Eater, his hood pulled low over his face. Harry was under the cloak with the goblin. Malfoy followed two steps behind her, tense and silent. She walked with confidence and arrogance across the gleaming floor, never taking her eyes off the goblin at the end of the corridor, the one who was supposed to grant them access.

When they reached him, she cleared her throat and spoke.

“I am Bellatrix Lestrange. I wish to access my vault. Immediately.”

The goblin narrowed his eyes. “One moment. We’ll need to verify your identity…”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Hermione hissed, doing her best to imitate Bellatrix’s venomous tone.

The goblin stepped back slightly, but didn’t look convinced.

Hermione turned instinctively, as if to sell the witch’s rising anger. Her eyes landed on Malfoy.  “I hate these delays. The Dark Lord is already expecting us.”  She gave his shoulder a light push. “Come on, announce yourself.”

The moment she touched him, she felt him go rigid beneath her fingers, as if burned. 

“Draco Malfoy,” he said curtly, extending his wand toward the goblin for identification.

Bellatrix-Hermione shook her head and also handed over her wand.  “Ridiculous,” she muttered, trying to sound irritated.

Meanwhile, the goblin was conferring with an older one, his wrinkled face framed by white whiskers. From the tone, Hermione suspected the conversation was not going in their favor. Malfoy seemed to think the same, his eyes darting nervously between her and the two goblins.

He stepped forward, passing her and placing himself in front. Hermione reached out to grab his arm: if she truly were Bellatrix Lestrange, she doubted she’d allow her nephew to overstep her like that, especially in public.

But she stopped when she saw another wand, different from the one he had just handed over, slip from inside his jacket sleeve.

 “Imperio,” he whispered, as a thin beam of white light shot from the tip and hit the older goblin.

Hermione’s eyes widened. She recognized the light wood of her own wand, vine and dragon heartstring. She remembered putting it in her bag… or had she? She didn’t have time to dwell on it. The goblin, clearly under the curse, began leading them to the tracks that descended into the underground vaults.

The cart screeched along the tracks, jolting every time they rounded a sharp bend in the darkness of the underground tunnels. Hermione sat stiffly next to Malfoy, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, while the goblin under the Imperius Curse guided them with a glassy-eyed stare.

"You took my wand," she murmured, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t respond right away. His gaze was fixed on some vague point in the tunnel ahead, his shoulders tense, his face even paler than usual. Then, in a low, clipped voice, he said,
"I took it from your bag. It was better to be prepared."

Hermione stared at him, incredulous. "You... went through my things?"

"Do you have any idea how badly this can go?" he snapped, finally turning to look at her. His grey eyes were sunken, dark but sharp. "We couldn’t afford to rely on just one plan."

Hermione clenched her jaw. She wanted to argue, to tell him he had no right, that she didn’t trust him. But deep down, that infuriating rational voice inside her knew he had done the right thing.

"You could’ve told me," she whispered at last, dropping her gaze.

"And would you have let me keep it?"

A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the rattling of the tracks beneath the cart. Then Hermione spoke again, her voice more composed:

"But how did you use it so..." She struggled to find the right word, wetting her lips with her tongue. "Naturally? For such a difficult curse." 

Draco’s gaze had shifted to her lips, Bellatrix’s lips, and Hermione shivered.

He turned back to the tunnel. "We didn’t have a choice."

"No," she admitted. "But that doesn’t explain... how the wand didn’t resist you."

He didn’t reply. But Hermione saw his hands, resting on his knees, curl into fists.

Soon, alongside the clatter of the tracks, another sound echoed in her ears, like rushing water. She strained to see ahead, then turned to the wizard beside her, unable to see Harry or Ron behind them.

"This should be—"

Malfoy was staring at her intensely as they neared the sound. His eyes reminded her, just for a moment, of that night in the forest, and a shiver, she couldn’t tell if from fear or something else, rippled down her spine, tightening every muscle. Hermione’s heart began to race. His pupils dilated, black pools swallowing the frost of his irises. They were everywhere on her, on her lips, her neck, her chest...

But she was still Bellatrix Lestrange, wasn’t she?

The moment she thought it, ice-cold water poured down on her, stinging against her skin. She felt her bones shift again, her skin stretch as her body changed.

"The Thief's Downfall," Malfoy finished for her, his voice calm, still watching her the exact same way as before, as if nothing had changed.

Hermione shivered, her shoulders hunching. Her clothes were soaked now, distorted by the return to her true form. The cloak clung to her body, heavy with water, and wet curls of brown hair stuck to her cheeks. Instinctively, she raised a hand to her face, as if to confirm she really was herself again.

Draco said nothing. But he didn’t look away.  Not even now. Not despite the water. Not despite the chaos.

The cart screeched to a sudden halt, jolting them forward. The goblin pulled the lever that brought them to a full stop in front of an imposing door, adorned with ancient runes and enchanted iron studs.

Hermione took a deep breath. She could hear the nearly silent footsteps of Harry and Ron climbing out behind her, light, but swift.

Draco, who had gotten out before her and was walking ahead, suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, and Hermione bumped into his back. He had one arm stretched out in front of her, as if to block her path. Her eyes followed the line of his arm until she looked up and saw what stood before them. Pale, almost white scales, shiny and stretched over a massive, tormented body. Thick chains coiled around the base of its claws.

 A dragon was guarding the vault.

He didn’t move. There was a stillness to him, almost unnatural.

“We have to be careful,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t startle it.”

Ron inhaled sharply, as if to argue, but Malfoy shot him a look so cold it silenced him on the spot. The three of them, with the goblin perched on Harry’s shoulders, nodded instead. With slow, measured steps, they began to advance. Malfoy led the group, each stride light and silent on the stone floor, as though he wasn’t even there. The dragon, Hermione noticed with growing pity, barely reacted. It didn’t even seem to register their presence, just another sign of the cruel conditions it lived under.

Once they had gathered before the stone door, the goblin extended a hand toward it, but nothing happened.

Hermione spun toward Draco. “What’s going on?”

He stepped forward, folding his arms across his chest. He spoke without raising his voice, but there was a quiet authority to it that seemed to ripple through the air.

 “The vault recognizes blood. And intent.”

Hermione stared at him, trying to tell whether he was bluffing, or if he truly knew something she didn’t.

“What does that mean?” she asked, stepping a little closer, her arms wrapped tightly around herself to keep the shivers at bay.

“It means the vault won’t open just because the goblin wants it to,” Draco replied, his gaze fixed on the runes. “It needs intent. And it can sense it, just like it can sense a lie.”

Hermione swallowed hard. Behind her, she heard movement under the cloak, Ron fiddling with something, maybe his wand. Harry had moved closer to the goblin and was watching in silence, ready to act. But Hermione didn’t take her eyes off Draco.

“What are you going to do?”

He looked at her again, and this time, there was something different in his eyes. Not defiance. Not fear. But a cold, razor-sharp resolve.

“Open it.”

Hermione stiffened. “Draco,”

“If there’s something in there the Dark Lord needs” he said quietly, “then we need to get to it before he does. And I’m... still enough of a Malfoy to be recognized.”

She watched as he stepped up to the door, lifted his wand, and made a small incision on his hand. As blood began to flow in thin red lines, he placed his open palm against the enchanted metal. The smell of his blood burned against her nostril. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the runes lit up, silver light spreading across the surface like living cracks.

 The door groaned.

“We have to move,” said Harry, throwing off the cloak and revealing himself. “We don’t have much time.”

Hermione nodded, still light-headed from the smell, and her eyes lingered on Draco for a second longer. He turned toward her, and there was a flicker in his gaze, like he knew what she was feeling. 

With a low, echoing boom, the vault door opened.

A wave of stale air hit them. Hermione brought a hand to her face, as if to filter out the metallic, moldy smell, grateful for the distraction, however unpleasant. 

 Rough stone walls, columns blackened by time, and a mountain of glittering objects piled in the center and stacked on surrounding shelves. Gold, silver, gems and... the Cup. Hermione saw it first. A golden gleam, slightly duller than the others, perched atop a precarious mound of treasure.

“There!” she shouted, but it was too late.

One of them, she couldn’t have said who, had brushed against a coin, and in an instant it felt as if the entire contents of the vault exploded in a flood of duplicates. Every item multiplied instantly, growing, piling up with violent force.

“It’s a Gemino curse” Malfoy shouted, as a golden plate nearly missed him.

Hermione scrambled through the growing hoard, her hands burning from the cursed metal. She felt her skin searing beneath her fingers, but she didn’t stop. The Cup was there. Just one touch.

“Granger!” Draco shouted, and for a second she saw him dive toward her, dodging a cascade of golden shields and ornamental swords.

She reached out. The treasure was swelling like a living tide, smothering them. Hermione was just about to grab the Cup, her fingers burning, when a burst of coins knocked her off balance. She fell backward, screaming.

“Hermione!” Draco’s voice tore through the chaos.

In a flash, he was beside her, batting away a sword that would have struck her. He grabbed her wrist with desperate force. Enchanted metal was piling around them.

“The Cup!” she shouted, clutching it in her hands. “I’ve got it!”

Her fingers wrapped around the horcrux.

A moment later, the chaos stopped.

The mountain of treasure froze, like a single frame from a film. No more duplication. No more movement. Silence slammed into the vault like a weight. Hermione turned to the others, the Cup clutched against her chest, breath shallow and fast.

“I’ve got it,” she whispered in disbelief.

There was time for a single breath, shoulders loosening, lungs finally filling with air, not even enough to truly recover before the door to the vault shuddered , then exploded off its hinges.

They were thrown backward as smoke poured into the room. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and braced for impact, but felt no pain. Instead, something solid and warm pressed against her back, hands holding her tightly against a chest.

Malfoy... had shielded her with his body.

She looked up at him just in time to see him holding out her wand. Pushing aside the thousand thoughts screaming in her mind, she grabbed it and readied herself. She’d have to think fast, they had been found and needed a way out.

From the vault’s entrance, a barrage of spells exploded: green, red, violet light. Harry raised his wand and shouted Protego Maxima , deflecting the first wave, but a second spell shattered the floor beside them.

“Split up!” Ron shouted, hoisting the unconscious goblin. “Find a way out!”

Hermione spun around, still clutching the Cup. Her heart burst in her chest as a Stupefy spell hissed past her face, hitting a column behind her. Stone shards sliced her cheek. Draco roared. It was a guttural sound, not human. His magic exploded outward like an invisible shockwave. The ground trembled beneath Hermione’s feet. A Death Eater lunged at them. Draco hurled him into the wall with a spell Hermione didn’t recognize. It wasn’t a known incantation, it was raw, pure fury. A living current rippled off him.

Harry and Ron managed to break away while Draco held the Death Eaters at bay. She saw them slipping toward the rail tracks they had descended on, using the dragon’s massive body as cover while it beat its wings. She wanted to follow them, but couldn’t. She was trapped between Draco’s back and the wall. His spells gave her a moment to think… and that’s when the idea hit her.

She looked up to where she had last seen Harry and Ron. With no sign of them, she guessed they were under the Invisibility Cloak. Gripping her wand tightly, she crouched and aimed carefully. Then finally, she cast the spell: a beam of white light struck the heavy chains binding the dragon.

A cry of pain and liberation tore from the creature’s throat, followed by a roar and a burst of flame.

The battle seemed to still for a heartbeat, both sides pausing to take in the creature screaming and unfurling its wings. Out of the corner of her eye, she barely registered the green flash aimed at her. The words Avada Kedavra were swallowed by the roar of the beast and the sound of stone breaking apart. The Killing Curse missed her by inches. She dove to the ground just in time.

Through the dust, she heard a roar, not the dragon’s this time, but human. Yet just as fierce. Along with it came a vibration, an echo beneath her skin, like a taut string snapping. She felt a body, warm and solid, curl around her, then that familiar wrenching sensation of weightlessness, the ground vanishing beneath her feet.

They were Apparating.

But... that wasn’t possible inside the bank.

Where were they going? And Harry, and Ron? She couldn’t feel them with her. She searched through the haze of dust and chaos, but all she saw were crumbling stone walls and pale white wings stretching wide amidst flying spells and fire.

And then, silence.

Chapter Text

The light barely filtered through the tall, dense canopy of trees.
Hermione landed with a crash, the damp ground scraping her hands as she clutched the Cup tightly to her chest. The force of the Apparition had made the landing rough. She rolled over the muddy earth, broken branches scratching at her skin. Her hands were too focused on holding the Cup to shield her face.

When the world finally stopped spinning, she opened her eyes slowly and sat up. Everything around her still felt like it was in motion. She doubled over and vomited against the trunk of a tree, a terrible ringing still echoing in her ears.

“Harry!” she shouted, whipping around. “Ron!”

No answer. Only the rustle of wind through the leaves and the frantic pounding of her heart.

Then she saw him.

Draco was sprawled on the ground just a few feet away, his face twisted in pain, his breathing uneven. A thin line of blood trailed from the corner of his mouth. One of his legs was bent at an unnatural angle, and the arm that had pulled her to safety was still trembling from the effort.

“Merlin...” Hermione crawled toward him, wand already in hand. “What did you do? Why did you Apparate us? What have you done? How?!”

She bit her lip, torn between the instinct to scream at him and the urge to help. Her eyes burned from a mix of rage and fear.

 She had left them behind. She had left Harry and Ron.

 Another wave of nausea hit her as a thought she didn’t want to face crept into her mind. She pushed it away for now.

She set the Cup down with trembling hands and knelt beside Draco. His black jacket was torn, and beneath it, his skin was already swelling with dark bruises.

 “Hold still,” she said. 

Her voice shook, but her hands did not.

It was silent all around, just the distant crack of breaking branches and Draco’s shallow breathing, his chest lifting and lowering beneath her fingers. Hermione pressed her wand gently to the place where his arm looked broken, murmuring a diagnostic spell. A soft blue light flickered from the tip, forming a delicate web of light over the joint: confirmation of the break. 

She exhaled slowly, “Ferula”.  Magical bandages wrapped around his arm, stabilizing it. She glanced at him.  His eyes were half-closed, his mouth shut from pain.

The leg was worse. The angle was all wrong, his femur likely shattered. Hermione bit her lip as she passed her wand over it. Another diagnostic spell revealed the full extent of the damage. A simple Ferula wouldn’t do.

“Brackium Emendo,” she whispered, tension tight in her voice.

A greenish glow wrapped around his leg, and Draco flinched as he bordered on unconsciousness. A shiver ran through him, and Hermione quickly followed it with a second spell to stabilize the limb. It would heal, yes, but it would take some time. Maybe a few days before he could stand again. And until it did, apparating was out of the question. Too dangerous. The risk of splinching was far too high.

Hermione ran a hand through her dusty hair, still gripping her wand. Then she heard it.

“...Hermione...”

 Her name left Draco’s lips in a broken, confused whisper. His eyelids fluttered. He wasn’t awake, but he wasn’t fully unconscious either. Maybe dreaming.

Her hands clenched at the edges of her cloak. Part of her wanted to move closer, to know what he was thinking, why he had saved her. The other part though, the part that watched from behind years of logic, fear, and calculated reasoning, pulled at her more urgently.

She stood slowly, leaving Draco lying on his makeshift bed of leaves and soil. She circled around him, searching through the folds of his jacket.

His wand.

She found it halfway out of the inner pocket, still coated with soot and dried blood. Carefully, almost afraid it would break, she pulled it free and held it. Then she slipped it into her beaded bag, along with the Cup.

Draco didn’t move. His breathing, slow, uneven, was the only sign he was still there, still alive.

Hermione sat down beside him, wrapping her arms around herself.

Night was falling. And she would have plenty of time to think about all the doubts clawing at her mind.

***

Draco stirred.

His body protested before his mind could form a single thought. A dull, throbbing pain radiated through his ribs and shoulder, each breath sharp and merciless. He let out a low groan as he shifted, the bandages scraping against torn skin.

Bandages?

He pried his eyes open. Above him, the ceiling was canvas: beige, worn. A tent. The damp scent of earth mingled with the sharp bite of healing potion and something else. Something more familiar.

Granger.

He sat up with effort, gritting his teeth as every muscle screamed in protest. He was shirtless. Bandages wrapped around one shoulder, part of his chest, and down one side. The work had been done quickly, but with care. His fingers brushed only rough wool. A sudden chill crept up his spine.

Heart pounding, from pain or agitation he couldn’t say, he staggered to his feet and pushed aside the tent flap. Daylight filtered through the tree canopy, and there, sitting on a rock just a few feet away, was Granger.

A book rested open in her lap. Her gaze was lowered. Her hair was a mess, tied into a loose braid. She looked calm, but her fingers were clenched tightly around something at her side.

When he stepped out, Hermione sprang to her feet.In an instant, she was standing, wand raised.

It pointed at him.

Draco froze. 

For a long moment, there was only the whisper of leaves and that fragile balance of fear and reluctant gratitude between them. Slowly, Draco raised his hands, palms facing her. His shoulder protested at the motion, and his fingers itched for his wand.

“Granger?” he asked cautiously.

Her eyes swept over him, sharp and searching. Draco didn’t miss the brief hesitation when her gaze lingered on his bare chest. He closed his eyes, calling on years of occlumency to silence whatever the stupid bond wanted him to feel. What day was it? How long since he’d taken his potions? He had a dozen questions, and she was still pointing that bloody wand at him as if he were a threat.

He felt heat rising in his chest: there was frustration, yes, but also something sharper, hotter. They were alone in the woods, not far from where they’d first met.

“Granger,” he said again, this time louder. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Maybe you should tell me,” she shot back.

Draco fought to keep his voice level. Had he said something while unconscious? Had she found out? Was she afraid of him now? The thought made his stomach turn, but he wouldn’t blame her. He just needed to know. “Granger, please. It’s not what you think.”

“Then explain.” Her wand didn’t lower, but doubt crept into her voice. “Explain why we’re here. Why did you separate me from Harry and Ron?”

Draco’s mouth set into a thin line. So that was it. She was angry because he’d taken her from her friends. Understandable. But how could he explain what had taken hold of him when he saw that curse flying toward her? It had been instinct, something greater than fear, deeper than reason. Magic had ripped them away before he’d even registered the spell.

“I saved you,” he said quietly. The weight of that again lingered in the air between them, and he knew she felt it too.

Slowly, she lowered the wand, though her grip didn’t relax.

“You have mine too, don’t you?” Draco asked, lowering his hands a fraction. “I’m not asking for it back, but if you don’t trust me-”

He stopped short when Hermione bent down and pressed a button on the small radio she always carried with her. Draco focused on the voices crackling through the static. They were reporting on the break-in at Gringotts.

He listened, trying to understand what she wanted him to hear. “—the three most wanted have escaped Gringotts. Anyone who finds Potter and delivers him alive to the Dark Lord will be greatly rewarded. As for the others, clean up.”

He turned to her, brow furrowed. “And?”

“They didn’t mention your name,” she said, her voice measured. “And the Manor hasn’t reported your disappearance. No news, no rumors.”

Draco waited. There was more.

“What’s the plan?” she asked. “Infiltrate, then leave? Separate us?”

“You think I’m a spy?”

She didn’t answer.

Draco’s frustration boiled over, and he took a step toward her. “I saved you,” he said again, almost screaming at her.

Hermione’s wand snapped back up. “Don’t come any closer.”

“This is absurd,” he muttered, stunned.

Hermione didn’t move. Her arm was steady, but Draco noticed the faint tremble in her fingers. Not fear. Something else. 

“Shell Cottage is compromised. Bill and Fleur are gone. And I- I don’t know where Harry and Ron are. I don’t even know if they’re alive.” She looked at him then, with a weariness so raw it stole the breath from his lungs. “And you… you drag me out here. Alone. No plan. No contact. No way out. What am I supposed to think?”

“That I saved you!” he said again, voice breaking. “You would have died under there, Granger! And I—” He cut himself off, jaw clenched. Too much. He was already saying too much.

Hermione lowered her wand, but didn’t put it away. Her eyes flicked to the bandages on his shoulder, as if only now realizing he was barely standing, and bleeding. 

“You…” she began, then faltered. “How did you Apparate out of Gringotts?”

Draco looked away. A part of him wanted to tell her. Everything. How his magic reacted to her in ways he couldn’t explain. How the bond pulled him toward her no matter how hard he resisted. But he couldn’t. It wasn't right since she didn't seem to feel it at all.

“My magic changed after…”  He hesitated, letting his gaze drop to his arm, where the Dark Mark was marred by another scar, the bite from Greyback. “After this.”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, as if unsure of what to say. “But that’s not possible,” she began. “A werewolf bite can affect a wizard’s abilities, yes, but not like this. It can’t make someone this strong. Some spells can’t be broken, it’s impossible.”

“What do you want me to say?” he snapped. “We’re here, aren’t we?”
He glanced down at the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest. “Doesn’t seem like it went that well, anyway.”

Hermione swallowed and finally relaxed her shoulders. “You’re bleeding”.

Draco was vaguely aware of the patch of red soaking through the bandages across his chest. He’d felt the stitches tear when he’d raised his arms earlier. Not that it mattered to him.
“Are you hurt?” he asked then, realizing that if the apparition had done this to him, it had likely left marks on her as well.

There were a few scratches on her face, but the rest of her body was hidden beneath a light jumper and grey trousers. Hermione shook her head, and he let out a breath of relief. Then she stepped closer.

“The stitches must have torn,” she said pragmatically, as if he were just another task to complete, another potion to brew. “I’ll have to redo them and change the dressing.”

She reached out toward his chest, and only then did Draco truly realize what was about to happen.

“No!” he shouted, stumbling backward.

Hermione stared at him in disbelief.

He inhaled sharply, his breathing suddenly ragged. “Don’t touch me,” he said, the words harsher than he intended. He couldn’t risk it. They’d touched too many times already. How many more before something happened? How was it possible that she still felt nothing?

Sooner or later, she would. She had to.

“I can take care of it myself,” he explained.

“If this is just some ploy to get your wand back—”

Draco growled. “If you want to believe I’m not on your side, fine, Granger.”  He ripped off the bandages, revealing a blood-smeared chest. The wound was small now, barely open, the stitches only half-torn. “This is nothing. Believe it or not, I’ve survived worse.”  He tossed the bandages aside and sank to the ground with his back against a tree, letting his head fall back.

“There are only two options here for how things can go: either you give me back my wand, trust me enough to let me take watch and rest, or you do it all alone, drag me along like dead weight, or worse, treat me like a hostage, until you collapse from exhaustion.”

He kept his eyes shut as he spoke. He couldn’t look at her. He’d almost let her touch him. Reacted too late. Even now, with his eyes closed, he could feel her breath, quick and shallow. Hear the rustle of leaves under her feet as she took a few steps back.

“Think about it, Granger. If I’d wanted to hurt you, I would have done it long ago.”

For a long moment, all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart in his ears, the crunch of leaves under Hermione’s steps as she walked away and then, silence.

Draco kept his eyes shut. He didn’t want to see the contempt in her gaze. Or the suspicion. But more than anything, he couldn’t bear to see want in her eyes. Hatred he could endure. He was used to it, he could build walls around it. But desire? That was dangerous. That would undo him.

 He needed her to see him as the enemy. Not… something else.

It was the sound of her voice that pulled him out of his thoughts. It wasn’t sharp like before. It just sounded... tired.

"I can’t trust you blindly, Malfoy."

Draco opened his eyes slowly, lifting his head just a little. Hermione stood a few feet away, her shoulders slumped, as if the weight of everything was finally starting to crush her. Her wand was lowered, but still clutched tightly in her hand.

"I’m not asking for blind trust," he said quietly. "Just a bit of common sense."

She looked at him for a long time, then let out a weary sigh.

"I’ll give you some pain potion and a bandage kit. You can patch yourself up if you want. But the wand stays with me."

He watched her as she dug through her bag, movements careful, methodical, like the ritual of doing something helped her stay in control. But her fingers trembled. He’d noticed that earlier, too.

Hermione held her breath for a moment, then handed him a clean gauze pad. Their fingers nearly brushed: he felt the ghost of her warmth, but she pulled away fast this time.

"Thanks," he said, and meant it. 

She didn’t reply. She sat down again on the rock, hugging her knees, curling in on herself like she wanted to disappear.

"As soon as you're healed we’ll start looking for the others" she murmured, her eyes fixed on a vague spot in the distance. "We need to head north, I think…"

Draco drank some pain potion, feeling the warm liquid dull the pain just a little. He caught the way she had stopped speaking abruptly and raised an eyebrow.

"Do you really think I’m going to run off and betray you? To who, exactly? The Dark Lord? Or maybe my dear aunt?"

He saw the flicker of hurt  and defiance on her face, but didn’t stop.

"The same aunt who, if memory serves, gave me this," he said, tapping his bare torso where Bellatrix’s knife had left a scar just beneath his ribs.

 He didn’t check to see if she was looking. He knew she was.

And even though he knew this was reckless, provocative and pointless he couldn’t stop. He was exhausted, too. "And not just that," he added quietly.

He didn’t need to explain. There were only two other scars on his body, both on his forearm.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The night pressed in around them, full of shadows and things left unsaid.

Then he heard the soft rustle of leaves. Hermione had moved again, this time sitting against the trunk of a tree, directly across from him. Their eyes didn’t meet, but the space between them felt thick, tense.

"Does it hurt? The scar?" she asked.

Draco scoffed. "Now you’re pretending to care? That’s new."

"You don’t have to be like this," she exhaled. Her voice was small, but steady. "I healed your wounds. I saved your life."

"Yeah. And I did the same for you. So why are you still looking at me like I just stabbed you in the back?"

"What else am I supposed to think after what just happened?" she said, her eyes finally lifting to his. "What are we even doing here?"

Draco took a slow breath. When he finally spoke, his voice came rough, almost a whisper.

"There was no other way to save you."

"It’s not your job to save me," Hermione said quickly, like the words had been waiting on the tip of her tongue. "And as much as I’m grateful for what you did at the Manor… this is my mission. I’m ready to die to finish it."

Her voice was firm, but her hands kept trembling.

Draco flinched. "You Gryffindors and your bloody ideals," he muttered.

"And what’s your ideal, then?" she shot back instantly.

"You think I’m fighting for an ideal?"

Hermione’s mouth tightened. "So what then? You’re fighting for me? Because none of this makes sense."

He didn’t reply.

"Saving me… that might have made sense at the Manor. But not now. Not again. We’re not…we’re not…"

"What?" he asked quietly, but there was an edge to it. Was she about to say it? That she felt it too? That she’d known all along? He held his breath.

"We’re not friends," she said instead. "You hate me… or at best, we barely tolerate each other."

Draco looked at her, jaw tight. He was surprised how effort it took him not to show the way the words pierced him.

She didn’t feel it. She didn’t feel anything.

He inhaled through his nose, forcing himself to stay still. He wanted to tell her she was wrong. That he didn’t just tolerate her. That he hadn’t followed her here on instinct or pity, but because something inside him was drawn to her like a curse etched into his bones.

But he didn’t.

"Then tolerate me a little longer," he murmured, turning away. "Just long enough for us to survive this war."

Her mouth opened like she might speak. But no words came. Instead, she looked down and pressed her lips together, hard.

"I don’t need your protection," she said at last, more gently now. "I’m not your responsibility."

He nodded. “Of course not”. 

The lie burned on his tongue.

***

Chapter Text

The silence of the forest was broken only by the soft rustling of leaves and the rhythmic sound of pages turning. Hermione had been reading for at least half an hour, her knees covered by a thin blanket, her wand resting beside her on the grass.

Draco watched her from his corner, his breathing still slow and labored, but his eyes alert. The fever had gone down, and although the wounds still ached, they had started to close. The bond was quiet, as if his weakness had temporarily subdued it. And it was in that suspended silence that something began to stir: curiosity, perhaps. Or the need for distraction.

“What’s that book you’re always reading?” he asked.

Hermione looked up sharply, the afternoon light catching her hair and bringing out golden highlights. She lifted the book, letting him glimpse the cover: The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

“Why are you reading a children’s book right now?”

She seemed to consider her answer. Draco had sensed there might be more to the book than it appeared. He didn’t expect her to tell him, so he was surprised when she said, “Dumbledore left it to me.”

Dumbledore... There was regret in her voice.

“So I suppose it’s much more than just a book of fairy tales,” he scoffed. Who knew what spells, or what secret plan, was hidden behind that innocent cover?

“Actually, no,” she replied, with a frustrated huff that sent a few strands of hair slipping back over her face.

That caught his attention. “What do you mean?”

“That there’s nothing in here. It’s just a normal book of fairy tales.” She stood, the book still open in her hands at the page she’d been reading. “I’ve read every single story in here over and over again, but I can’t find anything that even hints at a clue or a message.”

When she reached him, she sank down to the ground beside him. She didn’t notice how his body tensed, nor that he started holding his breath.

“The only thing that stands out, something that looks like it was added after printing, is this symbol here-’ She leaned toward him, and Draco forced himself to focus, ignoring the rush of blood in his ears, to study the mark she was pointing at.

“The Deathly Hallows.”

The words echoed in his mind, heavier than their simple meaning. Draco stared at the symbol: the triangle, the circle, the vertical line, etched clumsily in the lower corner of the page. It wasn’t part of the printed text. It looked hand-drawn, like a personal note.

“I’ve seen it before…” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Hermione’s head snapped up. “What? Where?”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat. “At home… at Malfoy Manor. I saw it on a necklace, worn by an old man. Xenophilius Lovegood, I think his name was. He came to speak with my father. Said it represented… a hidden truth. Or something like that.”

“Lovegood…” Hermione whispered. “He’s Luna’s father”

Draco nodded slowly, though he wasn’t entirely sure. It was hard to remember every detail of those days… between the fever, the pain, and the constant effort to suppress the pull of the bond that tied him to her.

Hermione turned her gaze back to the symbol, thoughtful. “So I’m not the only one who thinks it means something. And Dumbledore must’ve known, if he made sure I’d find it.”

There was a moment of silence before Hermione added, more cautiously, “And you… do you remember what you saw, back when you were home?”

An innocent question: at least on the surface. But Draco understood it right away. It was a test. A small, subtle push to see how much he was willing to share with her. A way to test where his loyalty laid. If she only knew…

“Not everything,” he replied. “The wand…” He struggled to remember. Hermione, likely without realizing it, leaned in closer. Her scent filled his nose. He forced himself not to think about it, focusing instead on the Dark Lord’s latest movements.

“He doesn’t share all of his plans, or at least, not with all of us. But Bellatrix was nervous. When you were captured… he wasn’t there. He was away. I heard my aunt talking about a wand. He’s obsessed with the idea of finding it. She said it may be  far from here.”

He saw a shiver run through her, goosebumps rising along her arms. “That’s why he didn’t come right away that day. And Bellatrix… she was stalling.”

Draco nodded, clenching his fists against the impulse to pull her close and shield her from that feeling. It was ridiculous. He hated all of this.

“So if the wand is real—” she began, her eyes lighting up more and more as her thoughts began to flow aloud. “Of course, the Cloak! And now the wand. The only thing missing is the stone. The Deathly Hallows really do exist.”

Draco frowned. “Even if the wand is real, and he finds it, how can you say the others are real?”

Her silence stretched too long. He looked straight into her eyes.

“The Cloak,” he said at last, lifting a hand to her forehead. “Potter’s cloak, it worked too well to be just a Disillusionment Charm. I knew it.”

Hermione pulled her arms around herself as a cold breeze swept over them. A few wild strands of hair fell across her face. “So if the Stone exists too…”

 “He might be tracking the Deathly Hallows.”

“He might already have the wand,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. She had pulled her knees to her chest, curled against the trunk of the tree. She looked small like that. Draco had never seen her this way: frightened, uncertain, vulnerable.

“We don’t know that. And anyway, the Cloak is in Potter’s hands, and the Stone might not even exist, or could be anywhere,” he cut in quickly, but his words were lost in the wind.

He rose to his feet. “I’m feeling better, anyway,” he said, brushing dirt from his trousers. “I’ll keep watch tonight. You can rest. If I hear anything, I’ll wake you. We might even be able to move again tomorrow.”

Hermione looked up at him from where she was still huddled, then slowly stood as well. “Th-thank you,” she said, not arguing this time. Then, as if deciding something, she reached into her pocket and held something out to him.

Draco stared at it, unmoving. His wand.

“I’m choosing to trust you, Draco. Please don’t betray me.”

Draco.

His knees went weak at the sound of his name, but he hid it as best he could. She kept looking at him. He should have stepped forward, should have taken the wand from her hand.

Touch her, something inside him screamed. No. He couldn’t.

He reached out his fingers and brushed hers, just for a moment, before his hand closed around the hawthorn wood.

“Goodnight,” she said softly, disappearing behind the small tent that held everything they owned.

“Goodnight, Hermione.”

***

The light hit her eyes through the thin fabric of the tent. Hermione turned over, annoyed, before realizing the sun was already high. She sat up abruptly: her muscles no longer ached from exhaustion, and her mind felt clearer than it had in days. Still, a vague sense of guilt twisted in her stomach.

She quickly threw on her jacket and stepped outside. The morning air was warm, thick with the scent of damp grass and resin. The sun was well above the horizon, and golden light filtered strongly through the branches. It had to be late morning.

She found him exactly where she’d left him: leaning against the trunk of a tree, as rigid as stone. But he no longer looked pale and feverish like the day before. In fact, the color in his face was almost healthy.

“You should’ve woken me,” she said, walking closer. “I wasn’t supposed to sleep that long.”

Draco didn’t reply. He just stared at her, his eyes dark and fixed on her face, but without real clarity. It was weird:  she thought he was feeling better. But he looked ill again, in a different way today.

“Come on, go get some rest now. I’ll take over the watch.”

She stepped toward him, but he flinched and recoiled, as if the very air between them had shocked him.

“No. I won’t—” His voice cracked, hoarse and broken. That’s when Hermione noticed he was shaking.

“Are you still feeling sick?” she asked hesitantly.

“I need my potions,” he murmured, gaze distant. “It’s been too long since I’ve taken them.”

Hermione held her breath. “We’ll  get the ingredients as soon as we can apparate again.”

“No.” The word came out more like a growl than a reply. “I need them now. Today.”

She frowned. “Draco, the full moon is still far off—”

“It’s not the moon!” he snapped as he stood up,  and the air around them seemed to vibrate with the force of his voice. A chill ran down Hermione’s spine. A dozen questions burned on her tongue, begging to be asked, but she pushed them back for now, letting them torment her later.

“Fine. I’ll go to the village today and get what’s missing. There aren’t many ingredients, it’ll be quick.”

“I’ll go,” he said immediately, but the lie was obvious. The moment he spoke, he wavered on his feet.

Hermione stepped closer, locking eyes with him. “You clearly can’t.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “I’m coming anyway.”

“It’ll just make everything harder if—”

He cut her off. “This isn’t a negotiation, Granger.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. Back to Granger, was it? So the vague kindness he’d shown over the past few days had just been a side effect of his weakness. Now that he was more lucid, he was back to being Malfoy, more or less. But no longer Draco.

Still, judging by his current physical state, bringing him along was a terrible idea.  “I don’t think you’re in any condition to come with me. We’d only risk drawing attention.”

“It’s too dangerous for you to go alone.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open. “Are you joking? I’m perfectly capable of defending myself. And it’s not your job to protect me, Malfoy.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes were like sharpened blades, colder than before.

“I didn’t say it was my job,” he replied quietly, but with a hardness that left no room for argument. “I said you can’t go alone.”

“And I’m telling you it’s the most logical choice,” she shot back, crossing her arms. “If you really care about not being discovered, you shouldn’t come.”

“What if something happens to you while you’re there? What if you don’t come back?”
His voice cracked barely, but she noticed. It was like a fracture in the cold, smooth surface he’d been trying to maintain.

“Something has happened to me every day since this war began,” she replied, more gently now. “And I don’t think you’re in any shape to duel effectively at the moment.”

Draco looked down, fists clenched at his sides. For a moment, he seemed to wrestle with himself. Then he looked up at her, and there was something different in his gaze: not just anger.

“It’s not just for you,” he finally admitted. “It’s for me.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. He turned away, not letting her see his face.

“Don’t ask questions,” he said firmly. “I wouldn’t answer them anyway.”

Hermione now knew without a doubt that he was hiding something, but this wasn’t the time to push. She sighed.  “All right. But we move quickly and keep a low profile. And if you get worse, we go back immediately. Understood?”

He didn’t answer. His shoulders were trembling.

"Malfoy?," she said again, firmer this time. 

He lifted his head slightly, just enough to look at her. His eyes were glassy.

"I’m fine," he said hoarsely.

"You’re not."

"I can still walk."

Hermione clenched her jaw but didn’t argue further. She grabbed her bag and wand and wrapped herself in a long coat, pulling the hood low over her face. She didn’t want to be recognized in the village.

They walked in silence. The path was uneven. Hermione stole glances at him as they moved: he was sweating, pale, his breath short, but his steps didn’t falter.

She didn’t understand how he could even manage to walk, let alone stay upright. It was as if something inside him was burning, and sheer will alone was pushing him forward. He never looked at her, but she could feel his presence behind her, heavy and constant. Every time she tried to slow down, he matched her pace without complaint.

When they reached the outskirts of the village, Hermione turned to face him.

"You can’t come in like this." She turned to him, clutching her wand between her fingers. “I’ll just get closer for a second,” she murmured. “Don’t move.”

Draco frowned, confused. “What are you—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Hermione stepped closer, cautiously, her eyes fixed on his pale hair. Her heart was pounding in her chest, aware of the way he was watching her. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body when she stood just inches away, and wondered if his fever was back.

“Just a Disillusionment Charm,” she explained, without meeting his gaze. “For your hair. You’re too recognizable like this.”

She whispered the incantation and ran her wand gently over his head, watching the silvery strands fade beneath the effect of the spell. Then she took a step back. Draco looked down and pressed his lips together, as if something about the gesture had displeased him.

Hermione pretended not to notice. She cleared her throat.

“Alright. The ingredients are simple. Salamander glands, valerian root, powdered unicorn horn. Everything should be available at the market. And I still have enough Galleons to cover it.”

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but she raised a hand.  “From here on, I’ll go alone. You stay here, better if you keep to the shadows.”
She didn’t wait for his response as she cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself as well. A touch of blush to her cheeks, sleeker, darker hair, fuller lips. Within minutes, she was weaving through the market stalls: colors, scents, and voices blending together in the hot, heavy air. At one of the first stalls, a young vendor smiled at her from behind neat little piles of magical ingredients.

“What are you looking for, miss?” he asked, his grin wider than necessary.

Hermione replied with a slight hesitation, letting a small smile curve her lips. She listed the ingredients, listened closely, tilted her head just slightly when he offered the price.

“That seems a bit high,” she murmured, lowering her gaze with feigned shyness. “Especially for someone who doesn’t have much…”

The vendor chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “They’re rare ingredients.”

“Oh, I know.” Hermione looked down and bit her lower lip, hugging her arms across her chest. “And you seem to take such good care of them.”

“And what’s a pretty girl like you doing with these? Surely not brewing a love potion.”

Hermione’s stomach turned, but she played along. She forced a light, girlish laugh, reaching out to touch the vendor’s sweaty forearm.  “That would be lovely, really. But unfortunately, my mother is very ill, you see…”  She tucked a strand of sleek hair behind her ear, putting on the most sorrowful, wounded look she could muster.

“Alright,” he said at last, lowering his voice. “Just for this once, but don’t go telling anyone.”

Hermione bounced slightly on her feet, pretending to be thrilled and thanking him several times, stepping away once she’d secured the pouch tightly against her chest. She had only walked a few steps when she heard him call out behind her.

 “Miss, wait—”

She quickened her pace as much as was possible through the dense crowd.

“Miss, you never told me your name—”

She glanced back quickly, noticing that the man was almost upon her, pushing his way through the throng. A wave of panic surged in her chest. For a moment, she considered drawing her wand and attempting to apparate, even if it was risky in such a crowd, but then she suddenly felt someone grab her forearm.

She flinched, but she didn’t need to look to know it was Malfoy. His touch was literally burning against her skin, confirming her suspicion that he must have a high fever. His eyes didn’t meet hers, but his grip was firm, and his stride purposeful as he pulled her swiftly through the crowd, cutting a path with his frame until they had completely shaken the man off.

He kept hold of her arm until they reached the edge of the forest again, somewhere secluded enough that no one could hear them or see the Disillusionment Charms gradually fading from their bodies.

Hermione tried to speak, but her voice failed her.

He was burning. The heat radiating from his skin was unnatural.

"Have you lost your mind?" he snapped, his voice laced with barely restrained anger.  "What the hell was that performance?"

Hermione straightened, still breathless. "Excuse me?"

"That ridiculous act. The smile, the flirting, the hand on his arm… was that really necessary?"  He stepped toward her, eyes glinting with something sharp. "We had the Galleons. It’s not like I’m broke, in case you’ve forgotten."

"I know that perfectly well!" Hermione shot back, clenching her fists. "But I’m trying to save as much as we can. We don’t know what we might need later. And accessing Gringotts under your name isn’t exactly the safest option right now, don’t you think?"

"You didn’t have to act like a damn tease!" he exploded. "It was pointless!"

Hermione’s eyes widened, the words hitting deeper than she wanted to admit.  "What did you just say?"

"You heard me."

A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves.

Hermione slowly shook her head, her voice trembling with disbelief.  "I can’t believe you’re serious right now. You’re acting completely mental."

Draco didn’t answer immediately. His expression was no longer just anger, it was clouded with something heavier.  She couldn’t tell what it was anymore, and honestly, she was tired of trying to figure him out, of piecing together a puzzle without ever seeing the full picture.

"What’s going on with you?" she asked quietly.  "You’ve been on edge all morning, snapping at everything I do. If you need more time to heal, we can take it. There’s no point in—"

 "It’s not that," he cut her off, voice raised, jaw clenched.  His hands gripped the paper bag of potion ingredients between them, as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Then what is it?" she pressed. "Because I know you're hiding something, and at this point I think I deserve to know what it is."

"You’re better off letting it go."  His voice was lower now, rougher. It sounded like a warning.

"I can’t let it go" she said, her mouth suddenly dry.

 And the look in his eyes… It made her knees weak.  There was something strange in the air: she felt it in the way her heart raced whenever he got too close, in the way the air crackled with tension around them. Her magic stirred in her blood with a new, almost volatile energy. She felt… unstoppable.

Something was about to happen.

For a moment, guided by a force she wasn’t fully aware of, her gaze landed on his lips, right there in front of her eyes, and she wondered what would happen if she closed that distance.

The thought was violently pushed out of her mind when he turned and strode quickly toward the refuge, disappearing into the thick shadows of the trees.

 Hermione stood still for a few seconds: the electric charge from before vanished in an instant, leaving only cold shivers running down her spine.

"Malfoy!" she called, trying to follow him. "Malfoy, talk to me!"

But there was no answer. And when they reached the refuge again, he shut himself off in silence. He didn’t spare her a single glance for the rest of the evening.

The silence at the refuge had become another presence… constant and heavy, like the dampness soaking the air and their bones. Draco hadn’t spoken to her since they returned from the village, and Hermione wasn’t sure if she was more angry or worried. He had shut himself away in his corner, bent over the cauldrons, carefully simmering the potion with slow, precise movements, his face always turned away.

After dinner, Hermione rose silently and made her way among the trees. She didn’t really need to tell him that she was going to relieve herself. They hadn’t spoken for hours, and this wasn’t the moment or the subject to break the ice. She ventured deeper into the forest until she was far enough from the refuge, at a sheltered, quiet spot. The air was cooler there, and for a few seconds, she allowed herself to close her eyes and breathe in slowly. Just a few minutes to regain some clarity and tend to her needs.

When she returned, she immediately sensed something was wrong.

Draco was bent over her little bag, his body tense like a spring, his hands blindly rifling through the contents as if searching for something in a hurry. He was so focused that he hadn’t noticed her return.

Hermione stopped in her tracks.  “What are you doing?”

He spun around sharply, confirming he hadn’t heard her approach, guilt flickering in his eyes. 

“I was looking for an ingredient,” he said, avoiding her gaze.

“Which one?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Hermione stared at him, jaw clenched, as he returned to his potions as if nothing had happened. There was no mysterious ingredient in his hands, and she was sure she had already given him all the ingredients he may need.

The rest of the night went on exactly as it had started: in total silence, broken only by the sound of the bubbling cauldron and dry leaves crunching beneath their feet. Hermione waited patiently until he finished the potion, and then a few more hours for its effects to kick in, for him to seem a little more himself, as much as was possible. 

She needed to know when they would be able to start traveling again. She had decided they needed to go to Godric’s Hollow. They had no other leads, no other clues, and she hoped Harry and Ron had reached the same conclusion. She couldn’t stay still any longer.

 Draco was still pale and sweating, his hands trembling as he cleaned the empty vials. He didn’t even glance at her.

Hermione said nothing. She held herself back. The night had fully descended,and she watched him remain motionless for long minutes, his gaze fixed on nothing, as if he had forgotten where he was. He moved slowly, as if the weight of his own body had become too heavy to bear. She didn’t remember this extreme slowing down among the effects of the suppressive potions she had studied, nor had she ever seen him like this since their meeting in the forest weeks ago or the days at Shell Cottage.

She herself was starting to feel unwell. The itching had appeared mid-morning, at the nape of her neck, then along her arms. She was hot and cold in waves, and a strange restlessness pressed beneath her skin, as if something was wrong but she couldn’t figure out what. Every time she looked at Draco, she saw those symptoms reflected in his body: sweat on his forehead, trembling hands, unnatural tension in his shoulders.

A whole day had passed, a day she had wanted to travel and resume the mission, but instead she had been subdued by this physical malaise. 

After brewing and drinking the potion, Draco had been sitting against the same tree for hours. Not sleeping, not speaking, not eating. Only the irregular rise and fall of his chest showed he was still conscious.

Hermione approached him cautiously, her mouth dry and her voice hoarse.  “Do you think you’ll be able to Apparate?” she asked.

He didn’t look at her. He stared at an indistinct point among the branches.

“I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think we should go to Godric’s Hollow. If Harry and Ron are safe, they may have reached the same conclusion and be looking for information there.”

Draco nodded faintly. No questions.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“No.”

She inhaled, trying to control her growing agitation. “Alright. Then try to rest. I’ll keep watch.”

“No.” His voice was sharp, cutting. “I can’t lie down. And I wouldn’t sleep even if I tried, so you might as well sleep. You’d only disturb me by staying awake.”

Hermione stiffened. She wanted to say something, to tell him how much that tone hurt her, but something in his face, in the fatigue, in the tension that seemed ready to burst beneath his skin, stopped her. She nodded and without replying went back inside the tent.

But sleep seemed impossible. Her heart was pounding too fast, her hands trembling. She needed to switch off everything, at least for a few hours. She opened her bag and took one of the last vials of the sleeping potion. She removed the stopper, brought the vial to her lips, and swallowed a sip.

As soon as the liquid touched her tongue, she realized something was wrong. The taste was off: more bitter, thicker, with a metallic aftertaste she didn’t recognize.

With a start, she threw the vial away, and it fell to the ground, shattering. She stood up abruptly, staggering, breath short. She opened the tent flap to leave but bumped into a body.

Draco was there. Motionless. As if he had been waiting for her.

Darkness had fallen completely and the moon was only illuminating them in patches, coming and going behind heavy clouds. His eyes were deep pools, almost completely black. He didn’t seem human. Not entirely.

Hermione took a step back, breath caught. “Why?” she asked him. “What’s in the vial?”

“Did you take it?” he asked, completely ignoring her question. She saw his neck crane as if trying to peek inside the tent. She followed his gaze until it landed on the small shattered vial on the floor.

 “What did you do?” Hermione’s mouth was open, a mix of feelings she had never experienced before… anger, fury, and something strong and intense burning in her chest. “What was in that vial?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t already know.” His voice was different than usual. It was hoarse, hissed, threatening.

Hermione’s fury grew. She stomped her feet, pushing him hard on the chest with all the rage she could muster. He stepped back under her touch. “You tampered with my potion.”

“And why do you think I did that?” he said seriously.

“You have to tell me,” she shouted.

“If I had the courage, I would have already done it.”

Hermione brought her hands to her hair, looking around. The forest was eerily silent all around them, not even the sound of insects in the tree canopies could be heard anymore. The moon was hidden behind a passing cloud, and the faint silver glow filtering through was their only light.

“Why are you acting like this?” she yelled, pushing him again and again, until his back hit the large oak where he had spent the last hours. “Why?”

“I needed you to take the potion,” he said simply.

In a fit of frustration, Hermione raised her arms once more. She didn’t know if she wanted to push him some more or hit him. She wasn’t fully in control of herself. Draco grabbed her wrists, freezing it just inches from his chest, suspended. 

“What’s in the vial?” she asked, looking him in the eyes. She thought she understood, but needed to hear him say it. She had to hear the words from his mouth to fully grasp the absurdity of their situation. It couldn’t be possible.

“Suppressive potion.” He studied her carefully as he said it, furrowing his brow. Then he raised one, as if to say ‘You finally got it?’

 Hermione’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, but she said nothing.

“Someone’s done their homework, I’d say,” he finally commented. “So, I can’t heal from this torment, from this torture —” his grip on her wrist tightened, “— until you take the fucking potion too.”

“That can’t be,” Hermione shook her head, as images, dialogues, and everything that had happened in the past weeks replayed in her mind and suddenly made sense.

“It can, Granger,” he burst out, “trust me, it can.”

His hands against her skin grew progressively warmer. She started feeling heat all over, as if the space between their bodies was catching fire. Or maybe it was her: she was about to ignite.

“So I..” Hermione stammered. “And you, we, we are…”

“Mates”.

Hermione tried to take a step back, but he still held her by the forearm. Her foot slipped on the leaves, her knees gave way. He was quick: in a flash, without feeling any pain, Hermione found herself pinned against the dry, leaf-covered ground, his body over hers, a blanket far too warm and heavy. 

His chest was rising and falling rapidly against her stomach. Her gaze fell on his lips, drawn by a force she couldn’t control. She was tempted to close that distance, again.

A bitter grin stained his face, and his white teeth shone in the darkness of the night. “Fuck, I’ve feared and desired this moment so much,” he sighed.

Hermione didn’t understand.

 “I’m not alone in this suffering anymore. You felt it too. I saw it.” His head lowered toward her neck, and Hermione arched her back without hesitation, fully exposing her neck to him. His lips didn’t touch her, but his nose brushed against it, sending a shiver down her spine as he inhaled. “Salazar, your scent.”

Hermione felt blood pounding in her ears, and in parts of her body long neglected, aching for attention. She couldn’t think of anything but the weight of his body on hers, so pleasant now. She arched her back even more, and one of his legs slid between hers, applying the perfect pressure just where — “Oh,” she gasped.

Draco became rigid and hard as marble over her. “Fuck, you really should have taken that potion,” a shudder ran through his body. “Order me to stop. Tell me to back off and not touch you, and I swear I’ll try my best to comply.”

Hermione’s hands grasped his shirt, wrinkling it between her fingers. But she didn’t push him away. Instead, she pulled him closer and finally closed the distance between their lips. 

She didn’t even realize the exact moment her hips began moving in time with the friction. It was as if she could feel her body melting. Their kiss was messy, violent, and wet. Their tongues clashed, teeth bit into flesh, and Hermione’s back arched to get even closer to him in a way she never thought herself capable of. But that was all she needed now; there was no space in her mind for anything else.

She heard him whispering breathy phrases against her mouth, catching only fragments like “potion,” “we shouldn’t,” and “consequences.”

But his actions contradicted his words: his body pressed against hers, his hand slid down her back to her thigh, which she had lifted onto his hip. His kisses on her lips and neck were accompanied by rhythmic rubbing against her, a tension tightening like a knot about to snap.

“I’ll stop, Hermione,” she heard him say as his tongue traced her neck. She chased his mouth, then bit his lip, unaware of how hard. She tasted the iron flavor of blood on her tongue. The knot tightened even more.

“Please, Hermione, only you have the power to end this”

 Her “No,” was a strangled, breathy syllable against his mouth. “I need —” she gasped again. “Don’t stop. Please, Draco.”

A roar-like sound emerged from his chest, vibrating against her. Then he resumed his attack on her until Hermione felt the tension reach its peak. Her mouth opened in a stifled scream, and her hands clenched tightly around his biceps, her nails digging through the fabric into his skin. The orgasm overwhelmed her for seconds or minutes that felt like an eternity.

When she no longer felt shaken by the electric shocks, she slowly opened her eyes. The pleasant warmth that had enveloped her was gone, and she soon understood why: Draco was standing at the far end of the refuge, as far as possible from her while remaining inside the protective spell barrier. He was panting and staring at her intensely.

Hermione sat up but didn’t believe her knees would hold if she tried to stand, so she didn’t try immediately.

Her fingers raised to her lips, feeling them swollen and moist to the touch, and she saw the reflection of what had happened mirrored in his, which looked the same. She also noticed a purple bruise beginning to form on his neck. She blushed, mortified. God, what had they done?

Despite the shame, she couldn’t stop her eyes from traveling down his body until she saw the outline of his hard cock pressing against his pants. By Merlin.

“Get in the tent,” he told her curtly and quickly.

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it. What could she say?

“I need you to get in the tent, Herm — Granger.”

She stood up but didn’t try to hide. There was something she wanted to say, but the words seemed to escape her. Draco brought a hand to his jaw; his eyes roamed everywhere: on her legs, on her neck, on her lips.

 He turned and punched a tree trunk hard enough to leave his knuckles bloody. “I need you to understand what’s happening,” he said, leaning an arm against it for support. “Go, please. I can’t look at you like this, and after what just happened.”

“I didn’t — I didn’t want to-” Hermione said weakly.

His body shook as if he had been shocked or hit by an invisible bullet. “I know!” he shouted without looking at her. “Go, Please!”

Without another word, Hermione retreated into the small tent, then into her sleeping bag, her body still trembling with shivers. 

But unexpectedly, she slept.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke with a jolt, as if her body had suddenly remembered where she was. Her heart pounded in her chest, her mouth was dry. For a moment, she couldn't tell whether it had been a dream, a hallucination… or if it had really happened.

She moved slowly, unzipping the sleeping bag with trembling fingers. Every muscle ached, as if she'd fought or run for hours. Or maybe, she thought, it was just that knot in her chest that refused to loosen.

Pushing aside the flap of the tent, Hermione stepped out. Her legs still felt unsteady beneath her. The morning air bit at her exposed skin. It was cool, but not enough to chase away the lingering warmth that clung to her body. She took only two steps before freezing in place.

Draco had turned to look at her. He didn’t say anything. But that simple, silent gesture made her go cold.

His hair was still tousled, just as it had been when her fingers had threaded through it only hours before. Hermione dropped her gaze immediately, and when it fell on the purplish mark on his neck, she felt herself sink. God. She couldn’t even look at him.

He started gathering the scattered items around the shelter: vials, clothing, the crumpled map. His movements were sluggish, almost stumbling.

Hermione swallowed hard, her palms damp against the fabric of her trousers.

“We—we should talk about what happened,” she whispered. Her voice cracked.

He didn’t turn right away. He answered while folding a cloak with far too much care.

“I think we should go to Godric's Hollow.” His voice was flat. “We’ve lost enough time.”

Hermione studied him closely. His pupils were small, withdrawn. The skin around his eyes was dark, as if he hadn’t slept in days. His movements slow. His expression vacant. His steps uncertain.

He must have taken gallons of the potion.

She turned to look at the cauldron, which only yesterday had been bubbling quietly through the afternoon. Now it was nearly empty.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady the tremor in her throat, then cleared her voice.

“There’s still some left… of the potion, I hope?”

Draco froze. For the first time since she’d stepped out of the tent, he looked her in the eyes.

“You shouldn’t take it,” he said. And this time, there was something real in his voice. Pain, perhaps. Or regret. “I made a mistake. Yesterday. I wasn’t thinking straight. The pain was—”

He broke off abruptly. His jaw clenched, his gaze dropped, and his fists were tight at his sides. “But it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have tricked you into taking it.”

Hermione took a step closer. “I want to.”

He looked at her, his lips parting slightly, like the words had knocked the air from his lungs. His brows lifted just a little. Surprised. Genuinely, almost helplessly so. Finally, with slow, deliberate movements, he pulled a small vial from his pocket and handed it to her without a word. 

Hermione reached out just as carefully. Their fingers didn’t touch, but it felt as though they both held their breath, terrified that they might. The vial was cool against her skin. Hermione studied it for a second: thick, grey liquid with a faint pearly shimmer. Then she brought it to her lips and swallowed it in one determined gulp.

It took a few seconds. Then she exhaled: a long, thin breath, as her hand instinctively moved to the back of her neck.

No more burning. No more sweat. Her body felt like her own again. And when she lifted her gaze, she noticed Draco’s shoulders had lowered slightly too, as if the weight he’d carried for weeks had finally begun to ease.

Neither of them said anything for a long while. Then, as if by unspoken agreement, they began packing up what remained of the camp.

“So…” she said, without looking at him. “Godric’s Hollow.”

Draco nodded. “As soon as we’re ready.”

And with a sharp crack, as the morning light barely filtered through the trees, they began to Disapparate.

—

They landed with a muted thud, as if the icy air of the alley had stripped away the last trace of magic. Draco inhaled deeply, trying to stabilize the pressure in his ear, and in his thoughts. Beside him, Hermione did the same, one hand on her jacket pocket, the other pressed lightly over her heart.

Around them, the town was eerily quiet. Faint lights shimmered in the shop windows, but no one walked the streets. Signs swung gently in the wind, and behind lit windows, silhouettes moved slowly.

“Seems quiet,” she murmured.

Draco nodded, scanning both ends of the street, his fingers brushing the pocket where he kept his wand. Then he tilted his head toward her, as if silently asking which way to go. Hermione caught the look and gave a small nod to the left.

They set off.

Their steps echoed softly against the damp cobblestones. Draco watched the glowing windows: decorated trees, flickering candles, motion behind drawn curtains. People were living. The war felt distant. Hermione walked just ahead, her hair tousled by the wind, and for a moment Draco got lost in the way it moved against her back, the way the edge of her scarf brushed the hem of her coat.

Then she stopped.

She was staring through a large window: inside, a church glowed with warm light. Singing drifted out, a gentle choir of voices that rolled like waves. Hermione stood with her eyes fixed on the candlelight inside, her brow slightly furrowed, as if trying to remember something.

Draco stopped beside her silently. She was so absorbed that she didn’t notice him moving closer. And that was when he truly looked at her. The lights flickered across her flushed cheeks. A lock of hair fell across her face and she brushed it away slowly, distractedly. Her breath escaped in little clouds that dissolved into the freezing air.

“It’s Christmas,” she murmured, not turning around.

Draco swallowed. Her nose was red, her fingers curled around the sleeves of her coat for warmth. Then a gust of wind swept through. Hermione shivered, raising her shoulders and pulling her coat tighter.

Instinctively, Draco stepped forward. His arms lifted slightly, as if to embrace her, to shield her. His thumbs just grazed the fabric of her coat. Her scent filled his lungs.

He froze.

Hermione looked up at him. Her eyes met his… too close. They had gotten too close.

“Salazar,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her. He took a step back. A moment later, so did she, lowering her gaze.

Silence fell between them like a blanket. No questions. No words.

They turned at the same time and resumed walking in silence, hands buried deep in their pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. Every so often, it seemed like one of them might speak. Draco could hear the way Hermione drew in a deeper breath, like she was about to say something, but then nothing. She kept going. And he, heart pounding harder than it should, couldn’t find the words.

She was the first to see it.

The cemetery appeared after a bend in the road, sheltered behind a low black gate crusted with frost. Hermione reached it first, gently pushing the gate open with a soft creak. Draco hesitated for a moment, then followed her, glancing back down the street behind them. A shiver ran down his spine.

There was a flicker: barely a whisper in his ears. A tremor, nothing more. Had they crossed some enchantment? His instincts kicked in before he had a chance to stop them. Something might be threatening his ma— He bit his lip, scolding himself for the word that had nearly formed. Hermione. No. Granger, better. Something was threatening Granger. He could feel it in his bones, even if the street behind them was empty. No shadows. No sound. Just that voice in his head, one he chose to ignore. He was probably just being paranoid.

Still, as he stepped into the graveyard, his wand slid instinctively between his fingers.

Each step crunched softly on the frosted path beneath their boots. Hermione moved through the headstones like she was searching for something specific. Draco followed, focused more on the surroundings than on her, alert to any sound, any movement out of place.

Then her footsteps stopped.

Draco looked up. She stood before a grave. Slowly, he approached and read the names engraved on the stone:

James Potter
Lily Potter
October 31, 1981

“Harry’s parents,” she said quietly. Each word emerged in a small cloud of white breath. Draco realized his fists were clenched, not in anger, but in the strange desire to inhale that ghost of air she’d left behind.

“I wonder where they are now…” Hermione murmured, still staring at the gravestone. “Harry and Ron. If they’ve already been here… or if they haven’t thought of it yet. I just… I feel like there’s something here.”

“I’d say you were probably their main, if only, source of ideas,” Draco said before he could stop himself. His tone was softer than he expected, stripped of the usual sarcasm that tended to lace his words.

Hermione slowly turned her head. She looked at him. And smiled.

Draco felt something warm surge in his chest. There was something about the way her cheeks lifted, the way her lips curled. It felt good to make her smile.

But then it returned, that feeling. Sharper now. Like a buzz beneath his skin. Danger.

“We should keep moving,” he said abruptly. “It’s not safe to stay here.”

She nodded, and they set off again.

The silence between them had shifted. It felt lighter, like something had loosened. As their footsteps alternated on the damp path, Draco finally found the courage.

“I’m sorry about last night.” He said it without looking at her, eyes fixed on the frozen trail ahead.

Hermione stiffened, then blushed. He saw it from the corner of his eye.
“It wasn’t just your fault,” she replied carefully. “I wasn’t exactly… in control either. I don’t know what came over me.” She paused, biting her lip. “It’s a strange feeling. Like… something’s pulling me from the inside.”

“You’re not alone,” he murmured with a sigh.

Hermione stopped. She turned to him, her expression serious.  “There’s something I don’t understand.” Her brows furrowed. Draco listened closely, hanging on her every word.
“Why me? I know it wasn’t your choice, that you couldn’t control it, but… why?”

Draco swallowed. “How much do you know about how this works?”

“Not much,” she admitted. “It was barely mentioned in our third-year books. If I had access to a proper library, if I were at Hogwarts…”

“I did some research,” he said quietly, interrupting her. “At the Manor’s library.”

Her eyes lit up. “You did?” The look she always got when she was deep in a book lit up her face, and it captivated him. “And what did you find?”

Draco drew a breath, his mouth suddenly dry. “At first, I thought it was some kind of cruel joke, when I found you and I realized it was you. But the more I read, the more it made sense.”

Hermione’s eyes widened.

“You’re the brightest witch of our age. The strongest. You have the sharpest mind I’ve ever known. You’re… stubborn, curious, strategic.” He paused, fists clenched. “It’s actually quite clear why I should be attracted to you, mentally .”

He avoided mentioning the physical aspect of all this, even though his mind kept replaying the images from last night, how good she had felt under him, how fast she had come from his  thigh only. His fingers curled into fists. He struggled not to think of all the other ways he could make her come. 

But Hermione was looking at him. And her eyes moved slowly from his face, down to his body and back up again. Like she understood.

Draco coughed, looked away, and started to walk again.

“But all of that,” Hermione said behind him, “doesn’t explain our history. The… blood difference.”

Draco let out a dry, bitter noise. “If such a pure and primal magic doesn’t care about that, then good. It proves how ridiculous those theories are. My family built an entire belief system… on nothing.”

He turned to her.

“They’re ashamed of me, you know. They tried to hide my transformation to the world. Because now, to them, my blood is dirty.”

Hermione looked at him, her brows slightly lifted, her lips parted in a flicker of empathy.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I’m not. Not at all. If anything, I’m grateful. What happened opened my eyes.” 

A few more steps passed in silence, until something seemed to pull both their gazes at once.

The house.

Once grand, now gutted. Its roof collapsed, walls scorched. Abandoned. Still. As if it held memories that didn’t want to be disturbed.

They both stopped. What remained of the house was a mosaic of crumbling bricks, charred beams, and dust-covered ghosts. The air was still, but Draco felt it, a subtle pressure along his ribs, like magic itself was holding its breath.

Hermione stood silently beside him, her face tense. Her eyes scanned the shattered windows, the rusted gate that swayed faintly in the wind. Draco turned to check the alleys, the nearby homes. No movement. But the feeling remained.

“I don’t know if going in is a good idea,” he said under his breath, eyes still on the dark archway of the door.

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were fixed on the ruins, as if she were searching for something only she could see.

“We might find answers here,” she finally murmured. “This is where it all began. If there’s any place the truth might be hidden... it’s this one.”

Draco clenched his jaw. Part of him wanted to grab her by the arm and pull her away, but there was another, more insistent, part of him who would follow her straight to hell if she only asked. “All right.”

Hermione stepped forward, but he caught her wrist. She turned, startled, and Draco met her gaze.

“Let me go first.”

“Draco—”

“Please.” His voice was low, rough. Not a tactical request, a need.

She understood and after a moment, she nodded.

Draco turned without another word, his heart pounding too fast for the calm he tried to project. He stepped through the gate, wand gripped tightly in his right hand, muscles tense. Behind him, he heard Hermione follow. 

Something in that house was waiting for them.

The door opened with a slow, sinister creak. The scent of damp wood and ancient dust hit them first, alongside something subtler. A sweet, rotting odor that made Draco’s brow furrow.

Hermione trailed just behind him, alert. They didn’t speak, but moved as if they did; a glance, a slight shift of the shoulder was enough. The hallway was narrow, with peeling wallpaper and fallen frames. Draco advanced with his wand raised, breath steady and controlled.

Then, a sudden sensation. A twitch beneath the skin. A pulse that wasn’t his own. He spun around.

Hermione was still there. She seemed to have felt it too.

Then a sound.

A dragging footstep. Then another.

Draco raised his wand. A figure emerged at the far end of the corridor, floating in shadow. An old woman, hunched, a tattered shawl over her shoulders, her eyes glazed.

“Bathilda Bagshot?” Hermione asked, her voice more uncertain than usual.

The woman didn’t reply. She only raised a slow hand, gesturing for them to follow.

Draco felt every instinct inside him scream. This wasn’t right.

He shifted slightly, stepping between Hermione and the figure. “Something’s wrong,” he murmured, so softly it could’ve passed as breath.

Still, Hermione took a step forward. “Wait! We just want to ask a few questions—”

The woman turned without a word and started up the stairs. Hermione followed.

“Damn it, Granger…” Draco hissed, moving after her.

They climbed slowly. Each stair creaked underfoot, and the silence was so dense that even breathing felt too loud. At the top, the woman flung open a door and disappeared inside.

Hermione froze. Draco extended an arm in front of her, blocking her.

“You feel that?” she whispered this time, no explanation needed.

Draco nodded.

Then stepped into the room.

It was dark. The smell of decay clung to the air. It was a dusty room, cluttered with piles of books and scattered papers. On the dresser, beneath a cracked glass dome, lay an old, yellowed photograph.

Hermione stepped closer, drawn by an instinctive urge. She carefully lifted the dome, brushed the dust from the glass, and peered at it more closely.

“Draco… look.”

He moved closer, peering at the photograph over her shoulder. It showed two very young boys: one was Albus Dumbledore, the other… He had a piercing, magnetic gaze.

“Grindelwald?” Hermione whispered. “It must be him.”

With a swift movement, she took the photo and slipped it into her bag.

“No, no, no…” whispered the old woman. “You shouldn’t have done that”. She turned sharply toward them. Her eyes were no longer human.

“Get back!” Draco shouted, pushing Hermione behind him.

But it was already too late.

The woman’s body twisted, like something was ripping through it from the inside. Bones cracked with sickening snaps, skin tore along blackened lines. A piercing hiss filled the room.

Nagini.

The massive, glistening creature erupted from the collapsing corpse, launching toward them with inhuman speed.

Draco reacted on instinct. A blast shot from his wand, bringing down part of the ceiling. Hermione’s Confringo spell missed the serpent’s head by inches, exploding near the wall and forcing them apart.

“Hermione!” Draco shouted into the chaos.

She dove behind a piece of broken furniture as Nagini coiled, readying to strike again.

Draco pushed himself up, heart hammering like a drumbeat. The bond had activated, he felt it. The primal need to protect her had become a physical force inside him.

He moved toward her.

Nagini saw him and struck.

The serpent launched itself with terrifying force. Draco lifted his wand just in time and roared, “Protego Maxima!”

The shield burst to life before him, but the impact was brutal. He was thrown backward, crashing into a wall that buckled and gave way. A sharp pain lanced through his side. His wand nearly slipped from his grasp.

Nagini slithered through the wreckage, her eyes locked on him.

Draco got back to his feet, staggering. The pain in his ribs was sharp,but he could handle it.

An instant later, Nagini prepared to strike again, her jaws wide, venom glistening. He tried to collect his strength for the next blow, but his reflexes were slow after the hit. His mind was spinning, and the snake was moving faster than his thoughts.

A golden explosion blinded him.

Hermione had jumped onto the shattered table, shielding him with her body, her hand tightly gripping the wand.

“Incendio ignis serpentalis!”

Flames burst around the serpent in a tight circle. Nagini shrieked, writhing in the magical fire that burned without consuming, trapping her in place.

“Now!” Hermione shouted, locking eyes with him.

Draco didn’t hesitate. He ran to her, grabbed her arm, and Disapparated just as the fire flickered out and the serpent’s rage surged forward.

The forest greeted them with a hard thud.

Draco’s knees buckled slightly, but he didn’t release Hermione’s arm until he was sure they were alone.

Only trees. Darkness. Damp earth.

He took a deep breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead, pain pulsing through his ribs. Hermione was pale, shaken  but standing.

She was looking at him, eyes still wide with adrenaline.

“You—” The words caught in his throat. He swallowed. “You just saved my life, Granger.”

She lowered her wand, though she kept it close. “Just returning the favor.”

Draco stared at her for a long moment. His breathing was slowing, but the pulse of the bond still buzzed, alive and electric, between them. He saw something in her gaze: something he recognized. Something that mirrored what was inside him.

It had been instinct. She hadn’t thought: he’d been in danger and she’d acted. Magic had surged through her, wild and protective.

He wanted to ask her how it was for her, what it had been like, what she felt now, but the words didn’t come.

He turned, scanning the treeline. “We’ll set up camp here. Just for tonight.” He moved forward.

Hermione nodded, stepping in behind him to help with the tent spell.

As they worked, Draco’s mind kept drifting back to the look she’d given him, right before she’d summoned the fire.

There had been something powerful in it. And that spell… he had never heard it before. 

The wards were up, at least the essential ones. Draco had collapsed just inside the tent, side aching, breath short but steady. Hermione was crouched on her sleeping bag, her face pale and lined with exhaustion.

The silence thickened, quieter, warmer. The kind that settles after brushing against death.

Then, in a hoarse, dreamy voice, she said:

“This bond… it can be undone, can it?”

Draco felt his stomach twist. He stayed quiet for a moment, searching for the right words. He had a flashback: Hermione, last night, retracting to the tent. The shame and regret on her face as she repeated ‘i didn't want it’.

“Probably,” he lied. “I haven’t had the chance to look into it properly. I tried… but even the Manor’s library wasn’t enough. There are some runes, and some ancient potions, it's… complicated”. He hoped he sounded convincing.

Hermione opened one eye, faint, like she was hearing him through fog.

“There’s little research on it,” he continued. 

A small yawn escaped her. She curled up tighter.

“Do you think it has ever happened before? A bond that wasn’t… welcome?”

Draco turned slightly toward her, his brow drawn. “Probably.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his ribs as he moved. He noticed her wince at that same time. “You feel it too, don’t you? This ache on your side?” he asked hesitantly.

Without fully opening her eyes, Hermione nodded.

Draco cursed under his breath. He’d feared this moment. Their sensations were now shared: what one felt, the other did too. His pain had reached her. And he hated himself for it.

“After last night-” she asked quietly. “Has the bond… strengthened?”

 “I honestly don’t know,” he said truthfully. Then, in a softer tone, “Do you think there could be something… in the Hogwarts library?”

Hermione didn’t respond right away. She opened her eyes slowly, staring at the ceiling of the tent. “I don’t know. But… we have to try. I'm sure we'll find a way out of this.”

Out.

Draco felt the word hit him deep in the throat. He swallowed.

“Right,” he said. “We’ll try.”

She turned in her sleeping bag, giving him her back.

Her voice was barely a whisper now.

“But for now… we should focus on the war. I don’t think we’ll be finding Harry and Ron any time soon.”

Draco didn’t answer. He just listened.

“The Cup…” she murmured.

Draco pushed himself up slightly.  “What?”

“We have to destroy it. But… I need to explain everything. The whole story. All the secrets. Everything.”

A long silence followed.

Then Draco said quietly,  “Tomorrow. For now… sleep.”

Hermione closed her eyes, already drifting between wakefulness and sleep.

“Tomorrow, then…” she murmured.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke up with a sharp pain in her side. A dull ache, pressing against her ribs, worsening with movement. Yet she couldn’t remember any impact during their escape from Godric’s Hollow. She sat up slowly, still dazed by the events of the previous night. The memory of the snake, the frantic flight, the photo hidden deep in her bag.

Draco was lying on the opposite side of the tent, and now his scent filled the air all around her. They had never shared this small space at the same time, despite the days spent on the run. Yesterday had been an exception, they had both been shaken and exhausted. From the way he moved, she could tell he wasn’t asleep.

Slowly, he sat up.

The wrinkled, torn shirt he was wearing lifted as he stretched his stiff muscles. It was just a moment, but Hermione saw it. A bruise. Dark, wide, spreading across his left side.

She held her breath. Another stab of pain, on her own side... and yet, she hadn’t moved. There was no bruise on her body. The thought made her pulse quicken. What did it mean? Just how deep did this bond between them go? What would it really entail, if they had begun to share even physical pain?

She forced herself to push those questions away. At least for now.

“Last night,” Draco said, breaking the silence as he reached for his jacket, “you said you’d finally... tell me everything. The whole truth. What did you mean?”

Hermione stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

She had him sit beside her, and began to speak. She told him about the Horcruxes: the diary, the ring, the locket. About the day Dumbledore returned with a burnt hand. About why he had sent them off with Harry without any explanation. The secret mission, the blind trust they had been forced to place in him, even after his death.

She spoke for a long time, calmly, holding nothing back. And he listened in silence, his hands clasped between his knees, his expression serious.

When she finished, silence spread between them like a heavy blanket.

“Grindelwald,” Draco murmured at last.

Hermione offered a tired smile. “Dumbledore had his secrets. More than we thought.”

“According to Skeeter, he was obsessed with power... with the Deathly Hallows, even.” Draco’s tone was skeptical, but not entirely sarcastic.

“He was,” she admitted, “at least when he was young. And if the Hallows are real... then you know who’s after them.”

Draco studied her, thoughtful. “’You know who is obsessed with immortality. If he got the Hallows, he’d become the master of death.”

A shiver ran down Hermione’s spine. “Dumbledore’s wand...”

“And you really think that wand...” he paused, then looked up at her, “is the Elder Wand?”

“It’s what Voldemort believes. And that’s what makes it dangerous.”

Another moment of silence passed, broken only by the crackling fire.

“If he took it from the tomb, he might already have it...” Draco murmured.

Hermione ran a hand through her hair, nervous. “Yes. But it’s not enough to possess it. He has to win it.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. His expression grew pensive, then tense, as if he’d suddenly realized something crucial. “He’ll think the true master of the wand...”

Hermione tensed. “Severus,” she whispered. “He’s the one who killed Dumbledore.”

Draco stayed silent for a few seconds, lips pressed into a thin line. Then he spoke. “No,” he said, voice a hiss. “I... I disarmed Dumbledore first.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open. Instinctively, she leaned closer. “So the wand... the wand belongs to you. But he doesn’t know that. This gives us an advantage.”

Draco didn’t interrupt, but shifted backward a few inches. Only then did Hermione realize how close she’d moved toward him. She lowered her gaze, embarrassed, and took a few steps back, returning to her original spot.

“No,” he said again, more seriously this time. “You disarmed me. In the forest.”

Hermione had completely forgotten. She’d tried so hard not to think about that night in the forest that she had blocked out even that detail. So the Elder Wand... did it belong to her?  Draco must have seen the confusion, the hesitation on her face, because he spoke up.

“The wand is yours,” he said quietly. “But maybe...”

“Maybe?” Hermione pressed, but it was as if he couldn’t quite find the words.

“I don’t know.” Draco shook his head. “I had the impression, but there’s no way to prove it. It might mean nothing—”

“Our magic,” she realized. “It’s... connected. You used my wand at Gringotts for an Unforgivable Curse. It wouldn’t have worked if it didn’t fully respond to you.”

“No, it wouldn’t have,” he confirmed, finally meeting her eyes.

“So the wand...” Hermione took a breath, steadied herself, and said it. “It’s ours. Is that what you’re saying?”

“It’s just a theory. But maybe it responds to both of us now.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, wishing once again she had access to books or any source of information that could help her understand more. But there was no point dwelling on it now. They had to work with what little they had.

“Either way, he’ll soon realize the wand doesn’t obey him completely... and when that happens, he’ll come looking for us.”

“He’ll kill Severus first,” Draco said, his tone cold. But Hermione could swear she saw a flicker of resentment in his expression.

She ignored the sharp ache in her chest. Snape had betrayed them. He had killed Dumbledore.

“That will buy us time,” she said. “But when he realizes the wand isn’t loyal to him... you’ll be next.”

“Lucky for me,” Draco said, a faint, sarcastic smile curving the left corner of his mouth, “the Elder Wand’s on my side.”

Hermione couldn’t help the sound that escaped her: half a laugh, releasing some of the tension that had gathered in her shoulders. Draco moved to stand, and she followed, ignoring the sharp pain in her side.

“It’s an advantage,” she said at last, with a sigh.

“I think so too,” Draco replied. “In a direct confrontation, we might even be able to defeat him... together.”

The weight of that last word hung between them, heavy and unresolved.

Hermione cleared her throat in a fake cough. “Should we test the wand theory?”

“What do you mean?”

“You used mine, and it worked. Maybe if I try yours for something significant...”

Without hesitation, Draco pulled his wand from his pocket and held it out to her. Hermione took it carefully, making sure their fingers didn’t touch. Then she studied it: the roughness of the wood against her skin, the weight in her hand. She didn’t feel anything special.
She searched for a spell to try, but drew a blank.

“What is it?” he asked.

Hermione bit her lip. “Can you conjure a Patronus?” 

The question seemed to take him by surprise. She rushed to explain. “Since we split from Harry and Ron, I thought it’d be the easiest way to reach them. But... I haven’t been able to cast one since the incident.”

She glanced at her forearm, knowing he understood exactly what she was referring to.

“I never managed it,” he sighed. “And I haven’t tried again since Hogwarts.”

Hermione looked at him for a moment. She wanted to ask why, but something in his expression told her not to. There was a subtle tension there, a thread of shame just beneath the surface.

Then, slowly, Draco sat back down. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Hermione held her own breath, as if any sound might shatter the fragile moment. His eyelids twitched slightly. His face tensed in visible effort.

He was searching for a happy memory. A real one.

His breathing grew deeper, slower. When he opened his eyes again, Hermione flinched: his pupils were black as ink, dilated so wide they swallowed the irises. A thin silver thread of light escaped from the tip of the wand, swirling in the air before him.

But it didn’t take shape. It vanished in the next instant, like mist in the sun.

Draco lowered the wand, jaw clenched. “Sorry,” he muttered, without looking at her.

Hermione tried to find the right words, but all she managed was, “It’s okay.”

He glanced up, just barely. “Do you want to try?”

“No,” she said immediately, too quickly. She felt herself blush, but didn’t add anything. She just shrugged, as if trying to shake off the fear. 

“So the Horcruxes are our only lead. But we can’t destroy them, right?” Draco asked, his voice cold again. Grounded.

Hermione looked at him and let out a slow breath. “It’s complicated.”

“We don’t have Gryffindor’s sword,” he said, as if reading her mind. “We don’t even know where it is.”

“No. And looking for it now would be madness.”

Draco nodded slowly. He seemed to agree. Hermione stood, still holding his wand. She walked over and handed it back carefully. He took it without a word.

“There’s only one other possibility,” she said at last. “Dumbledore’s tomb.”

Draco looked at her, startled. “The tomb?”

“The wand was buried with him. You know who may have already taken it... but if he hasn’t, if he hasn’t destroyed everything... it’s a thin lead, but it’s all we’ve got.”

Draco stayed quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Then that’s where we need to go.”

Hermione didn’t answer. Silence settled over them again, familiar and fragile, like a truce.

***

Evening had fallen quickly.

The silence between them had grown almost natural, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the soft clinking of utensils as Hermione prepared a meal from what little they had left. A sparse dinner,  more symbolic than useful, but it warmed the stomach and kept her hands busy. Draco ate quietly, staring into the bottom of his bowl, while every fiber of his body felt heavier, tighter. The muscles in his shoulders were taut, like over-wound strings. His breath caught at times, quickened without any apparent reason. He knew. He could feel it clearly.

The potion was wearing off.

He tried to ignore it, to pretend it was just exhaustion, but his body never lied. And this time, the pull, that dull instinct, that need burning just beneath the skin, was closer to the surface than he cared to admit.

When they finished, Hermione began tidying up with her usual precise movements. Draco stood, brushing off his hands.

“I’ll take the  first watch.” He said it without looking at her.

She nodded but didn’t move. Then, as if she had read his mind, she bent toward her beaded bag. She rummaged longer than necessary, until she pulled out a tiny glass vial, its surface dull with age.

Draco stiffened. The last one. He recognized it immediately, and the mere thought of it made his nerves flare. He knew the ingredients were gone. That they wouldn't be able to brew any more. That starting tomorrow, he’d be without protection.

Hermione held it between her fingers, hesitating, then looked up just as he opened his mouth to say something.

“You first,” he said before she could speak. He tried to sound calm. Detached.

 He forced himself not to look at her: not at her neck as she swallowed, not at her lips as they closed around the glass. He fought to ignore the image of her mouth touching the vial in the exact spot where his would soon be. A shiver ran down his spine... and before he could stop it, blood rushed to his cock, which began to harden. He hated it. Hated all of it. His fists clenched. That surge, the one rising like a wave against a cracked dam, was getting stronger.

Hermione quietly recapped the vial and placed it on the stump between them.

“Do you think half will be enough?” she asked, her voice low.

“What other choice do we have?” he snapped, too quickly, too sharply. Then he shook his head and leaned forward, almost angrily. He grabbed the vial and downed it in a single gulp. The glass trembled slightly in his grip.

He waited for the relief, that rush of coolness that usually came right away as the liquid slid down his throat. But it didn’t come. Just a faint tingle and nothing else. The heat on his skin didn’t ease. If anything, it intensified, fueled now by the persistent ache in his cock, which pressed uncomfortably against his trousers.

It was ridiculous. Just imagining her lips on that vial had done this to him. And yet...

He couldn’t even tell anymore where the bond ended and he began. He looked at her, truly looked. This attraction... Where did it really come from? He thought about it, unaware of how much time passed. Tried to recall how he used to feel about her before all this.

 Resentment. Maybe even hatred, when she beat him to every spell or lesson. Envy, for her perfect results, her wandwork that succeeded on the first try. Anger, for the idiotic beliefs he'd been fed. Jealousy, too, when she pined for that idiot Weasley, not realizing how beneath her he was.

That thought jolted him back to a precise memory. He remembered it clearly, their sixth year, Weasley’s brief fling with Lavender Brown. And how baffled he’d been that he hadn’t chosen Hermione instead. She was... infinitely brighter. And, yes, much more beautiful. He’d thought that even then. Someone like Weasley, who didn’t care about blood status, had to be a complete idiot to not want her.

Suddenly, he let out a bitter laugh, and realized Hermione was staring at him in confusion. He had been attracted to her even back then. But he’d never had the courage to admit it, not even to himself. And now that feeling had exploded into something a thousand times stronger, burning through his skin.

He stood abruptly. The heat radiating from the fire was unbearable now.

Hermione rose on instinct. “Where are you going?”

He turned toward the shadows at the edge of the clearing, where the forest swallowed the light. He could smell the night: the damp leaves, the dying embers. There had to be a lake somewhere. Or a stream. Even a puddle would do, as long as it was cold. He needed something to put out the fire in his veins.

 He didn’t dare look at her. He was turned away, focusing on the rustling of leaves, the fading sparks. But it was useless. He could still feel her. Every breath. Every shift of her weight.

Hermione said nothing at first, but he knew she sensed the shift in the air, like a current changing direction. A breath too long. A step closer.

When she spoke, her voice was low, almost hesitant. “Something’s wrong.”

Draco closed his eyes. His nails dug into his clenched palms. He didn’t respond.

“Draco.” Her breath was heavier now. She had taken off her heavy coat, standing there in just a wool jumper, too loose, baring the skin of her neck and collarbones. “What’s happening to you?”

She was burning, too.

 “You know damn well what it is,” he hissed.

He started toward the woods, where he thought the water might be.

Hermione’s voice caught him. “Where are you going?”

“To deal with this in my own way. You’re free to find yours, but don’t follow me, please, Granger.”

 The look on her face made him feel like he’d slapped her. But he didn’t back down. If she followed, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. His cock was hardening more with every second in her presence, his heightened senses catching the unmistakable scent of her arousal.

“And running away will fix it?” she snapped behind him.

“Not at all,” he said. “But I don’t see any other options. Unless you have something better—”

“I...”

When she didn’t finish, Draco kept walking.

“What if, instead of fighting it... we accepted it? The bond. This thing. Us. What if it made us stronger? What if we could use it to destroy him. To defeat him.”

He froze. His heart stopped for a beat, then resumed at a frantic pace, as if it wanted to tear out of his chest. Slowly, he turned to face her. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” she said quickly, pupils wide, a flush spreading across her skin.

“I mean it,” she insisted, voice steady despite the quick thrum of her heart, that he could feel reflected in his own. “Think about it. Your magic... it’s stronger. Faster. More precise. So is mine. I can feel it under my skin, in my chest. I recognize it now” When he didn’t answer, she pressed on. “If we also find the wand... we could actually beat him.”

Draco stared at her, begging his body not to betray him, to send at least a little blood back to his brain. He needed to think, because she clearly wasn’t. But her words had short-circuited the few functioning thoughts he had left. His blood roared in his ears. It felt like every word Hermione spoke dropped into him like a stone in a stormy lake.

She stepped closer. Her face tense, but not uncertain.

“This power... it’s not just attraction. Since it started, you’ve become more than you were. I’ve seen it.”

Her words cut into him like glass. Voldemort. The bond. Their combined strength. It was all wrong... and yet, it made sense. Of course. Leave it to Hermione Granger to think of using something this ancient, pure and overwhelming... as a weapon.

The air between them felt charged. The heat pressed against his skin like a firestorm. But the worst was the smell. Not smoke, not night air. Her. Hermione. Pure, distilled desire that saturated the air and drove him mad.

Draco moved. One step. Then another. Until he was in front of her.

He looked into her eyes, and his smile was a fragile kind of surrender.

“Hermione Granger... always so pragmatic. Able to turn anything to her advantage.”

She didn’t answer. But her eyes flicked to his lips, slow, unintentional, and the desire surged, sharper now, more dangerous.

The bond, the magic, it was pushing him. But part of him was angry. He knew this would be a point of no return for him, all the books be damned, while for her it was just a transaction. He was damning himself to a life of pain, of longing. But if she asked...

He raised a hand. Gently, he placed it behind her neck, fingers threading into her soft hair, and pulled her closer. Their bodies touched, then pressed together. Hermione’s breath caught.

He let her feel it.  The hard line of his cock, pressed against her belly.

“You know this could be irreversible,” Draco whispered, his lips brushing against hers.

Hermione swallowed. Her eyes never left his.

“If we defeat him, we can research. Potions. Spells.” A pause.  “We’ll find a way.”

“And if nothing works?” he asked, his voice rough and low.

Hermione drew in a slow breath, stammering on her words. “We’ll think about it once the war is over. If we even survive it.”

Draco nodded. Slowly. He inhaled too, and the scent of her skin, her desire, burst through his senses.

He knew there was no turning back, but he couldn’t find within himself the will to tell her. His body and mind were too far gone for what was about to happen. Voldemort himself couldn’t stop him just now. 

He pressed his forehead against hers, breathing in the air that left her mouth. Neither of them closed that final distance.

“I need it to be clear,” he said. His voice came out rough, panting, brushing against her lips. “I may lose control. I might not be able to stop...” As if to prove it, his hand tightened behind her neck, applying pressure. “You can’t back off from this”. 

“We need this” she repeated, though her conviction waveread.  Her pupils were blown wide. “I accept the consequences.”

“Good,” Draco whispered.  “But I need to hear it clearly... Do you know how the bond is fully activated?”

Hermione gave a small shake of her head: a silent, almost childlike denial. 

“You’re a clever girl, Granger. Maybe you haven’t read it in a book, but try a little deduction.”

She stared at him. Something flickered across her face. A chill. A flash of fear. Then, she grew serious.

“I understand,” she said.  

“I need to hear you say it,” he whispered. Out loud. I need you to ask me.”

Slowly, she rose onto her toes, closing that last sliver of space between them. She looked into his eyes. Her voice was firm. Inevitable.

“Do it, Draco. Take me.”

A fire ignited in his veins. Still, he tried to hold back, to let it burn slowly, all-consuming but measured. “How?”

A flicker of confusion crossed her expression... or maybe doubt.  Hermione swallowed.
“I-I...” she faltered.  “I don’t know.”

"I’ll try to be clearer," he said, and his hand slid from the nape of her neck down into her curls, wrapping her unruly hair into his fist. He tilted her head back not too gently, forcing her to meet his eyes, placing himself in the center of her vision, blocking even the star-filled sky above.  "How do you want to do this, Hermione? I need to know now... before I lose control."

"Just do it," she panted. "Just the way you want it, Draco."

A growl rumbled in his chest. That was all the invitation he needed.

He wasn’t fully himself anymore. He felt his magic roar, the beast come forth. In one swift move, he slid a leg between hers, making her lose balance. When her knees gave out, he caught her and brought her down with him onto the soft forest floor, cushioned by a bed of dried leaves.

"I hope you know what you asked for," he panted against her lips, his tongue clashing with hers, claiming her mouth, taking everything that belonged to him. 

But she didn’t lie still. Draco could feel her hands exploring his back, then his chest, slipping under layers of fabric until they found bare skin. Her fingers were cold against the fire of his body, but instead of quenching it, the touch only threw more fuel on the flames. His mouth broke away from hers, already aching for the loss, and in one swift motion, he tore off his sweater and the shirt beneath it.

With his chest bare, he dove back to her. His lips caught the pleased sigh that escaped her mouth as his hands found her soft, warm skin. He settled between her legs, pressing his cock against her... the heat of it seeping through the maddening layers still between them. 

"I’m taking your clothes off now, Hermione. I need to feel you."

"Do it," she gasped, and Draco was grateful, because if she’d said no, he wasn’t sure he would’ve had the strength to stop.

His hands went everywhere, and he was startled to find they were trembling, even though he didn’t feel it. Maybe... maybe his whole body was shaking. The only thing he could truly feel was his heart, pounding violently, ready to tear out of his chest, probably to join hers.

He gripped her sweater and pulled it off. Then the shirt, he tugged it up and over her head. When she reemerged, her thin T-shirt discarded among the dried leaves, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining with a glossy veil. Only a small sports bra now separated him from her breasts, but that didn’t stop him. The urgency was too great. 

His lips landed at the center of her chest, savoring every inch of newly exposed skin, white and smooth. He inhaled deeply, burying his face in her scent... then tasted her. Lips, tongue, teeth, trying to take in as much as he could. He moved lower. Exposed one breast. His breath caught in his throat for a moment. His cock ached so hard it hurt, and he pressed it against her, rubbing, trying to ease the pressure building inside him, threatening to snap.

But he didn’t want that... he didn’t want it to end too fast. He had no idea when, or if, this would happen again. He wanted to feel every second of it, to stretch it out, to savor it. The thought gave him a flicker of clarity in the firestorm of his mind.

It was happening. It was truly happening. But he wanted to be the one to feel it, he realized. He fought to hold back the beast, to breathe deeply. His heart slowed... just a bit.

"I want to taste you now."

Without waiting for a reply, he brought his mouth to her breast. Took her nipple between his lips, let his tongue swirl around it. A breathy sigh escaped her... then a moan. He moved to the other, repeating the motion, focused only on her taste, her sounds, ignoring the burning urgency in his pants, the beast howling for more, to take... to take everything.

Maybe he, Draco, wanted it even more than the wolf did now.

With great effort, when Hermione was gasping and melting under him, he left her breasts and moved downward. He followed the path of her stomach with his mouth, kissing every inch of skin until he reached the button of her jeans. Her hands had found his hair, tangling in it, pulling gently.

"Please..." she moaned, half whimper, half plea, when his hand gripped the button of her pants.

A groan ripped through him. He surged forward, covering her mouth with one hand. He pressed his body into hers, his jaw clenched.  With the hand muffling her voice, he whispered,  "Shhh..."

She blinked at him, confused, writhing beneath his weight, seeking friction. She found it... pressedd perfectly against his cock.

His body shook.

"You’ll wake the beas-"

 She did it again. Draco growled, struggling to remain himself.

Then, to his surprise, she bit his hand.

It wasn’t the first time... he realized. He pulled away from her, and she said the words that shattered his resolve, releasing the wolf he had fought so hard to contain.

"Please, Draco."

He cursed. He’d wanted to take his time... to taste her... to watch her fall apart on his tongue. But she, and that beast inside him, had other ideas.

He tore away from her, ripped his trousers off in a single motion. Then, more gently, he removed hers. Her cotton panties were soaked, the wet patch unmistakable even in the darkness surrounding them. His cock throbbed at the sight, and he bent to remove them, giving himself just a second to look at her, just one moment for his fingers to brush against her core and feel how warm, and wet, and ready for him she was...

And then he wasn’t Draco anymore, not fully, to his regret.

"Draco, now."

Those two words undid him... or maybe they freed him. He couldn’t have said which.

Aligning his cock at her entrance, he plunged into her. Her eyes shot wide open, her body tensing under him. Somewhere in the depth of his mind, he wondered if this was her first time, if he may have hurt her. He tried to voice the thought. 

“Herm…”

“Just.. let me-” she stammered. Her nails scraped his back, and she lifted her hips. He felt her body melt under him in a few seconds, welcoming more of his cock inside her.

He tried to be gentle when he withdrew, before pushing in again, but it all came off too fast, too rough, her wetness too intoxicating, her cunt gripping him so tight he couldn’t focus on anything else to try to slow himself down. 

It was all skin, sweat, limbs entangled. The pleasure was the most intense thing he had ever felt. His lips were everywhere: her mouth, her neck, her breasts. His hands sought her curls, fisting them... then her neck, holding her tight, as if afraid she’d vanish... then her cheeks, caressing them, as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

Her hands didn’t know where to settle either. He felt her nails on his back, then her palms on his chest: small, warm, exploring, sliding down his abdomen to where their bodies met... where he disappeared inside her, again and again, deeper each time. Words, maybe promises, spilled from both their mouths, lost in the dark, lost among the trees and the stars.

He noticed a pattern in her body grinding against him, a growing intensity in her moans as his cock hit deep inside her. He didn’t have to think much about it: like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he was born for it. He chased that feeling, pleasure shooting through his spine as she gripped him tighter, and begged, and grew tense, and… 

She came.

She cried out his name, clinging to him, mouth open, eyes shut. Draco held her as tremors rolled through her, one after another, never once looking away, memorizing every second, every detail, knowing he would carry it with him forever. 

Then, when he thought he had still some time left, and of all the other things he wanted to do to her, the wave claimed him, too. It was fast, unexpected. And strong.

He shook violently. For how long, he didn’t know.

He held her naked body close through it, and then some more... until he noticed the evening breeze had raised goosebumps on her skin.

He scooped her into his arms and carried her into the tent. She didn’t resist, not physically. She said something, he thought... about taking watch, or sleeping... or plans for the next day. But her words barely reached him, drowned by the dull roar of blood in his ears.

His mind repeated only one thing.

My mate.
My mate.
My mate.