"Push and pull," Granger returns.

They stare at each other a long moment before she adds, "A
true partnership."

All at once, Draco wants to kiss her. And so he does.

"You know what we didn't deal with?" Draco muses that evening as they lounge in the sitting
room. "The second Foray operative."

When Granger's eyes slide to meet his, he can see the guilt within her stare. "I almost forgot
about that."

He refrains from saying it means she did forget, but he can't fault her. The night before was
pure chaos from the point when the Dark Lord summoned him to his chambers. Before that,
it almost slipped his mind as well. If he's honest, Draco's attention was mostly fixed on
Granger for the majority of the day.

"I spoke with Theo about it in advance," he says, "while you were preparing with Daphne and
Pansy."

At that, a frown furrows her brow. "You should have told me. I would have gone with you
instead of spending the day fretting over hair and makeup. We could have figured something
else out."

"Theo and I did figure out something," Draco says, "but of course the details will depend on
exactly who it is." He nudges her foot with his. "And I know why you had other things on
your mind."

Never mind the torture he endured. There was the sex as well.

A pale pink flush rises into her cheeks, and he doesn't have to wonder which part she's
thinking of.

"Regardless," Draco presses on. "I haven't had a chance to confer with Theo yet. For the
safety and silence of everyone involved in this, we're reluctant to even discuss it within the
manor walls. I know my quarters are safe, but I'm hesitant for Theo to make a habit of
visiting here. The other Foray operative will surely be watching Theo now that they've made
contact with each other."

"That's valid," Granger says, though she still looks put out at being left out of the initial
discussion.

"For the record," Draco drawls, "I wanted you to spend time with Daphne and Pansy because
no part of our wedding ceremony was remotely like a wedding, and the ball was the only
chance we were going to get." His voice drops off when her expression falters, and he shifts
on the sofa, uncomfortable. "I wanted you to experience some of it."

As though she's trying to make sense of him, her eyes tighten. But then her brows lift up,
sadness furrowing her brow, and she whispers, "Oh."
"Yes, oh." When she doesn't speak, he rolls his eyes. "If you'd let me finish before—"

"Smart arse—"

"I would have told you that we are meeting with Theo off the grounds this evening to discuss
the matter."

That's enough to shut her up, and privately, he basks in the brightness that comes into her
eyes at the thought. Draco might have thought he'd offered her tickets to some sort of high
class event rather than a meeting of stealth in a forest beyond the warehouse district. A part
of London where the two of them spent plenty of time chasing each other down.

"Fine," she returns. "I'll get ready."

"Great idea." Draco ducks from the room before she can hit him with a hex.

The sun is just beginning to set below the horizon, casting rays of purple and orange through
the trees.

The territory is all too familiar, only this time Malfoy isn't her enemy. Not really—not when
she's found herself so thoroughly disconnected from the cause she once claimed. Hermione
wonders if he's thinking the same thing.

So much has shifted between them since the night before, though she can't quite put her
finger on the specifics. He's a little looser around her, not quite so stiff and rigid. A bit more
open.

Maybe after everything that happened between the ball, him returning to the quarters beaten
half to oblivion, and the rest that ensued past that point, he's finally determined they're on the
same side.

Malfoy's exceedingly private, and she understands why. He exists in a place of such power,
deep within an organisation he despises, and one wrong move or slipped word could be used
against him. Too many people have it out for him, and he has no choice but to watch his
back.

Hermione feels the same way, a lot of the time. But for some reason crossing into his territory
has eased some of the strain she faced with the resistance.

Still, she loathes the idea of falling into a false sense of security.

She prepared for the meeting with Nott as she would any confrontation prior to all of this.
Despite the closet full of clean, expensive items, she slipped into her old worn leather boots,
tucking holstered daggers on her person, and slung her worn satchel over her back. Malfoy
shot her a look when she emerged into the sitting room but didn't say anything.

If anything, his lips quirked at the sight of her.

Minutes after they arrive, Nott appears in the clearing and eyes the two of them before
casting a few of his own wards on the area. Neither of them dispute the move—they can
never be too careful.

Toeing the loamy earth, Malfoy drawls, "How did you find the party?"

"It was pleasant," Nott returns, hesitating. "Enlightening."

"And did you discover the guest of honour?"

Malfoy cocks a pale brow when Hermione snickers at their code before offering a wry,
"There are three sets of wards on this clearing."

"I met the operative," Nott muses, giving in with another brief glance around. "The issue is, I
suspect they're on to me already. Whoever it is in the resistance that doubts if I'm still
trustworthy has informed the second operative. Maybe none of them trust me anymore.
Which means—"

"Which means you're as good as dead," Malfoy concludes.

A shudder darts Hermione's spine.

Nott's mouth tightens in a pout. "If we don't fix this, yes. They might even use the other
operative to get to me. I've tried to reach out to Neville, but he doesn't know the extent of
how much I'm still working with you, so it's tricky."

Not for the first time, Hermione marvels at how thoroughly entrenched he is on both sides.
She suspects if it weren't for his friendship with Malfoy, Nott would have abandoned them
altogether when he was revealed. Somehow, the thought endears him to her just a little
despite that he's clearly been playing both sides.

It's the reason Malfoy's still hesitant to tell him anything important.

"So?" Malfoy asks, folding his arms. "We aren't going to stand out here all night and debate
whether or not you're going to die. Who is it?"

Nott smirks, draws the galleon from his pocket, and tosses it into the air. "You'll love this,
Draco. It's fucking Flint."

At her side, Malfoy stiffens. She recalls, only days before, the way Flint insulted her while
they were out for a walk on the grounds. It almost doesn't make sense unless she considers
the fact that he's likely had to overcompensate to maintain his cover.

"You did already put him on your list," Hermione intones under her breath.

Malfoy flashes her a dark grin. "That I did. And the death of one Marcus Flint is no skin off
my teeth—in fact, I'm relieved it's not someone I actually... like."

"The issue now is how to put him out of commission without making it look like we had
anything to do with it."
Nott's words hang in the clearing alongside the three of them. After the meeting, the
resistance will know Nott was responsible if Flint turns up dead—and with Flint watching
Nott closely, they'll have to work around that, too.

"A skirmish," Malfoy says. "Spells flying all over the place. Every so often they simply miss
their targets."

"The problem with that idea, lieutenant, is that magical origins can be tracked." Nott shrugs.
"So if you or I were to do it ourselves, the magic would be traced back to our wands.
Furthermore, the Dark Lord knows about all unsanctioned Death Eater on Death Eater
violence."

Hermione feels Malfoy's gaze settle on her, and almost instantly, she understands his intent.
She swallows thickly at the implication—that the pool of magic between them could do it
without leading back to them. Or so he likely suspects.

But possibly, even this magic could be traced.

"Are you willing to take that risk?" she asks, low under her breath.

Malfoy doesn't immediately respond, and she thinks it's answer enough. "We'll sort
something out," he drawls. "Thanks, Theo."

Nodding once, Theo vanishes. Hermione turns to face Malfoy, drifting a step closer. "It only
solves one problem."

"And opens up a few more," he agrees. "But we know where to start. And we can figure this
out." Scrubbing a hand down his face, he shakes his head. "If it isn't one bloody thing, it's
another."

The banality of his irritation makes her snicker, and when he scowls, her grin widens. "Come
on, Lieutenant," she whispers, slipping her fingers beneath his belt buckle and giving a tug
towards her, "perhaps we ought to solve this problem at home."

A teasing smirk draws at his lips. "I am really enjoying this side of marriage."

A pale moon hangs low in the clear night sky above. Draco gazes out upon the grounds,
darkness enveloping him like a cloak.

Granger slips up alongside him, silent on her feet and tugging a cardigan tightly around
herself. It's easy to forget sometimes, when he's drawn into her captivating mind, that she's
been trained as a ruthless killer. That she knows so much about how to catch someone off
guard—that she kept him on his toes for months.

"Hi," she whispers, shooting him a glance. "Is everything alright?"

He isn't used to this. For so long he's operated alone without anyone to show concern or
interest. Sometimes it makes him want to shut her out entirely—or maybe he just doesn't
know how to properly let someone in.
"Fine." He leans his arms on the rail, watching as she joins him. "I'm just... I think I'm trying
to manoeuvre too many pieces into too tight a space. And I can't help but think it's all going
to end up a mess."

Granger shrugs, her arm brushing his own. "It might, you know. This could all go horribly
wrong. We're hinging so much on a frail hope."

Draco already knows as much, and it keeps him up at night more often than not.

"Speaking of," she presses on, "we ought to sort out some of the details. How we're going to
dismantle the resistance. I know a lot about their operations, of course, but things change
frequently."

"I know." He scrubs a hand down his face, the exhaustion of the last few days catching up to
him. "I've hardly stopped thinking about it." He turns, leaning back against the railing so he
can better look at her. "I'm leading a raid tomorrow."

The flicker of surprise in her gaze leaves him uneasy, as though she doesn't expect him to tell
her about these things. But all she says is, "Don't take unnecessary risks."

"The Dark Lord... expects certain things."

"I know."

"From you."

Her eyes slide to land on his. "And I'll convey information to him through you."

"Yeah." Draco nods once, and his hand twitches towards her—to wrap around her, draw her
close; he isn't certain—but he leaves it by his side. "That's what I told him."

"Does he expect me to fight alongside you?"

He blows out a breath, pressing his eyes shut for a moment. "I don't know. Not yet, anyway.
My mother was never expected to fight—but the Dark Lord knows of your capabilities. The
impression I've received is that he values your presence here more for the intel you can
provide."

"I can't provide anything if Harry won't respond to my letters," she reminds him. "What I
need is to meet up with him—to explain some of this, at least."

Draco considers the thought for a moment, a chill crawling down his spine. "Some of it," he
concedes at last. "But Potter isn't part of this. He may be protected in our agreement, but we
can't trust him not to run to the resistance with every damn thing you say to him."

And although her face falls, she murmurs, "I know."

"I think I can make a meeting happen," he muses, turning the idea over in his mind. "This
week. I'll try to get something to him through the raid tomorrow."
"You won't recognise him," she muses. "He's glamoured."

"Then I'll figure something else out." He catches her eye, hoping there's a shred of
reassurance in his own. "It's important to me that you stay safe while you're here. I don't want
the Dark Lord to suspect you of having ulterior motives. Right now, he has enough faith in
my judgement that he's accepted you."

"He has a funny way of showing it," she grumbles.

Draco doesn't respond to that. Not when his nerves still burn from the after effects of the
night before.

The air between them feels too tense, too dark, like he's straining to see a light that's too
distant. He releases a sigh, trying to sort the contents of his overactive mind into the boxes
where they belong.

Granger turns to face him, and the warmth from her body pressed against his does wonders
for his tattered soul. "Your mother wants me to meet her for tea." She gnaws on her lower lip
and adds, "She also invited me to visit her in Spain."

His brows lift in surprise. "I knew she would take a liking to you—but my mother is smart. I
wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't buy any of this—if she thinks there's something else
going on. You're welcome to do as you wish, but be careful. I've never wanted my mother to
be dragged into more than necessary."

She nods, murmuring, "Noted."

And it's that simple. Draco relaxes, blowing out a breath. He knows she can look after
herself, and she knows the stakes here as well as he does. There's something oddly reassuring
in the fact that he doesn't need to worry about her—at least not like that. He'll worry if she's
forced to fight, but he doubts that will happen.

He knows the resistance will be out for her blood if it comes to that. And maybe that's why
the Dark Lord isn't concerned over pushing the matter either.

Granger is of more use to them inside, and Draco isn't going to argue that point.

"I think you'll like my mother," Draco replies. "She may be a Slytherin, but she's fiercely
loyal."

"Not your father?"

He clenches his jaw. "No, not my father. You'd be best to keep your distance from him. Visit
my mother when he's away."

A part of him always expects her to challenge him—to argue against what he knows better
than she does for the sake of it. But so many things have shifted between them, even in the
last week, and matters between them have strengthened to the point where he knows she's
beginning to trust him. To respect him, even.
 And Draco finds he doesn't mind that at all.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading. We're nearly at the mid-point which feels wild to me. I
hope you're all still enjoying the story!

Alpha and beta hugs to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows <3

 Chapter 26
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

When Hermione stirs awake the next morning at a later hour than she meant to sleep, she
finds herself alone and in her own bed. Some of her instincts and careful habits have begun to
dull over the course of her time living in Malfoy Manor; an issue she'll need to rectify.

If anything, she should maintain a higher awareness of her surroundings at all times here,
even though she's only with Malfoy most of the time.

Dressing quickly, she emerges into the common area between their rooms, but he isn't there.

He didn't elaborate on the raid he was to lead today, but it wouldn't surprise her if he's gone
elsewhere ahead of time. She knows his methods better than anyone—the informants he
meets, where he stops to pick up material goods.

Releasing a sigh, Hermione settles into a seat at the breakfast table and pours herself a cup of
tea, kept hot under stasis.

Malfoy left that morning's Daily Prophet on the table, turned towards her seat to be sure she
reads it, and she nearly chokes on a sip of hot tea.

He hadn't been wrong in guessing the ball would land on the front page.

In the photo, taking up the majority of the page, a version of herself turns to look at Malfoy, a
soft smile curling her lips, while he leans in to brush a kiss to her brow. Her cheeks heat at
the thought of her former resistance comrades seeing this.

She skims the headline—UNEXPECTED SOCIAL EVENT OF THE SEASON—and sneers at

it. Spreading a slice of toast with preserves, she reads the article despite herself.

But her eyes keep sliding back to the photo.

She can't deny that they look good together, done up in their best attire, and even in black and
white the dress is stunning. And in a way they look almost... happy. Like they're enjoying
each other's presence enough to block out the rest of it.

They look like a young couple in love.

The thought only twists her stomach up into knots.

She takes a bite of toast, but the food is somehow both hard and chewy on her tongue, every
part of her suddenly feeling bitter and unpleasant. She wants to save the photo; she wants to
burn it.
Malfoy's presence in her life only grows more complicated as the days pass. And while she
knows their mission together—and believes it to be valid—there are so many other factors at
play.

She thinks of Harry, of the letter she sent which was returned unread. Of the word TRAITOR
scrawled across the photo of her—by his hand or someone else’s, she doesn’t know. She can
only imagine how this will go over, with the proof of her own betrayal blatant and glaring
from the front page.

Turning the page so she doesn't have to see the article, she manages another slice of toast and
some more tea. It'll be a long day alone if Malfoy's gone to make his rounds—and she can't
help the creeping anxiety at the thought of the raid later.

For a moment, she debates owling Pansy and Daphne. Malfoy said he wanted her to make
friends, that she was able to do as she liked during her days in the manor, but she hesitates all
the same. Surely there are more productive ways to utilise her time.

Digging deep within herself, she locates the magical thread that connects her and Malfoy—
the Black lineage marital bonds.

She gives a tug, drawing the thread into her magical core.

Even from a distance, she can feel Malfoy's response—his surprise. His amusement. He pulls
the bonds towards him, drawing the magical thread from her grasp, and unbidden, a smile
drags across her face. She holds tight, infusing all of her efforts into hanging on when he tugs
with greater insistence.

The shared magic swells within her as she fixates on it, pouring more of her own magic into
it—she can feel Malfoy's surprise over that, too.

Whatever he's doing, wherever he is, he obviously isn't busy enough to let her win at this.

So she doubles down, coiling the thread into a mental spool within her and feeling the surge
of raw power that emanates through her. The more she focuses on it, stretches it, tends to it,
the stronger it becomes.

The line goes slack, tumbling towards her. Sucking in a breath and holding it, Hermione
freezes. She loses track of her awareness of him, and something like a jolt of panic settles
within her.

But only moments pass before his magic coils around hers again, tugging hard on the thread
and catching her off guard. She feels the spool she amassed unwind all at once, and she
curses under her breath.

Malfoy's magic nudges against her own, a cool, amused caress, and she senses him
disconnect.

A smile lingers on her face for long moments before she catches it.
Come to the gardens.

Her coin has been silent for so long that the message startles her. She still carries it on her out
of habit more than anything else, when no one has sent a message to her coin since her
position in the resistance was compromised.

But Malfoy's been gone all day and she knows, instinctively, it's from him. The sun is just
beginning to set, and she slips on a cloak as she makes her way from their quarters. A thin
breeze flutters on the air, the setting sun casting an array of mellow shades across the sky.

Hermione finds him seated on the bench within his mother's gardens, head back against the
slats and hands folded in his lap. He wears only a shirt and jeans, having removed his robes
and mask at some point. She can feel his secrecy wards as she passes through them and
knows they're safe to speak freely.

Without a word, she drops into the seat next to him, and they both gaze towards the sky in
silence for several moments.

"How did it go?" she asks at last, both anxious and reticent to hear the answer.

"Casualties on both sides," he says, the words a flat drone as though he hasn't the energy.
Like he’s used to reporting battle results. "Three Death Eaters; four resistance. They scattered
shortly after we found them." His eyes slide to hers. "No one from your list."

Hermione nods, not wanting the details. If he'd been injured, he wouldn't be sitting in the
gardens watching the sunset, so she refrains from asking about that, too.

"I couldn't spot Potter, as you said," he adds, almost offhand. Then he reaches into his pocket
and withdraws his galleon, eyes tightening as he reads the face. He sends a message and
stows it again, ignoring her eyes on him.

"Who are you speaking with?"

"Theo." His lips twitch with a hint of humour. "We've determined it's an easy way to
communicate between the three of us without drawing attention to our interactions.
Especially with Flint creeping about."

"He wasn't one of the Death Eaters who fell then today, I assume?" she asks.

He rolls his eyes. "Unfortunately not."

"What did Theo have to say?"

Drawing the coin from his pocket once more, he reads it and sends another message. "I am
arranging a meeting," he drawls, the words slow and distracted, "through Theo's connection
with Longbottom."

It takes so long for the words to settle into anything that makes sense, that she only gapes at
him. "With Neville?" Then she frowns. "You mean you're using Theo's relationship to
manipulate him."
Pursing his lips, Malfoy leans back in his seat and folds his arms. "Theo knows as well as
anyone the stakes in all of this. And if anything, he's indebted to me. I allow him to share
information both ways—and he knows I turn a blind eye to what he shares with Longbottom
—but his life is still beholden to me. This is what I’m asking in return. Never mind the fact
that I possess a rather vital piece of information about him that I have failed to share with our
master."

Hermione deflates as he speaks, knowing it's all truth. At any point, Malfoy could inform
Voldemort that Theo betrayed the Death Eaters and that would be it. "Neville won't want to
meet with you. Not after what you did to him."

"He will for Theo."

It's so crisp and matter of fact that she can't help but believe him.

"Why Neville anyway?" Now that he's speaking with her, she finds she's fascinated by how
his brain works. The way he twists the game to suit his own purposes; how he has such a
large role in coordinating everything on this side of the war.

"Because I need someone," he murmurs in return, reading another message from Theo.
"Technically, this is about securing a meeting with Potter." Hermione nearly chokes at the
words, but he carries on. "Theo brings Longbottom—Longbottom brings Potter. The five of
us work it all out."

"Work what out?" His brain is so many steps ahead of her comprehension that she's
struggling to keep up.

"Flint." He hesitates, then adds, "We need eyes and ears inside the resistance."

"They won't," she whispers, shaking her head. "You won't convince either of them to betray
the resistance."

"Won't I?" he drawls, something cocky in his words that leaves her unsettled. "Look at
everything Theo's done for Longbottom. You don't think it goes both ways? You don't think
Potter would be willing to at least hear you out? I'm not talking about revealing everything
we have planned. But I need someone who can act as an intermediary. And those two are on
your list to protect."

She doesn't respond, unconvinced. Harry's loyalty runs deep, even to Cassius who doesn't
deserve it.

Malfoy releases a sigh and tucks his coin away.

The sky darkens, swirling with shades of blue and purple, and though the chill strengthens,
Hermione feels content to stay in his company.

"Why do you do all this?" she asks after a long while. "Why rise up to this point in his ranks?
You do so much for him and he treats you so poorly."
Despite the newfound camaraderie between them, she doesn't expect him to answer. Their
bond is one of necessity, not intimacy, and she doesn't know how she would answer if he
were to ask too many questions about her.

But eventually, he shrugs. "I was naive. When I was young I thought if I could only prove
myself I would be better off. That if I could show him I was trustworthy I wouldn't have to
fear for my mother's life." He frowns, a knit furrowing his brow. "And then it was just a
matter of doing more, proving I was better than the rest, that he could count on me. It was
about winning."

The words haunt the air between them, bitter though they sound.

"And now?" she whispers, almost afraid of the answer.

"Maybe I've hit my limit," he breathes, leaning his elbows forward on his knees. "Maybe we
can all only take so much."

Hermione hums, considering the thought. She thinks of everything she's witnessed—of the
way he's returned to their quarters soaked in someone else's blood. In his own blood. "Maybe
you want something different out of life just as much as everyone else does. And you've put
yourself in a position where it's within reach."

But he scowls at that. "I'm not a good person, Granger. I told you as much before we went
ahead with the marriage rites. I am where I am because I'm not afraid to do what needs to be
done. To get my hands dirty."

The words fall soft from her lips. "You're better than you think you are."

"That isn't true," he says, cold and clipped. "And you wouldn't say that if you knew half of
what I've done. I don't even know how many people I've killed anymore."

"You think I do?" she retorts, nausea curdling her stomach as she confronts the truth of it.
"We've all done things we aren't proud of."

A bitter smile curls his lips. "The difference is that I don't still see their faces when I close my
eyes at night."

His voice is hollow and empty, devoid of even the shred of emotion she's come to know from
him. She slumps in her seat, the energy seeping from her with every word spoken between
them, and fatigue tugs at her eyelids.

"You should get some sleep," he murmurs at last, something softer in his tone. "We're going
to Diagon Alley tomorrow."

"We?"

"Yes." He nods once. "There's something I need to get. You might as well come along if you
want to."
Hermione perks up, appreciative of a chance to leave the manor grounds and go somewhere
other than an abandoned factory. "Yes, of course. I'd like that."

Malfoy rises to his feet, his countenance fully drained, and she can see in the faint light of the
moon the dark shadows that encircle his eyes. They aren't close; despite that they've slept
together a few times, it doesn’t run deeper than what's required to move their plans along.

Whatever it is that exists between them, it isn't love.

But every so often, she feels as though she knows him better than she knows herself.

And no matter what he says about himself, she knows there's a part of him that longs for
more.

He offers a hand, tugging her to her feet, and draws her briefly into his chest. It could be no
more than a front, an act in case anyone's observing them, but she sinks a little into his
embrace and her eyelids flutter.

Malfoy draws back before she can think too far into it, however, and he jams his hands into
his pockets as they walk back across the grounds and into the manor. Once they reach their
quarters, Malfoy fixes her with a brief look and nods.

"Sleep well, Granger."

She doesn't bother to correct him; something about her former surname rolling from his lips
settles a sort of warmth within her. "And you." Pressing up on her toes, she brushes a kiss to
his jaw.

When she draws back, his eyes slide open a second later before he turns away and vanishes
into his room.

Head spinning with all he's shared, she retreats to her own.

"You look like you're ready for battle, not a trip to the high street," Draco snickers, unable to
quash his amusement when Granger cocks a brow at him. As she emerges fully from her
room, he takes her in. Although she's given up on the worn clothes from her time in the
resistance, she's clad in trousers and a hooded jumper and the old leather boots she wore
when she arrived at the manor. With a quick glance, he can spy at least two knives sheathed
on her person.

He imagines she has at least another two hidden away.

"Can never be too careful," she says, folding her arms as though she expects him to
contradict her.

But he only offers a sombre nod, fixing his face into impassivity. "Too true." When she
narrows her eyes, he holds his hands up. "If you want to go to Diagon dressed like this, I
won't stop you."
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Finally, she nods. "Good. Then I'm ready to go."

Any trace of humour evaporates from him when he realises this is her armour. He's taking her
into a part of London she hasn't frequented in years, without giving her the details of what
they're to be doing. For Granger, survival was all that mattered for so long that she can't
fathom going anywhere without keeping herself protected.

"For the record," he says, offering his hand. "You won't be in any danger. Not with me."

Although she shoots him a scowl, a dusting of pink drifts into her cheekbones as she slips her
hand into his. Draco tugs her closer, turning her so her eyes land on his.

"I know this isn't what you're used to," he murmurs. "But you'll be fine. Promise."

Although her eyes remain sceptical—he would be surprised were she to cave so easily—
some of the tension dissolves from her shoulders. "Fine," she murmurs, "but I'm keeping my
knives all the same."

"Good," Draco drawls, flashing her a smirk. "I like the knives. They bring back so many
great memories."

Her flush deepens but she doesn't respond.

Taking pity on her, he Apparates them both to Diagon Alley. Slipping a hand to the small of
her back—a show of support as much as an act—he guides her towards Gringotts.

"I have to make a withdrawal," he murmurs, glancing at her, "but if there's anything you
need, let me know."

Uncertainty settles across her face for only a moment before she blinks it away. Most
resistance members don't visit Diagon Alley because the Death Eaters have claimed free
reign over its streets—not for the first time, he has to remind himself of how different this life
is to the one she's used to living.

She shoots him a sidelong glance. "Perhaps we could visit Flourish and Blotts."

Draco snorts. "I'm so unsurprised by this, it's already in our plans."

Granger looks so out of sorts as they walk the street, he can't help the way he feels
uncomfortable too. She's been able to act her way through most situations with ease, and he
nudges her in the side. "You weren't like this when we came to get you a dress."

"I suppose not," she murmurs, visibly straightening. She rolls out a crick in her neck, then
offers him a thin smile. "You're right."

Drifting his fingers along her hip, he hitches her a little closer. She doesn't say anything when
they enter Gringotts, nor when he hands his wand to the first available goblin to take them to
his vault. And in the cart, she sits at his side, her thigh pressed against his own, her chin held
high.
With a glance towards their goblin pilot, she says under her breath, "I suppose your vault is
buried within the earth's mantle."

Draco barks a surprised laugh. "Close."

A hint of warmth curls her lips at that, and she relaxes still a little more. Once the cart finally
comes to a stop outside the Malfoy vault, Draco shoots the goblin a look. "We may be a
while."

"Mister Malfoy," the goblin croaks in a deep voice, ducking his chin in a bow. Then he drags
one long finger down the vault door, and it slides open.

For her part, Granger maintains as much stoicism as he might have expected. It isn't one of
the deepest vaults for no reason, nor one of the largest. Her eyes widen, brows high on her
forehead, and for a moment she stops on the threshold, simply staring.

"Come on, love," he murmurs before the goblin steps away out of earshot, "we haven't got all
day."

She stumbles a step forward when he gives a tug on her hand, and under her breath, Granger
whispers, "Sweet Merlin."

For some reason, her reaction makes him uneasy, and he shoots a glance back to be sure the
goblin has walked away to give them privacy. "Don't get lost," he says with a snicker,
infusing as much flippancy into the words as he can manage. "We're here for something
specific. The marriage bonds should protect you from any wards and spells in here but... just
don't touch anything that looks cursed."

The blood drains from her face at that. "Nothing that looks cursed. Noted."

"And I suppose it goes without saying," he adds, "that we're married now. What's mine is
yours and all that—just don't drain the vaults, please."

She shoots him a look of stark incredulity. "I'll be sure not to buy too many castles or tropical
islands."

Draco cracks a grin, unable to stop himself. "You'd be better off visiting the ones we already
own. Less paperwork."

"You already—" Thinning her lips, she nods once. "Of course you do."

He shakes his head, guiding her between the aisles stacked with money, artefacts, and other
assorted rare objects. He's never made a secret of the Malfoy wealth, but seeing the reaction
of someone unfamiliar with it leaves a twist of uncertainty in his gut. "This way," he
murmurs, guiding her towards the back corner where a cabinet holds a range of black velvet
racks piled carefully with all sorts of jewellery.

Draco brandishes a hand at a shelf of rings. "It occurred to me," he drawls, "that a proper
husband would get his wife a ring." Slowly, she turns to face him, her face a mask of alarm.
He brandishes the magical tattoo circling his ring finger. "And we don't want anyone looking
too closely at these, now do we?"

"No," she chokes out, "we don't." Her eyes slide back to the cabinet and she brushes her
fingers along the glass top of it. "Just... pick one?"

"None of these are cursed."

There are somewhere around two dozen rings, each one more priceless than the next, and a
variety of accompanying bands.

"Merlin," she huffs, gnawing on her lower lip. "How am I meant to choose?"

"Perhaps I should have selected one for you," Draco muttered. "I suppose it wasn't top of my
priority list while we were preparing for the bonds and in the days after it slipped my mind."

She turns towards him, wrapping her arms across her front. A flicker of vulnerability dances
across her face. "Which would you have chosen?"

Thrown by the question, Draco peers down at the large assortment. "Nothing gaudy," he
drawls, tapping the glass above a few rings. "Red and gold is a little too on the nose so—
neither of these." He eyes her with a deep focus, gaze narrowing. "White gold, I think." He
drifts his fingers to the next section, mentally debating a few different rings.

"Great fucking diamond," he snickers, watching the way her cheeks grow flushed again. His
eyes catch on one ring, set with a large diamond in the centre, and to either side of it, a ruby
and an emerald. The white gold snakes between them in a delicate, intricate design. "That
one."

"That one's beautiful," she breathes.

When Draco looks back at her, he's surprised to see her eyes are glassy. "If that's the one you
want, it's yours."

He didn't expect her to grow emotional over this—she hadn't cared about missing any other
elements of a proper wedding, and neither had she been bothered over planning for the ball.
So her reaction now leaves him off guard in such a way that he doesn't know what to say.

Biting down hard on her lower lip, Granger nods. "Yes."

Draco waves a hand over the cabinet, and the glass vanishes only long enough for him to
pluck the ring from its velvet cushion—he locates the equivalent bands both for her and him
—and the glass reforms once his fingers are clear.

He catches her eye as he picks up her hand. "We've done all of this backwards haven't we?"

"Yes." She sniffs once, but then straightens, and offers only a thin smile instead. "But no part
of this is orthodox."
Draco slides the band then the ring onto her fourth finger, brushing his thumb along the
stones as the metal automatically resizes to fit her finger. Eyeing them a moment longer, he
reaches for his own.

But her fingers wrap around his and still; a small smile curls at her mouth as she takes the last
ring and slides it onto his finger. Draco feels the sharp sting of magic as the ring fits itself to
him. It carries a heavy weight on the finger next to his Malfoy signet ring, and he manages a
thick swallow.

Granger's hand lingers on his, grazing his knuckles before her fingers slide between his own.
She peers up at him, her eyes large—and there's something else in her stare he can't quite
comprehend.

"Thank you," she whispers, pressing up on her toes to brush a kiss to his jaw. "I appreciate
this."

Her gratitude, as it always does, leaves him off guard, off axis. For so long they were rivals,
bent on each other's extermination, and the thought that she appreciates any part of him still
leaves him uncertain as to his next course of action.

"It's all part of the plan," he mutters, the words falling gruff and doubtful to his own ears.
"The last thing we need is for someone to question the validity of all this."

"Right." Her face falters, but she blinks it away in an instant. Some part of Draco hates all his
other parts as the light in her eyes diminishes. "Of course—but you still don't need to be as
accommodating as you've been. You could keep me locked up in the manor, and you certainly
don't need to be kind."

Draco doesn't know that he's been kind at all, but he bites his tongue. He's tired of pushing
her away, though it's all he knows.

It's all he allows.

"You could make all of this miserable on me," he counters, gesturing with his open hand.
He's acutely aware of her fingers still clasped in the other. "It isn't kindness when we both
need each other to get through this."

At that, her brows knit, and all the remaining warmth in her face evaporates. "You don't need
to do this, you know."

"What am I doing?"

Granger eyes him a moment overlong, and he feels as though she can see right through him
to his barest parts. He wonders how inadequate he looks to her eyes.

Then she shakes her head just slightly, and untangles her fingers from his. "This... I don't
know. You're unnecessarily cold while I'm trying to be honest with you. I'm not going to
judge you for being a decent person."
Draco doesn't answer, hardening his jaw, and when she scoffs and turns to leave, his insides
twist up.

She's already seen so much of him he doesn't dare share with anyone else. Vulnerability is too
thin a cloak in this world where he needs as much protection as he can don.

And maybe her words are true—but anything other than steel tastes like ash on his tongue.

Stepping forward, he catches her wrist, pursing his lips when he tugs her back to face him. "I
don't know what you want me to say," he drawls. "We both know the circumstances here. We
know why we married—we know why all of this is happening."

"Of course we do!" she exclaims, her voice rising a little. "But that doesn't mean we need to
endure it like soldiers in an unwilling truce. That doesn't mean we need to keep ourselves
miserable along the way." She hesitates, unease crossing her face. "I'm here... Draco. I'm with
you."

Heat burns under his skin, taking up residence in his chest, and something like shame roars
behind his ears.

Her wrist feels so small in his hand, the bones so soft and fragile, and he tugs her hand into
his again. "It's meant to be an act," he murmurs, and the words sound false even to his own
ears.

Because he knows it isn't. Not truly, at least. Not anymore.

He thinks back to the way she healed him after the Dark Lord's punishment the night of the
ball. The feel of her, warm and willing and bare against him.

"I don't—" He grits his teeth, wishing they could ignore this conversation altogether. But he
knows, at the same time, how necessary it is. "I don't know how to do this. I'm not good at
letting anyone in."

Even the simple admission feels like too much, his skin hot and itching, and he hates the
flash of something like sympathy in her eyes. He hates it as much as he longs for her
attention. Because even though he doesn't deserve her—and they both know he never will—
that part of him that's greedy and conceited basks in it.

"I know you aren't," she murmurs, and she brings his hand to her mouth. Presses a kiss to the
new ring on his fourth finger. "But if you can try with anyone, I'm a safe bet."

He knows she speaks the truth. They quite literally cannot betray each other—and they're
bound to each other for life.

His eyes burn, and he glances away, horrified at the thought that tears could spike.

"You've seen all the worst sides of me," he says, uncertain whether it's a question or a
statement; whether it's the truth or if there are worse angles to him that she's yet to witness.

A part of him fears the thought.

"I've also seen the sides that aren't so bad," she whispers. "Not at all. And... I don't mind
those sides of you." She steps closer, catching his eye with caution in her stare. As though
he's a wild animal she needs to approach with care. "We've all done things, seen things. We
all have monsters inside. It doesn't mean we aren't worthy of anything else."

"My monsters are all there is to me," he says.

Granger shakes her head. "I know that isn't true."

Then her mouth is on his, her lips warm and soft and tempting, her fingers drifting the line of
his jaw and cheek.

And even if Draco doesn't deserve her, he pulls her in all the same because he wants her.
Merlin, he needs her. He's consumed by her, by the feel of her lips and tongue, the gentle
touch of her hand as though he's made of something she doesn't dare break.

He draws her lithe body flush, pulling her close as he can manage, and his desperation for her
courses through him, raw and with a heartbeat of its own.

They're surrounded by priceless treasures, precarious piles of gold and silver that spill and
slide to the floor as she draws him into her, stumbling under the intensity of their touch on
each other. Draco palms her arse, bringing her hips against his own, and a moan slips from
her throat and into his mouth.

When they nearly topple a cabinet of artefacts, Draco draws back, breathing heavily, and
buries his face in her hair. "This isn't ideal," he says wryly.

Granger laughs, pressing a kiss to his throat. "No, it isn't."

"Come on." He laces their fingers again, tugging her towards the entrance of the vault. His
body thrums with awareness of her, his heart pounding in his chest, but before they exit the
vault he fixes his mask of stoicism in place once more. He watches as she does the same,
marvelling at all the ways they aren't so bad for each other after all.

Her words ring through the back of his mind as their cart begins the long ascent through
Gringotts once more. I'm a safe bet.

Merlin, he hopes it's true.

Although the trip to Diagon Alley was meant to be a quick trip to the bank and little else,
Draco finds himself in no rush to return to the dour coldness of the manor. Despite the
autumnal chill, the sun is warm in the sky, and having Granger at his side makes him feel just
a little more alive.

Once they return to the high street, Draco leads her to Flourish and Blotts. Observing
Granger shop for books is something he never imagined would be so amusing. But as she
strolls the aisles, eyes wide with poorly concealed delight, clasping her hands together in an
effort to keep from picking up every damn book on the shelf, Draco finds himself holding
back a laugh.

And when she turns towards him with a final selection of three books, Draco cocks a brow.
"That's all you're getting?"

Idly, he notes one of the books is on the subject of magical bonds; he wonders what she
means to learn from it.

"Yes." Her cheeks flush a dull pink. "I don't want to go overboard."

He refrains from reminding her of what she just witnessed, the overgrown piles of grotesque
wealth in the Malfoy vault. From informing her, once again, that they're married and she's
entitled to purchase herself more than a few books.

He simply reaches over her and collects a book that she stared at for a good five minutes
before returning it to the shelf, and adds it to her stack. When she gives him a look, Draco
drawls, "I wanted to read that one."

But she can't quite conceal her smile.

After the purchase is paid for and delivery is arranged for later in the afternoon, he leads her
from the shop.

"Anywhere else?" he asks, "before we return to the manor?"

Granger gnaws on her lower lip; he can see the cogs churning. And he knows that even if she
doesn't actually need or want anything else, she'll seek to prolong their trip simply to avoid
returning to the manor so soon.

"Perhaps," she murmurs, "we could visit Scribbulus."

Draco offers her his arm. "Done."

As they begin down the road once more, they both freeze when a soft, feminine voice says,
"Hermione?"

Instantly stiffening, Draco reaches for his wand. He observes Granger's face alter with
surprise before she turns on the spot, tilting her head to the side. Draco affixes his hand
firmly to the small of her back, prepared to attack at any second.

It's Luna Lovegood. Draco hasn't seen her in years—not since the Battle of Hogwarts—and
before that, when she endured a brief residency in the Malfoy Manor dungeons during
Draco's seventh year.

"Luna," Granger says slowly, her eyes darting sidelong towards him.

Tension wracks Draco's form. As far as he knows, Lovegood is in the resistance, but he can't
imagine why she would be so brazen as to be in Diagon Alley, exposed on the high street, in
the middle of the day. She's asking to be picked off by a rogue spell.
But Lovegood offers the pair of them a confused smile, staring between them for a moment.
"I heard you were married now," she says quietly, as though this is everyday conversation.

The woman is as airy as Draco remembers, and for a moment, he wonders how she's survived
the war for so long.

Lovegood's eyes drift to the massive rock on Granger's ring finger. But to Draco's surprise,
there's no judgement in her stare. "Congratulations are in order, I suppose."

"I—thank you," Granger manages. He can feel in her stance that she's ready to run—or to
fight—should the need arise. "We are. Married."

When Lovegood's blue eyes tighten, Draco wonders what it is she sees. Even at Hogwarts,
the girl was strangely perceptive. A part of him wouldn't be surprised if she were to see
through all of it.

"I wasn't aware you were still in England," Granger murmurs after a moment. The three of
them remain in a tense standoff, as though all of them are uncertain what to make of the
exchange.

Draco wants to drag Granger off. He also wants to curse Lovegood, but he suspects that
wouldn't go over well. In a corner of his mind, he adds Lovegood to Granger's list of people
to protect.

"I am," Lovegood says with a soft smile. "I've simply been..." Her gaze slants towards Draco.
"Reassigned."

it doesn't tell him anything other than Lovegood is working with the resistance. Whether
undercover, or on a mission, Draco can't tell. Maybe she's simply been relocated if Granger
wasn't aware of her continued presence.

He thinks, not for the first time, of something she told him early on. That divisions of the
resistance operate in almost complete isolation from each other. He eyes the exchange,
tucking it away. Surely Lovegood knows better than to expose information about the
resistance, but he's willing to wait and find out.

Granger nods, a grimace flashing across her face. "That's good. It's... nice to see you, Luna."

"Is it?" Lovegood cocks her head to the side again, those blue eyes roving him. "I'm quite
sure your new husband doesn't agree."

Granger simply lifts her chin but doesn't respond.

Draco wishes he could read her thoughts in the moment—enough that he tries, nudging
gently against her Occlumency walls on the off chance she wants to let him in. But the magic
of her mental shield simply caresses his own—a gentle acknowledgement—and remains
closed off.

"We ought to carry on," Granger offers, a bland smile on her face, and she shoots him a
glance. "We have that appointment—"
 "Right you are," Draco drawls. "We'll be late."

"Dreadfully important, I'm sure," Lovegood says in that soft, airy voice of hers. Draco's
hackles raise, tension rankling through him once more. It must be an act, and he wonders
what exactly the woman has been doing that led Granger to think she wasn't even in England
anymore. "Don't let me keep you."

When Granger offers a stiff nod, and Draco eyes the pair of them, he wonders what it might
have taken for the conversation to escalate into something else—something uglier.

If he had drawn his wand on Lovegood, what might Granger have done?

But as they walk away, she nudges against his Occlumency walls in return. Draco doesn't
have to allow her into his mind to feel the way her magic is coated with a tang of uncertainty,
of fear.

"I didn't know," she murmurs under her breath as they walk, "I haven't even seen her."

"It makes me wonder what she's been doing," Draco admits, drifting his fingertips along the
backs of her knuckles where her hand rests in the crook of his elbow. "Where the resistance
has been keeping her."

"I want to protect Luna," Granger blurts. "I know there are already several people on my list
and you don't like that but—"

"I've already added her to your list," he drawls, then fixes her with a hard stare. "Unless
Lovegood proves to be dangerous. If whatever she's been doing requires her elimination for
us to proceed."

Granger hesitates for a moment, her eyes darkening as indecision and a haunted sort of dread
lingers in her stare. Then she nods once. "Fine. Deal."

They stow the conversation in an unspoken agreement to move along, but Draco can still see
the way she remains distracted through the rest of their shopping trip. However, he knows he
can count on Granger's pragmatism. The ruthlessness and the desperation that drives her to
end this war as much as it does him.

And he knows, if nothing else, he can rely on the fact that they're on the same team. He
thinks again of her words in his vault, and clasps her hand ever so slightly tighter in his own.

Chapter End Notes

Hi friends, I hope you liked the chapter!! Thank you so much for all your lovely
comments - I don't always have time to respond individually, but I can't even say how
much the support means to me. Also we are so close to 2k kudos which is exciting!
Have a great week everyone 💙
Alpha and beta love, as always, to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.
 Chapter 27
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

"Come on," Draco says brusquely, striding into the sitting room where Granger's perched on
the sofa with her new purchases from the book shop. "We have a meeting."

"A meeting," she echoes, but carefully marks her page with a satin ribbon all the same. "With
whom?"

"I've told you about it.”

Granger tenses in her seat, then instantly rises to approach him. She peers up at him, her
fingers grazing his side; he isn't certain whether it's accidental, but he has to refrain from
reaching for her hand.

She has a way about her that leaves him oddly comforted at strange times, even when he isn't
aware of the stress that wracks his form.

A part of him suspects it's related to the magic that binds them.

And if it's a matter of something else... he isn't ready to confront that.

"Theo convinced Neville to meet, then?" she asks, affixing a holstered dagger to her thigh in
swift movements. "Is he aware we're going to be there?"

"He is," Draco murmurs. "Though I gather he isn't exactly pleased over it." He clears his
throat and adds, "Potter is coming as well. And he doesn't know."

Granger stills, one hand wrapped around the collar of her cloak. She shrugs it on in calculated
silence. "And how much are we willing to reveal?"

Draco ponders the question. He already knows Potter is Granger's soft spot—and
Longbottom a close second. If he has to wager a guess, he might suspect these are the only
two lives Granger genuinely cares about protecting in the whole world. He doesn't dare
include himself in the list.

The uncertainty of it has haunted him for days. Whether Granger will still be able to do
what's necessary in the face of her old friends.

"We need to discuss the matter of Flint’s removal," he drawls. "We can't have him passing
information from the Death Eaters to the resistance—not when he's such a wild card. We
have no way of controlling his information." Lowering his voice, he fixes her with a heavy
stare. "But I want him alive."

He can tell by the way Granger's expression shifts that she understands the implied meaning.
That Draco intends to have a few conversations of his own with Flint before dispatching the
man.

"I need him subdued through means other than myself—the Dark Lord has ways of
monitoring the spells we cast on each other."

"And what are we willing to tell Harry?" The words fall from her lips on a tense breath, as
though she doesn't actually want the answer.

Draco hesitates. "You need to decide... to what extent you're willing to trust Potter with both
of our lives. Because that's what it comes down to. And if you can't promise me he won't
betray us, even accidentally, he can't know any of this, Granger." She doesn't respond,
shifting on the spot in a display of poorly concealed unease. "If something happens and Potter
gives us up—if all of this goes wrong because we trusted too easily—I won't have a choice."

By we he means her, and they both know it. Thankfully, she doesn't call him out on it.

They don't have time for an argument over this, and he hopes she understands well enough.
She was willing to put Potter's life ahead of the whole cause of the resistance once before;
Draco holds no delusions that she wouldn't put Potter's life ahead of his own, bonds be
damned.

"I won't tell him anything if we don't both agree on it," she says at last. Her Legilimency
nudges against his mental shields, and he follows her meaning. He allows his magic to
entwine against hers—and there's something so careful, so intimate about it, that a part of
him wants to drag her into him and forget about the meeting.

Her magic is intoxicating—the trust she offers.

He slips seamlessly into her mind, into a small chamber she's designated for him. It doesn't
reveal much, but his chest tightens a little at the thought. That she'll be willing to keep a
direct passage into her thoughts during the meeting.

And Draco fashions a similar cell of his own, wrapping his magic around hers to ease her
through his careful wards.

A breath catches in her throat when she slips into his mind for the first time.

Her eyes lock on his, something dark and heated in her stare, and he wonders if she can feel it
in the same way he can. The way the signatures of their magic pulse in rhythm with each
other.

A strange curl of her power around his own.

It's enough to stir heat in his veins. And intermingled as their thoughts are, he can feel her,
too. She tentatively scours the chamber of his mind, settling herself a place within him.

And the way she can feel it too, this strange magical heat that courses between them. Her
awareness of it only amplifies his own, and his mouth grows dry. His breathing picks up a
little, and he catches the way her next inhale is a little sharper.
Granger drifts a step closer, grazing his shirt with her fingertips; her tongue darts out to
moisten her lips as her eyes lock on his. "This is..." she whispers. "Interesting."

Interesting is one word for it, he thinks.

Her magic entwines with his own again, twisting and dancing and nudging against his very
core. It's a connection he never imagined and hasn't thought to explore between them; not like
this. Not with his mind bared to her and hers to him.

He wants to push it. To see how far they can take it.

Wants to explore her desire.

Hitching her flush against him, he drags a palm along her tight arse, brushes his nose against
hers. Presses a kiss to her mouth.

He explodes with the sensation of it, with the way her thoughts mingle with his own.

"Shit," Granger whispers against his mouth, her breath minty and intoxicating. Her fingers
drift downwards towards his belt buckle and she murmurs, "How much time do we have?"

Draco wants to get her off. Wants to witness the way he can make her feel firsthand, arousal
coursing between them, compounded by the sheer awareness of it.

He wants to experience her falling apart under his tongue.

"We have to go," he murmurs instead, coiling his hand around her searching fingers. He's
already growing hard despite himself, and given the way he hasn't bothered to censor his
thoughts from her, her eyes are glassy with desire when they lock on his. "Or we'll be late.
We can't risk losing out on this meeting."

Granger draws in a breath, and he can feel the effort it costs her to unwind her magic from his
own in the moments before she breaks off. He's left cold and oddly bereft.

A sharp breath falls from his lips. "But we can explore that later, if you want."

Idly, she grinds against him, lacing her fingers through the fine hairs along the back of his
neck. "I definitely think we should."

Merlin, he wants to fuck her; to push her down to the rug and bury himself inside her. He's
never been so driven by desire for one person before—and he doesn't think it's just the magic.

But he forces his magic back into his own mind, keeping the chamber open to her though he
can feel it's empty. His heart throbs in his chest at the raw feel of her, the open connection she
carries with her every emotion, every sensation.

A part of him can't wait until they get back and—

Frowning, he quashes the thought. They have important work to do, and he can't allow
himself to grow so distracted in the face of it. As if coming to the same understanding,
Granger straightens.

"We will deal with this meeting," she murmurs, a hint of a smile twitching at her mouth.
"And we can test the boundaries of the magic later."

Draco allows a small smile of his own. "I do appreciate how naturally inquisitive you are."
He leans in, plants a kiss to her mouth, nips her lower lip.

Then he offers her his arm.

When they land in the clearing, Theo is the only one already present. A surge of relief darts
through Draco when he realises that his brief delay with Granger hasn't cost them the upper
hand. He needs to be present when Longbottom and Potter arrive.

He wants to set the parameters for the engagement.

Particularly because he knows both of them will have no interest in speaking with him, and
the only chip he has to play is Granger. A willing chip, but a chip nonetheless.

"You two are late," Theo drawls, casting a look at his watch, and then back to the two of
them, somewhat rumpled. His lips twitch with a smirk. "Married life treating you well, I
gather."

"Mind your own," Draco clips, drawing his wand to double-check Theo's wards and cast a
few of his own.

Granger drifts from his side, her cheeks pink, and though she fiddles with her own wand, she
doesn't cast any spells. Clearly, she doesn't find fault with any of the wards already in place.

But he can sense her nerves, even without slipping back into her mind.

The meeting could come down to more than any of them are even expecting. And it's the first
time Granger's seen any of her friends since she was forced unceremoniously from the
resistance. Since the two of them were married.

Prodding against the Occlumency chamber she's left unsealed for him, Draco offers her a hint
of comfort. It's the best he can manage, but he can feel the relief and gratitude emanating
back at him. He keeps his face blank but his magic close.

The three of them wait in tense silence for only minutes before the quiet pop of Apparition
sounds. Longbottom appears, and moments later, Potter.

He knows this won't go well—but he can't imagine the full extent of it.

The moment Potter sees Granger—when he sees Draco—an array of emotions flit across his
face and his expression lands on cold fury. Brandishing his wand, he begins to initiate a
Disapparition; his jaw clenches when the effort fails. Longbottom remains silent and stoic,
his wand held aloft and scepticism directed at Theo.
"Anti-Disapparition wards," Draco drawls, clicking his tongue. "By the time you dismantle
them, you'll be incapacitated."

He could swear Potter releases a growl. At his side, Granger stands stock still, frozen as
though every nerve is seized by tension. And for the sake of everything they've already done,
already sacrificed, he hopes she makes the right call.

"Please," she murmurs, "hear us out."

"You didn't tell me they would be here," Potter snaps at Longbottom, turning his wand on
Draco as though he doesn't know what else to do with it. At the raw fury embedded in the
words, the blatant hatred on his face, Granger flinches back a step. But Potter doesn't even
address either of them. "What is this, Neville?"

Longbottom's gaze flits to Theo. "I sure hope you have a good explanation for all of this."

They could cut the tension in the small clearing with a blade, and Draco carefully shifts his
attention from one to the next. So much depends on this meeting, on the calculations—or
miscalculations—they make here.

He clears his throat and turns to face Longbottom. "I'm responsible for bringing us all
together today. So whatever Theo said to convince you, everyone can blame me."

He offers the small group a wry, unfriendly smile.

"But," Longbottom huffs, "Theo, you—"

"What the fuck, Neville?" Potter snaps.

"Just hear him out—" Theo begins.

Granger releases a sigh at his side. "Please, Harry, Neville—we needed to talk to you."

Massaging his temple, Draco casts a silencing spell over everyone but Granger. Potter and
Longbottom turn to face him, fuming, wands drawn. But his threat wasn't idle, and if he
detects either of them even attempting to take down his wards, he'll throw stunners.

"There is, understandably, a lot of anger between us," Draco says, rolling his eyes.
"Obviously, Longbottom and Potter have both been my prisoners; Theo is operating as an
informant for both sides, and—" He glances at Potter, lips curling with a smirk "—there's the
matter of my marriage to Granger."

In the face of so much hotheadedness, it's in everyone's best interest to lay all the cards on the
table.

Granger's cheeks flush but she doesn't speak.

Although all of them are still silenced, he adds, "Have I missed something vital? If you could
all speak one at a time, please, and then I'll explain why we're all assembled here."
When he lifts the spell, Potter spits instantly, "I didn't want to believe it. Hermione, how
could you? How could you betray the resistance?"

His eyes slide to the ring on her finger, and Granger clasps her hands together. "Just listen,
Harry."

"And you," Longbottom snarls at Theo. Hurt settles in his expression. "You've been using me
for information."

"Technically," Theo retorts, "I've been passing information from inside the Death Eater camp.
It's just that I'm also working for Draco because otherwise..."

"Because otherwise I'll kill him for betraying me," Draco drawls.

Longbottom pales.

"You, too?" Potter hisses. "Are all of my friends taking up with Death Eaters?"

Although the question carries a rhetorical note, Granger exchanges a look with Longbottom
and grimaces. "I mean, sort of, yes. But there are explanations for all of this."

Potter folds his arms. "So explain."

"What is most important right now," Draco interrupts, "is that if any of what's shared here
today gets leaked I'll know exactly who to go after." An eerie silence falls and no one
responds, so he proceeds. "All anyone needs to know at this exact moment is that none of this
is entirely as it appears—but since I don't trust any of you aside from Granger, I won't be
sharing any details on that front."

"Then what do you want?" Longbottom asks with a resigned sigh. Draco notes the way Theo
stands a little closer to Longbottom than anyone else, including himself.

Draco has imagined this a dozen ways, has turned over an absurd number of possibilities in
his mind, and he hates that there are so many variables at play here. He decides on honesty—
or a version of it. "I want eyes and ears inside the resistance."

"Not a chance," Potter snaps. "Why would you think we would ever—"

"Harry," Granger says, her expression tightening. Her tone is tinged with more impatience
now.

"I also," Draco proceeds as though he hasn't been interrupted, "need for one of you to
incapacitate a traitor—but keep him alive."

"I'm not listening to anything until you tell me what's going on here," Potter growls, the
bracing force of his fury lancing through Granger once more. "Not only did you betray the
name of the Foray operative for him—"

"That was me," Nott quips. "And I'm still alive, so—"
Potter blinks at him before continuing. "But then I see you've wed the prick. That you're
throwing fancy parties together. And now you expect me to listen to anything he has to say?
This is sickening."

To her credit, Granger only stares him down. "Yes, that is what I'm asking of you."

"I'm not happy about any of this either," Longbottom grumbles, folding his arms.

There are altogether too many emotions flying about for a group of trained fighters, and
Draco doesn't care for it. He observes all of them with cool distaste. "If everyone is done
acting like hormonal teenagers, perhaps we could discuss the matter of putting an end to this
war once and for all." Several sets of eyes land on him. "Because rest assured, everything
we're here to discuss is an effort towards that end."

He watches as Potter turns his narrowed gaze on Granger, truly looking at her for the first
time. A knit furrows his brow and he deflates, his wand still tight in his fist but dropping to
hang at his side.

"I promise it's more than it looks like," Granger allows, and her magic nudges against Draco's
as though seeking assurance.

"Fine," Longbottom mutters. Although he's speaking to Potter, the words are loud enough for
everyone to acknowledge. "I know Theo wouldn't have asked me here if Malfoy meant to kill
us, so we can hear him out and then decide what to do from there. If he wanted us dead, we'd
already be dead."

"That's true," Draco concedes. He chooses his next words carefully. "Like I suggested,
Granger and I have been assembling a plan to put an end to all of this. I don't know if I can
trust any of you, and every step will be dangerous and life-threatening. If anyone here isn't
interested in playing a role, speak up now."

For the life of him, he can't figure out how this is the team with which he's meant to trust any
small measure of information. But they're already the ones he needs to keep alive thanks to
his deal with Granger, and he doesn't care to renege on that if he can avoid it.

When the silence stretches on, he speaks again.

"Theo is uniquely positioned to funnel information of my choosing to the resistance, whilst

also supplying information in return. The issue is that there is another Foray informant,
someone who none of us can trust and who will make all of this… messy. He met with Theo
the night of our wedding ball—and that's the only reason I know who he is." Clenching his
jaw, Draco observes both Potter and Longbottom for a moment. "I need him taken out—but I
can't do it myself because the Dark Lord will know."

"And if Theo does it the resistance will know he's corrupt," Longbottom says, piecing the
situation together.

Theo flashed him a smile. "Exactly."

"Thing is," Draco proceeds, "I need him alive."

Another stifled silence falls over them as the words sink in.

Then Potter says, "So you want us to do your dirty work for you?"

"I need for it to look like he's been killed at the hands of the resistance—fighters who don't
know of his affiliation to their cause." Draco pauses, reaching for Granger's magic with his
own. An invitation. She slips seamlessly into his mind, and though he notes her surprise as
she comes across his intent, he can feel her support as well. "I need people to see that I had
nothing to do with it. But I only want him incapacitated so I can take him elsewhere."

"You're going to torture him." Longbottom folds his arms and cocks a sceptical brow. "What
do you expect to learn?"

It's unstable ground, when Longbottom spent weeks under Draco's wand, and he can see the
resentment buried beneath the man's present willingness to cooperate.

But Draco can't apologise for any of that. Not when it was his job to do so. Not when he
learned what he needed in order to get Granger over to his side.

Even if things between them have begun to shift into something more akin to a true
partnership.

"He's a traitor. I'll get from him whatever I can learn," Draco murmurs, casting Granger a
glance. "And... he insulted my wife. No one insults my wife."

At that, Potter's brows fly up with incredulity. "So you two are actually married, then?"

Draco wants to laugh; he feels an inane surge of it welling up within him. That during this
casual conversation of torture and murder, the detail Potter has chosen to fixate on is his
friend's nuptials.

But Granger lifts her head. "We are. In every sense of the word."

The clarification catches them up—Draco can see the moment it registers—and he's at once
grateful and wary of the thought that these two are smart and they understand the trivialities
of war. He'll need to be very careful about what he does and doesn't reveal.

"Why would we want to help you kill someone who's feeding information to the resistance
from inside the Death Eaters?" Longbottom asks, loud and abrasive.

"Because he is volatile," Draco clips. "And because Theo is doing the same thing."

Potter holds out a hand. "You just said Nott is only passing on information that you're
allowing him to."

"I am allowing Theo to live despite the fact that he betrayed me," Draco drawls. "And I have
yet to inform the Dark Lord of said betrayal."
Another arduous, prolonged silence.

Then, "Merlin," Potter huffs. "You're the most corrupt of them all, aren't you?"

Draco allows a tug of amusement at the corner of his mouth. "Call it whatever you like.
While the Dark Lord rules from his throne, I'm setting up a few plans on the side."

"You said ending the war," Longbottom says, his voice careful as though he isn't quite certain
he wants the answer. "But you're making plays different from your master's intent. So what
do you mean—you want the resistance to win?"

He sneers at that. "No. I do not."

Longbottom and Theo exchange a glance, some sort of private communication, and Theo
speaks up. "If you're including them, I want in on all of it. No more keeping me on the edge."

Draco's eyes tighten. "And can I trust you?"

The unspoken words hang beneath the question. Even if Longbottom decides not to go ahead
with it?

But Theo lifts his chin. "Yes."

"Why marry Hermione?" Longbottom's defiance is evident in every line of his face. "Why
take her from the resistance at all?"

Granger, having been curiously quiet at his side through most of the discussion, says, "He
didn't take me from the resistance. I gave up Theo's name to save Harry—and I'd do it again."
She stares hard at Potter for a moment before going on. "Warrington was out for my blood
and I didn't have another choice. We married as a part of the cover."

He notes she doesn't mention the bonds, and he’s glad of it. But if the rest of them are to be
truly in on it, at some point they'll need to know everything.

"The two of you," he says, gesturing between the newcomers, "were on Granger's list to
protect when we made the arrangements. You're safe from my wand, and it's the reason we're
having this meeting today. But if either of you betray us, I won't have a choice but to take
action. Nothing we've discussed today is to leave this clearing."

Potter clenches his jaw, and Draco can see the indecision. His loyalty to Granger at open war
with his commitment to the resistance.

"So, what?" he asks. "If you don't want the resistance to win but you're working against the
Dark Lord? What's the end game?"

For a long moment, Draco carefully considers his response. He slips into Granger's mind,
searching the chamber she's fashioned for him, and he can feel her uncertainty as well. This is
the moment to decide how much they want to share. And he knows he doesn't have to tell her
that if either of her friends give them up, they'll all be dead.
"I need a vow," Draco murmurs. "A vow of secrecy that any details we discuss here today
won't be shared elsewhere. Because rest assured, if the Dark Lord learns of any of this,
Granger, Theo, and myself will all be dead. And if our plan works, people on both sides will
die."

The blood drains from Potter's face, and he shoots Longbottom a glance.

But only moments later, with little deliberation, Longbottom steps towards Theo. "This war
has taken almost everything from me—and I'm tired of being their battering ram. If you have
a way to put it to an end—I'm in."

He brandishes his wrist, prepared for the vow, and Draco steps towards him. He can see the
man's searing hatred of him, but it's buried beneath something else. Something like hope.

Draco might sneer at it—at the idea that of course Longbottom still clings to hope after all
this time—if not for the fact that he's so desperate for all of this to come to an end as well.

"You should know that none of it was personal," he says quietly between them, catching
Granger and Potter in conversation in his periphery. If she can persuade her friend—and
speak to him properly for the first time in weeks—Draco will leave her to it.

"I know," Longbottom returns, the words steady. "You were following orders. And Theo kept
me alive."

Draco ducks his chin. He wonders at the man's blatant courage; at what this easy
acquiescence has cost him. But the war has cost so many people everything. "If you're in,
we're going to make it count."

With a fortifying breath in, Longbottom nods. "I'm tired of living in fear. Whatever it takes."

"You're going to kill resistance leaders," Potter murmurs, slipping up alongside Longbottom.
"And, what—we're going to kill the Dark Lord?"

"It's a little more complicated than all that," Draco allows, a smirk pulling at his mouth. "But
neither side will walk away unscathed."

Potter’s jaw tightens in a hard line. Somehow, Draco always knew he would be the harder
sell.

But he only says, "You're not going to hurt Hermione."

The words aren't so much a question as they are a threat.

So Draco meets his gaze and says, "Never."

Granger's magic twines with his own, sliding into his mind and taking up residence.

"And there's something else," Draco says, glancing between the two of them. He lowers his
voice to barely a whisper. "The Dark Lord is mine."
It might be something in his voice or in his stare, or maybe Potter's as tired of it all as the rest
of them. Maybe the prospect of finally putting an end to all of this is enough to forgo the
costs ahead—that none of this is by the book or strictly on one side or the other.

That all of this is entirely grey.

But Potter swallows, then nods. "Yeah. I'm in."

The vow is simple and quick but final. Theo casts the spell, and Draco feels the magic of it
twisting through his wrist and into his bloodstream, twice, before both of them step back and
eye him warily.

"So," Longbottom says, clapping his hands together as if they've had a successful but
infinitely banal gathering of colleagues. "Who is this other informant you intend to murder?"

Hermione sits on her bed, already dressed for sleep, gnawing her lower lip. The meeting with
Harry and Neville went surprisingly well—better than she anticipated, if she's honest. But a
part of her hates dragging her friends into this mess.

She tries to remind herself they've been pulled into altogether too much already, and that
none of them chose this life.

Malfoy taps on the open door frame, leaning against it for a moment as he eyes her.

"Come in," she murmurs, folding her legs beneath herself on the quilt.

He slips into the room and joins her on the bed, stretching his long legs out in front of
himself. "Are you alright? You were quiet today."

A part of her is surprised he noticed—but another part recognises how implicitly they've
come to know each other. "It was your meeting. I didn't want to overstep. And, to be honest, I
wasn't certain how much we were going to share."

After Harry and Neville cast the vow of secrecy, they discussed logistics around taking out
Marcus Flint before dispersing.

"I wasn't either," he admits.

"It's... nice," she settles on. "Knowing that some of this is out in the air with people we can
trust. But I'm also terrified. Expressing our plans aloud feels like the next step in a series of
risks, and so few of them are calculated."

He sighs, catching her gaze. "I know what you mean. Like all of this is one wild pipe dream,
and no matter how much we plan and strategise, most of it will never have a guarantee."

She likes that about him—that he's so often on the same wavelength as her. That they rarely
need to explain things to each other. She wonders how much of this connection is from the
bonds, and how much of it is borne of necessity.
Maybe there's a part of her that wonders whether some of it comes from somewhere deeper,
somewhere more natural and instinctive.

Every so often, she wonders at what might have happened had they known each other all
along.

"What are you hoping to get from Flint?" she asks.

"His reasons for all of this," Malfoy returns. "Why turn on the Death Eaters? He's been one of
us since the early days. I want to know what he told Warrington about our side and what he
picked up in return from the resistance. Surely, there are things of use he can provide."

She sorts through the answer and nods. "And do you think he'll break?"

"I know he'll break."

The finality of it ensures her certainty as well. "You can't kill him."

His expression darkens. "Not with my wand. But I need it to look like he's been taken out by
the resistance. I don't need anyone questioning where he ended up. So if Longbottom can
knock him out for long enough that I can get him somewhere else..."

She doesn't need him to finish the sentence. Not when she's seen some of his methods
firsthand. "Okay," she murmurs. "I suppose we'll see what we can get from him."

So many of their carefully arranged plans swirl about in her head, a jumbled mass of
possibility and chance. "And then what's our next step? We can't simply go after Warrington
because someone will step up in his place."

Releasing an aggravated sigh, Malfoy rubs at his brow. "I've been trying to figure out our
next move, and I think it has to be Thicknesse."

Hermione nods, sifting carefully over the idea.

"We need to put a hit on him," he tacks on. "Knock him out from the top of the Ministry, and
let the chaos ensue."

It's a good thought, when the Death Eaters have held firm control over the Ministry for so
many years under the command of Pius Thicknesse. Not a proper Death Eater but a
sympathiser after being caught under the Imperius early on, his leadership has allowed for the
situation to grow to the point where it is. Where Death Eaters are free to walk the streets, to
influence Ministry policy, while resistance members cower and hide out in safehouses.

"Someone else will step in," she muses. "They'll have an election. We can't control that."

"We can't," he allows. "But it'll allow the careful cogs to falter."

The words settle in the air between them, a frisson of something building in her chest after
the big moves they made that day. She reaches for his hand, longing for the odd sense of
comfort she's come to rely on from him. His fingers twine with hers easily.
Neither of them have broached the way things keep shifting between them. The way they're
quicker to touch, more open to understanding and respect. How they've had no choice but to
trust each other with their lives.

And a part of her is afraid to look too close, to observe it with too sharp a lens lest it all
crumble.

Their discovery that morning, the odd mingling of Legilimency and the magic of the bonds—
that allowed them to feel each other so intimately—both exhilarated and scared her.

She wants to know him so much better—and she wants to pull away at the same time, to
guard her heart from the ice that coats his.

Because her heart will surely be trampled in a field of war if she allows herself to think of
him in that way.

He presses a kiss to her knuckles. "It's been a long day. You should get some sleep."

As though summoned by his words, she yawns widely, covering her mouth with her other
palm. "Probably for the best."

Malfoy eyes her for a moment longer as though he's about to say something more, but he
only gives her hand a squeeze and makes to rise.

And she knows better. She knows she does. Distractions won't offer any benefit to the cause
in which they're entrenched. But she thinks of their conversation in the Malfoy vault. Of the
way he, almost begrudgingly, has begun to open up to her. Like maybe he's as powerless to it
as she is.

"You can stay, if you like." The words slip from her mouth of their own accord. When his
grey eyes snap up to land on hers, she tacks on a hasty, "You don't have to, of course."

She isn't even certain what she's offering. They've had sex a few times, but it all feels a bit
arbitrary, and neither of them have given this a name beyond the formal bounds of it. It's a
marriage of convenience, of mutual gain, and there isn't meant to be anything more.

Hermione shouldn't want him to sleep in her bed. Shouldn't crave the warmth of another body
against hers.

She thinks he'll say no, that he'll offer a reason why he ought to return to his own room. "I'm
tired," he murmurs, the words softly apologetic. He doesn't look away from her, and she
realises it's not a rejection but a caveat. "But I'll stay to sleep, if that's on the table."

"It is," she whispers, viscerally aware of his hand still in hers.

Without a word, he slips off his shirt and trousers and hangs them over the chair of her vanity.
The muscles of his chest and abdomen are streaked with silver scar tissue that catches dim
moonlight. Her eyes linger on the way he's all chiselled alabaster and something that speaks
to the darkest parts of her soul.
 When she slips beneath the covers, he joins her, his knees brushing the backs of hers and cold
feet entwining with hers. She can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck, and
Hermione counts the ragged beats of her heart.

Then his arm slides around her to rest on her stomach, his fingers grazing her sternum in
slow, idle patterns. The undersides of her breasts.

Malfoy sinks into the bed beside her, and she can feel the expulsion of his tension as surely as
if it were her own. He sweeps her curls to one side and presses a single, lingering kiss to her
jawline.

And without another word between them, she slides almost immediately into sleep.

Chapter End Notes

We have been doing this every Tuesday for SIX MONTHS now? And some of you have
been along since the start?? I am honoured - truly. I hope you continue to enjoy the
story.

PS - I finished the rough draft of my original novel on Sunday! \o/

So much love to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows, my alpha and beta respectively, for
their assistance and feedback.
 Chapter 28
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The air grows cold in earnest as autumn leaks towards the crisp chill of winter. If anything,
the manor grounds only grow more beautiful, as though made for the austerity of the cold
months rather than the warmth of summer.

Hermione has taken to spending her time in Narcissa's garden under the veil of heating
charms, watching as the petals fall from the plants, as their skeletal forms grow more
prominent with the shift.

A part of her hates feeling closeted up all the time.

Another part—the slothful, mildly complacent part, is happy for the small comforts. She's
losing track of the days when she was with the resistance, kept in a narrow room next to
Harry's, spending every day fearful for her life.

This is an altogether different sort of fear.

Because she's living under the watch of her greatest enemy; she can feel Voldemort's stare on
her whenever she sees him, on the rare occasions when she and Malfoy walk the manor or
take dinner in the hall.

They keep to themselves in his quarters more often than not—enough Death Eaters roam the
manor that they don't need to make excuses for it—but they both know they'll grow
suspicious if they never emerge.

"Patroclus," Hermione murmurs, waiting for the elf to arrive. She offers a demure smile that
pales in comparison to the beaming warmth on the creature's face. "Please prepare a tea
service for two."

"Snacks, Mistress Hermione?" Patroclus asks, eyes alight.

"Yes, please. Some snacks."

The elf is back within ten minutes, a steaming pot of tea and all the fixings on a small garden
cart beside the wrought iron furniture set. Hermione tries to quash her nerves, and not for the
first time that day, it doesn't work.

Malfoy is out on a tip to catch the resistance off guard—but it's all been carefully laid out in
advance.

Weeks have passed since their initial meeting with Harry and Neville, after the group of them
determined it would be suspicious if Flint were to vanish too soon after Theo learned of his
identity. The five of them have kept in close contact, and while Hermione appreciates having
her friends back on her side, she also hates their involvement for the very fact that they're all
at risk from both sides now.

So Hermione arranged for tea with Narcissa Malfoy.

She isn't certain which part of the day makes her more nervous.

Some minutes later, Narcissa arrives directly in the gardens, as though she doesn't care to go
into the manor itself. Hermione can't blame her.

Rising from her seat, she greets the woman—her mother-in-law—and meets her startlingly
blue gaze.

"Hermione," Narcissa demures, brushing a kiss to each of her cheeks. "It is wonderful to see
you. I cannot tell you how thrilled I was to receive your invitation."

In the back of her mind, Hermione can hardly focus on the insignificance of taking tea while
her friends and Malfoy are out fighting—while they're enacting the plan to seize Marcus
Flint. She can't help the way she continues to scan the magic of the bond for any hint that
they've succeeded or failed.

"Of course," she returns. "I'm so glad you were able to join me. Draco is away a lot, and I
tend to grow lonesome."

She almost hates the sympathy in Narcissa's gaze—but she also feels a sudden surge of
respect for the woman. "Such is the curse of being a Malfoy wife during these trying times."

Narcissa plays no role in the war, but Hermione can't find it within her to hold it against the
woman. Not when she's been pulled through hell by both her husband and son.

"Indeed it is," Hermione says. "And one can only hope for brighter days on the horizon."

Narcissa settles into her seat with a soft smile, and Patroclus prepares two cups of tea.
Narcissa selects a finger sandwich and a sweet square before speaking again.

"Hermione," she says, her pronunciation of the syllables crisp and elegant, "I do hope we can
speak frankly between the two of us."

Hermione sucks in a small breath. And when Narcissa's gaze meets hers, there's an implicit
hint buried within. "We can," she says, confirming that she's warded the gardens with
everything she knows. "And we're family now—so I should certainly hope so."

The woman's mouth lifts into a smile. "Then you should know that I'm not stupid."

"I never for a minute thought you were." Hermione returns the gesture.

"I know my son, Hermione, and I know he is many things. But he would never use magic to
manipulate a woman into his bed—nor into a lifelong marriage." She ponders a moment,
stirring a cube of sugar into her tea. "I do not need to know the details, and quite honestly, I
don't want them."
Hermione sips her tea.

"But I would like you to be careful. Both of you. I don't need to tell you that you're dealing
with dangerous forces."

"You do not," Hermione acquiesces. "And I can assure you, Missus Malfoy, your son is the
most careful man I know."

A small, indulgent smile warms the woman's face, but her next words are contrary. "I know
what my son has done to survive, and as much as I abhor it, I cannot fault him. He is in the
position he is because of our mistakes, and I wish every day it were not the case."

She pauses, taking a sip from her cup. Despite the careful wards that cover the area,
Hermione still casts a glance around to be sure they're alone.

"I know," Narcissa concludes, "many consider Draco to be a monster."

The words clench Hermione’s insides into a knot, and she frowns. "I don't believe him to be
so. At least, not anymore. I think, like the rest of us, Draco does what he needs to do to
survive. None of us have clean hands anymore. Draco is simply in a position where survival
means more of a battle than it does to most people."

Narcissa eyes her for a moment, cautious and assessing. Her next words are hardly a whisper.

"Protect him, Hermione. He'll slide headfirst into his own ruin."

"I know," she murmurs, aware of the truth of the words within her soul. "I will do my best."

Releasing a sigh, Narcissa nods and takes a careful bite of her sandwich. "I believe you will."

For a moment, Hermione considers saying more. It's refreshing to be able to speak the truth
—or some semblance of it. But Malfoy specifically said he didn't want his mother involved in
matters any more than necessary.

So she only says, "I cannot say how everything will turn out, but know that Draco seeks an
end to all of this. And I'm going to do what I can to see it through by his side."

Relief flits, only for a moment, through Narcissa's eyes. She offers a nod, and drops her hand
to rest on Hermione's atop the table. She gives a wordless squeeze.

And Hermione feels the intent, the gratitude, all the things neither of them can express. The
hope they don't dare speak aloud.

It's far from the first time since arriving at Malfoy Manor, since everything began to come
together and crumble simultaneously, that she wishes for the end. That she longs for
something that may not even be possible.

The air between them hangs heavy and stale, and it occurs to Hermione that Narcissa has sat
in all of this for so long. She's watched both her husband and now her son fall into these
trials, unable to do anything to stop it. And if not for herself, Hermione wants to put an end to
this for the woman before her. For the son she longs to save but cannot.

The man that Hermione now knows has so many sides—and that even if he can't admit it, she
knows he desires something more, too.

She doesn't put a voice to any of that, but she can sense it between them. The implicit
understanding in the carefully crafted silence.

So Hermione takes a sip of her tea and offers Narcissa a gentle, coy smile. "Is this the part
where you share embarrassing stories about Draco's escapades as a child?"

It's hard to imagine, especially knowing him now. She thinks for a moment of the small lake
he showed her, deep within the manor grounds, and how he spent so much of his youth on its
shores.

A surprised laugh falls from Narcissa's lips. "I'm certain I have a few of those. But I'll deny
having told you if he ever asks."

Hermione's smile widens. "Deal."

To Draco’s surprise—and begrudging pleasure—the battle went more or less according to

plan. At least half a dozen people from either side saw Flint fall to a curse from Longbottom's
wand—an imperative element of the arrangement. And while both Theo and Potter returned
to their respective strongholds to report the day's toll, Draco now finds himself with an
unconscious Flint—and a very conscious Longbottom.

The air between them is tense—understandably so—despite that this step of the plan is as
they meant it.

After all, the last time Draco and Longbottom were alone together, the latter had been locked
in a cell in the dungeons after suffering round after round of magical agony at Draco's hand.

Now, Longbottom eyes him with scarcely concealed doubt, arms folded across a broad chest.
Draco has to admit the man is in possession of remarkable resilience.

"So," Longbottom prompts, as though unable to handle the silence. Draco knows better. He's
grown as hard as the rest of them, and he recognises that the attempt Longbottom makes is
calculated. He clears his throat. "You and Hermione."

Draco ignores him, tapping a message into his golden coin before refocusing his attention on
Flint. Eventually, he drawls, "You and Theo."

To his surprise, Longbottom huffs a humourless laugh. "Hardly. Not after he told me he was
only working for the resistance."

Draco feels a twinge in his gut. "Surely you knew it would never be that simple. I've known
of Theo's involvement with Foray for weeks—months." He allows a quick sidelong glance.
"If it helps, I threatened to kill him if he didn't continue working for me as well. But I did
allow him to continue passing information to the resistance on Granger's behalf."

As if the banality of Theo's relationship drama has anything to do with him—but the part of
Draco that couldn't bring himself to kill Theo still acknowledges the man as his oldest friend.
And obviously Theo cares enough about the man at Draco’s side to risk his life for him.

Draco knows Theo well—or at least, he thought he did—and it's unlike him to put his neck
on the line for anyone.

Longbottom only shrugs. "We'll see." He prods Flint's immobile form with the toe of his
boot. "I don't believe whatever it is between you and Hermione is legitimate. There's
something else going on here, isn't there? More than what you've told us."

"There are many pieces on the board," Draco allows, drawing his coin back from his pocket
as it warms. "And no, you don't know half of them."

"So why kill Flint?"

Grinding his jaw, Draco reconsiders leaving Longbottom alive when he released him from
the dungeons. "Because he'll cause trouble."

"In your careful plan." The words are scathing, derisive, and Longbottom offers him a sneer.
"Just because I did this today, it doesn't mean I'm working for you."

"Of course it doesn't," Draco snaps. "I don't want you working for me. But I wasn't lying
when I said I intend to end this bloody war. And trouble doesn't factor in."

"How does Hermione factor in?"

"Hermione," Draco grits through his teeth, "is a hell of a lot more important in my plans than
you are, so if I were you, I'd stop asking questions before you find yourself disposable."

If Longbottom's remotely threatened, he hides it well. He only snorts and leans against the
wall. "I have a hard time believing you persuaded her into leaving the resistance is all."

Despite himself, Draco considers the words. "She saw the bigger picture." At that, some of
the annoyance in Longbottom's stance fades, and Draco releases a sigh. "For what it's worth
—I apologise. About the whole... kidnapping and torture thing. If I'd known about you and
Theo sooner I might have gone a little easier."

For a long moment, Longbottom stares hard at him, green eyes narrowed. "I don't believe
you're sorry, either. But I'll accept the gesture."

"Fair enough," Draco grumbles. He peers at the latest message from Granger and taps in a
location. Although he debated keeping her out of the afternoon's proceedings, ugly as they're
certain to become, she insisted upon joining him.

They fall into a tense silence, and a few minutes later Hermione Apparates in through his
wards.
Her gaze lands on Flint, stoic and unreadable, then drifts between Draco and Longbottom.

"Have you learned anything?" she asks, sidling up between them. "How did the battle go?"

"Not yet," Longbottom replies. He shoots Draco a wary glance. "He wanted to wait for you."

Observing the pair of them, the way they seem to speak without words in the quiet moments
that follow, Draco feels a twinge in his chest.

He recalls the vehemence in her voice when she demanded he free Longbottom from the
dungeons; the way he had inferred something between them.

At the thought, his eyes narrow.

He reminds himself she's married to him. That he didn't even know if it was true. And that
Longbottom has some sort of entanglement with Theo.

As far as he knows, Granger and Longbottom have been friends since Hogwarts and that's all.
But he can't quite quash the unease.

"Yes," he drawls, sliding his wand from its holster. "I thought you might have something to
say to our friend Marcus."

He can't read her expression, and a petulant part of him wants to slip into her mind, to check
if she's left the antechamber open for him. But he refrains, allowing her the privacy he would
want if the tables were turned.

He knows, even now, so many of her decisions still factor in the resistance. Even after the
way they treated her; if he's honest, he can't blame her. And Flint has been feeding
information to Warrington.

"Not sure how much I have to say to him, to be honest," she says at last. "But I am curious to
hear what he has to say."

"As am I," Longbottom interjects.

"Fine." Draco draws his wand, gazing at the man on the floor. Every so often, moments like
this one catch him off his guard. It's a rough throwback into the past to remember the way the
two of them once played Quidditch for Slytherin together. It feels like a different life, a
different world. As though Draco's been teleported into an alternate timeline of events.

But then he has to remind himself that this is all real, and the sequence of events that led him
here were all painfully, horrifically real.

"Enervate," he drawls, feeling Granger shift alongside him as Flint's eyes flutter open. He
groans, rubbing at his temple, only for a moment until he sees the three of them together. He
tries to stand but finds Draco's wand trained on him.

Draco waves his wand, conjuring a chair, and directs a mocking hand towards it. "Take a seat,
Flint."
The colour drains from the man's face as he tugs himself into the chair. Draco binds his wrists
and ankles to the seat. Flint's gaze flits between the three of them, as if he can't decide
whether he means to implore Longbottom and Granger for his freedom or if he wants to keep
a careful eye on Draco's wand.

"Do I need to explain why we're here?" Draco asks, his voice low and quiet.

Flint swallows audibly, then shakes his head. "No."

"Then you should know it's in your best interest to tell me what I want to know. There's no
sense in denying anything, because I know you'll be lying." He hesitates, glancing towards
Longbottom. "Everyone saw you go down at the fight today. They already believe you to be
dead."

Instinctively, Flint's fingers grapple for the wand that he no longer possesses, and they curl
instead into a loose fist. "You are a bloody traitor," Marcus huffs, a humourless laugh
breaking free. "Ain't that a treat."

Draco doesn't care to indulge him. He doesn't want to do any of this, and he has no interest in
playing games today. He raises his wand so it's in line with Flint's eyes. "How long have you
been working with Foray?"

An angry sneer draws at the man's face. "If you're going to kill me anyway, I'm not telling
you anything."

"Or," Draco hisses, leaning in close, "you could answer the fucking question and I won't drag
this out for weeks." In his periphery, he sees Granger and Longbottom exchange a glance.
"Why did you betray your side? What did Warrington do to convince you?"

Flint spits on the floor. "Not telling you a fucking thing, you tosser."

Draco doesn't hesitate before he casts the first Crucio. The man tenses, teeth gritted, but he's
well enough accustomed to the violence of a torture curse that he barely lets slip a sound. It's
unsteady territory, but the Dark Lord will only learn of it if Flint returns.

Granger and Longbottom shift in his periphery though neither of them speak and he knows
they won't. That even if they disagree with his methods, they won't dare stand against him.
Not when a show of power like this requires them to present a unified front.

Especially because Flint is the one who is at a disadvantage here.

Letting up on the curse before it can go on for too long, Draco fixes Flint with a hard stare. "I
am not in the mood for games. If you answer my questions, I'll let this end before it goes too
far."

He knows Flint understands. He's been in Draco's position enough times that he knows how it
goes. That all a prisoner can expect is a quick, relatively painful end.

Still, he resists. Some of the malice leaves his voice as he says, "I suppose I should have
known you would be disloyal. Always were a selfish prat."
Draco purses his lips and lifts his wand once more. He sifts through the mental catalogue of
curses for something that might catch Flint by surprise.

Granger steps closer and breathes next to his ear, "See if you can get something lesser from
him first."

Considering the thought, Draco lowers his wand. "I didn't realise you and Warrington were
still so close."

The words contain a question carefully tucked beneath them, and though Draco can see in
Flint's face that he isn't fooled, he releases a sigh. "We went to Hogwarts together."

"That isn't an answer."

Flint scowls at him. "Of course I'm not close with that tosser. Been a Death Eater for years,
haven't I?"

At that, Longbottom says, "Surely you know Warrington isn't worth your loyalty."

"And yet he has yours?" Flint spits out.

Draco understands the intent in an instant. All of them in the room are well trained against
torture, and Longbottom's showing an alternative path to the information they need.

"He does," Longbottom allows with a curious tilt of his head. Then he lifts an idle, flippant
hand, indicating Draco at his side. "If you want to call it that."

Indecision flickers across Flint's face for the first time, and Draco realises exactly what this
could cost Longbottom if something were to go wrong. Of course, none of them intend to let
Flint out of here, and even if they do, everyone already believes him dead. They have nothing
to lose by playing this a little loose.

"What is this?" Flint asks, a sneer curling his lip as he turns to Draco again. "Obviously your
sudden marriage to Granger was suspicious enough to anyone who dared think to question
you. Are you working with the bloody resistance?"

Even as he speaks the words, the conviction falls away from them.

Because Flint knows that isn't the case. He knows Draco wouldn't think to indulge the
resistance—but the situation before him doesn't make sense in any light. He knows
Longbottom is a resistance fighter, and Granger used to be.

Hell, they traded turns torturing Longbottom in a cell.

"Of course I’m not working with the resistance," Draco clips. "And you knew better than to
do such a thing either."

For a long moment, Flint grinds his jaw. If the man is ruthless and cruel, it's nothing
compared to the cleverness that Draco has come to expect from him. A valuable resource that
he’s fostered in the man for so long.
Maybe that's why so much of this stings.

When Flint speaks again, it's frank and open. As if he knows the mercy Draco's offering in a
quick death.

"I did," Flint drawls, "but I didn't have an option."

Granger's eyes slide to meet his, and Draco's fingers curl a little tighter around his wand
when he asks, "What do you mean? Your option was the Death Eaters."

"It wasn't about me." Flint sneers, though Draco doesn't think it's aimed at him. "Warrington
had... information."

"Prat," Longbottom huffs.

The more time Draco spends around the other man, the less he suspects any of them truly
hold loyalty for Cassius Warrington. It's valuable information, and welcome too. If the
resistance aren't as loyal as he originally suspected to the man who leads them, it will be all
the easier to dismantle their side from within.

"Explain," Draco drawls, infusing his words with as much boredom as he can manage.

Flint's jaw is a tight line. "It was hardly anything at first. A simple bit of information between
old friends."

"And yet you knew he was resistance." Draco cocks a brow, though his heart picks up at the
thought of something real. "Surely you understood that any information was treason."

Flint snorts, then gives Granger a pointed stare. Draco opts not to respond, knowing fully
well what the man has pieced together. Now that he's seen Draco and Granger truly
cooperating to accomplish something—and not simply drifting idly about the manor grounds
—he's clearly determined there's something deeper at play.

Draco doesn't care.

"Yeah." Flint shrugs. "Of course. But it wasn't about me."

The silence in the wake of that confession prickles against Draco's skin and he doesn't reply.
Granger and Longbottom remain quiet at either side of him, and Draco only stares at Flint.
Sometimes a targetted silence is the best tactic.

Flint sighs again, one hand twitching as though he might reach for something, but then he
stills. "Warrington threatened my mum and sister. Said he had eyes on them and if I didn't tell
him anything he would go for them and it would be slow."

The words rattle some part of Draco long buried.

For a moment, they bring him back to a place where he was a scared sixteen-year-old boy,
making impossible decisions to keep his own mother safe.
He swallows back the unpleasant taste on his tongue. "Surely you know the Dark Lord would
do worse if he learned of your betrayal."

"The Dark Lord was the unknown," Flint admits. "When Warrington's threat was already
real."

Draco shoots Longbottom a glance, uncertain of his intent. Whether he wants the man to
either confirm or deny Warrington's claim. He already knows resistance grunts like the two at
his side have been largely kept in the dark by leadership.

But he knows Warrington's vindictive streak. He's lost spies of his own to the man's soulless
ambition.

Draco shakes his head. "Where are your mum and sister now?"

Flint spits on the floor again. "As if I'll tell you."

"Fair enough," Draco agrees, "but they aren't any part of our negotiations today. We've fought
at each other's side for long enough that I can promise you that."

And he can see in Flint's face that he believes him. His features crumple with a sort of relief,
his shoulders giving into a sag. As if he's resigned himself to what is to come; that he's
willing to give himself up so long as his family is safe.

Draco's stomach churns into a mess at the thought.

The situation is altogether too familiar for his tastes. He tightens his grip on his wand and
some part of him feels the need to add, "Our business here today is between us. The
resistance already thinks you're dead."

By the way Flint gives a stiff nod, he knows Warrington won't go after his family if he falls in
battle. Or maybe he only hopes as much. Draco doesn't know if Warrington has that much
humanity left.

If any of them do.

"Will Warrington go after them if you die today?" Granger speaks up for the first time in
several minutes, and it's her first time truly addressing Flint. She doesn't look surprised that
Warrington might do such a thing—that he would be willing to threaten innocent women to
persuade Flint to spy for him.

Flint levels her with a hard glare. "No."

Draco can't help the clench of relief that strikes his own chest. Some of his determination
falters, and he fortifies his waning strength. The conversation has impacted him in a way he
didn't anticipate, and he doesn't care for it.

"How much have you told him?" Draco asks. "How long have you shared Death Eater secrets
under the guise of Foray?"
Flint purses his lips, staring hard at the floor for a long moment. "Two months. At first I tried
to keep it to information he could readily find on his own—but it wasn't enough. I've told him
a lot."

Draco ponders the thought. He already knows the extent of what Theo shared as a Foray
operative whilst working with Longbottom as his operative.

"Is any of it enough to put us at a disadvantage?" he asks, uncertain why he's even allowing
the caveat. Flint has admitted to working as a spy for the resistance. It should be all he needs
to put the man to death—but maybe he will give them more.

"Warrington's always got plans," Longbottom says quietly at Draco's side. "And the
resistance leadership isn't coordinated to make the best of most of them."

Flint nods towards him. "That. As far as I can tell, Warrington's captaining a sinking ship, but
he isn't going down without a fight. Whatever you're trying to do here—whatever you think
you're going to do to him—Warrington's a cornered rat, and that's only going to grow worse
if things carry on as they are."

Draco scowls at the man. But he can't refute a word of it, and he can tell by the discomfort
that flickers across Granger's face that she agrees with the assessment. That their fight with
Warrington is only going to begin as they progress deeper into their plans.

A part of Draco relishes the thought.

He wants to be the one to draw the man's blood, though he knows others are more deserving
of it. And he's already laid claim to the Dark Lord.

A hoarse, humourless laugh falls from Flint's lips. "You're working on something, aren't
you?"

There's no sense in denying it. Not with the three of them assembled together and presenting
as a team.

Draco stares at him hard. "Yes."

"Good." The response surprises him as much as the defeat that crosses Flint's face. He presses
his eyes shut. "Someone should. This needs to end."

As much as he understands the man's resignation, he's surprised by it. By the way Flint is
willing to die—to give up on everything he's believed in for so long—for the chance to go
into oblivion knowing his family is safe.

Draco forces a swallow around the sudden lump forming in his throat.

He lifts his wand, though his hands aren't as certain as they usually are. "Tell me something,"
he breathes. "Something I can use against Warrington."

But Flint shakes his head. "It never went both ways. I didn't have anything on him."
It's the reason for the defeat on his shoulders—he knows he has nothing to give Draco. He
knows he's going to die.

"Where are they?" Draco asks, then clarifies, "Are they still in England?"

So many people fled early on. Especially the ones not afforded the protection of affluence
and influence. Even some of the old families collapsed in the wake of war, Flint's among
them.

"They aren't," Flint says. "They're on the continent. And thank Merlin for that."

Draco can feel the weight of Granger's stare. Of Longbottom's presence at his side. The
judgement.

That even if they're in this together—if they're affording him the lead on this task—neither of
them are happy about it. Draco isn't either, if he's honest with himself. But he knows better
than to let Flint walk.

"You're already dead," he says, meeting Flint's hard gaze. "A dozen people saw you fall
today."

He doesn't even know why he's speaking the thought out loud. He promised Flint a quick
death. It's all he can do for the man.

Feeling a sudden and uncharacteristic surge of indecision, Draco reaches out for Granger's
mind. Nudges against her mental walls, some part of him desperate for a foothold. For a life
raft.

In an instant, she lets him in. It's a small antechamber like the one she's offered him before,
but her mind is gentle and understanding against his own.

It's alright, her mind tells him. This decision is yours and I will stand by whatever you choose
—but you don't have to kill him. His death today isn't a necessary one.

Draco remains silent for a long moment, then offers another thought into her head. He will
betray us.

Not if you let him live. If you let his family live.

Wrought with tension, Draco presses his eyes shut. He coils the mental thread around
Granger's, seeking her assurance. He doesn't slip from her mind, and she doesn't force him
out. If anything, she offers him solace.

Long moments pass. Minutes wherein he and Flint stare at each other, Longbottom stiff at his
other side.

As if so many things depend on this moment. More than Draco can conceive of just now,
with his mind in a frantic state.

At last he tightens his grip on his wand and says, "Leave."

Flint's brow furrows. His eyes are glassy, watery with despair. "What do you—"

"Get out of Britain." Draco grinds his jaw, his heart throbbing an anxious pulse. "Find your
family and stay there." He presses his eyes shut. "I never want to see you again."

Flint's voice is hoarse. "You're letting me go?"

"I know what it is," Draco whispers, "to fear for the safety of your family. To act in
desperation."

The look that crosses Flint's face is one of pure relief, of a sodden spark rekindled, and for a
moment Draco thinks the man might cry. But he only nods instead. And his gratitude is so
loud he doesn't need words.

The Dark Lord will be furious, and although Draco had nothing to do with it, he will likely
bear the brunt of this anger. But Flint is dead either way—he will never again lift a wand as a
Death Eater.

"The Mark," Draco drawls, thankful for the steadiness of his voice. "I cannot perform the
spell to remove it."

Flint grimaces at the thought, and Draco's own stomach turns. It won't be pleasant—but while
Flint retains his Dark Mark the Dark Lord will be able to tune into the connection between
them.

Longbottom clears his throat. "What is it? I'll do it."

In the simple offer, Draco knows he approves of this decision, even as his mind is in disarray.
He knows that this might be one step closer, even if it feels like the opposite.

"It's incredibly dark magic," Draco allows. "And Flint will wish he were never born."

He doesn't know the details other than what Voldemort has told him. That no Death Eater can
remove his own Mark, but that a back door exists for those guilty of betrayal. That the
procedure is intentionally painful. To render the recipient with shame, dishonour, and an
experience that will haunt them forever. But Flint walks from this willingly.

It's the only way he will ever be able to live a life with his family away from all of this.

A jolt of longing darts through Draco but he doesn't dare indulge it.

Draco explains the spell, knowing well enough what Flint will endure—the price of his
freedom. But he doesn't so much as hesitate when he brandishes his forearm.

Nodding at Longbottom, Draco takes Granger's arm.

Flint stares at Draco, recognising his imminent departure. That he doesn't want Granger to
witness this part. "Thank you," he says.
 Shaking his head once, Draco meets the man's gaze for the last time. "Don't waste it. Get out
of here—take the option I never had."

Before Longbottom's spell strikes, Flint says, "Put an end to this."

Draco freezes, catching Granger's gaze. Her eyes are watery, and he can't quite dissect the
look on her face. "We intend to."

Then without waiting for what he knows to come—the searing of flesh, the agony worse than
the Cruciatus—he Apparates the two of them home.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading, friends! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. There is a chance I might
take next week off from posting for the holidays, but I am not certain yet.

Happy holidays and a Merry Christmas from me to all of you, if you celebrate, however
you celebrate - I hope the season is bright and you get to spend some time with the
people who mean the most. I'm so grateful for all of you. ♡

Love and hugs to my team, kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

PS my submission to the DHr Advent went up this week if you want some Christmas
fluff!
 Chapter 29
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Too many thoughts swirl through Draco’s mind, all of them piecemeal and none of them
quite falling into any semblance of sense.

For so long, he’s been in the middle of a war that he should never have been involved in.
Certainly not at such a depth and not for so damn long.

Especially given how young he had been when it started.

And now, as the pieces on the board begin to feel different, he doesn't know what to make of
any of it.

He sits at the desk in his study, eyeing the bookshelf while his head spins and spins.

He never wanted to involve too many other people—and now the list of people in the know
has grown precarious and tentative. He doesn’t know if he can trust any of them—aside from
Granger. He knows he can trust Granger.

It’s a startling thought—a juxtaposition from what he’s known the rest of his life altogether.

Drawing in a deep breath, Draco sinks back in his seat. He looks around the study. As it
always does, the room reminds him of times past. Times when he looked up to his father—
when he would visit the space in an effort to garner some of Lucius’ precious attention.

Times that were simpler. When things were either right and wrong; things he believed in or
things he didn’t.

Nothing makes sense any more. And most definitely, nothing is simple.

He draws the coin from his pocket.

Too many moves are already in the works—too many steps forward, and so many things that
can send them backwards instead. So many things that, if they become a misstep, could cost
them all their lives.

He taps a message into the coin, directing it to Granger’s.

Get ready. We’re leaving in ten.

Exhaustion tugs at his eyelids, and the thought of leaving the manor now is almost more than
he can handle. Every part of him feels brittle and ready to crumble to dust.

The situation with Flint has weighed on him more heavily than he cares for; his reasoning for
giving in to Warrington's demands. Heavier than he would admit to anyone, even Granger.
For as much as he knows he can trust her, and as much as he knows the reverse is also
coming to be true, there are certain weaknesses he doesn’t know how to share even with her.

Even with the woman to whom his life is irrevocably bound.

It all strikes him as a little too familiar, a spear lanced through the very centre of him.

Her returning message comes through quickly.

Where are we going?

Draco rubs at his dry eyes.

His soul feels weary, his bones cold and fragile. The weight is too much, and it’s sat on him
for too long. He doesn’t know what to make of any of it most days. But he has no choice but
to press on, relying on some unseen and wavering faith to push through in the hopes that one
day he might be able to breathe a little deeper.

Nothing remains of his energy, and he frowns at the coin.

We’re taking a fucking picnic in the park. Just get ready.

The lack of response that follows seems altogether too loud as he stares at the coin. Releasing
a sigh, he lifts his wand again and taps another word.

Please.

He can almost picture the look on her face, and despite himself, a wry grin curls one corner
of his mouth. He imagines the affront; the cocked, disapproving brow. The way she refuses to
take shit from him, even now, even with everything they’re up against.

Especially now.

She’s his wife, and even though the idea has had time to settle in and take root, for the
benefits of the situation to begin taking place, it’s odd to parse through in his own mind.

Hermione Granger. Hermione Malfoy.

It’s nothing like what he ever envisioned, but it's the hand he’s been dealt. The one he is to
play to the best of his ability. To victory or ruin.

Her message comes through at last.

See you in ten.

Hermione eyes Malfoy as he jams his hands into his pockets, walking quietly along at her
side as they venture into a part of town she doesn’t recognise. They’re in London, but he
hasn’t explained why or where they're going, and he’s been oddly quiet.
His expression is set hard with discontent, mirrored in the magic that nudges against her own.
That she’s grown increasingly aware of as the days pass.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?" she asks, aware of the feeble, hesitant tone to
her own words.

Malfoy releases a sigh.

He looks tired—exhausted. More so than she’s ever seen him, if she’s honest.

It’s almost startling to think that he’s willing to show her this side of him. When for so long
he had been impenetrable, a fortress of will and malice and so many other things she hadn’t
known how to see.

Or maybe he’s just empty of everything but this—the raw, depleted part of him that lingers
when he runs out of everything else.

She’s seen glimpses of it. The night when he was sent out on a mission before the bonding
ritual.

The evening after the party when he returned back to their quarters tortured half to death.

“I am,” he drawls at last, then squints at a nearby street sign. He leads her around the corner,
rolling the strain from his neck. With a quick glance down the otherwise empty street, he
draws his wand to cast a series of spells.

He’s so quick, so proficient with his spellcasting, that she might have missed most of them if
not for the fact that they’re all the ones she would have cast were she the one in search of
privacy.

“It’s become increasingly evident,” he says, “that we can’t carry on as we’ve been doing. Not
with so many pieces in motion—and now with other people involved.”

Hermione watches him, waiting for the truth of the matter. But even now, she finds herself
fascinated with his disposition.

Sometimes she can’t help but to compare this version of Draco Malfoy to the version she
knew during their days hunting each other. He’s different, but at his core, he’s the same.

Only now he carries so many more facets that she never would have recognised before.
Because now she can see him in the light.

“So we’re… what?" she asks, scuffing the toe of her boot on the pavement. “Walking through
London to make plans?”

Malfoy scowls at her, but something in his cold, dour countenance lightens a shred. She’ll
take it as enough of a victory to count.

“We are walking through London,” he drawls, “because I don’t trust that the magic of
Apparition can’t be tracked. At least, not until all of the appropriate protections are in place.
Any spell can be tracked with enough effort, and a powerful Finite Incantatem can even sort
through Apparition.”

It's enough to pique her curiosity once more.

But he carries on before she can say anything more. “We are… making a purchase. Sort of.”

All at once, the explanation stirs something within her. That they can’t carry on within the
manor—she knows as much as well. There are too many eyes and ears around every corner,
and their dealings with Nott are sure to be noticed. Never mind that they’re coordinating with
Harry and Neville now too, to an extent.

“Are we now,” she muses, eyeing the tall houses on either side of them.

Malfoy nods once. “We are.”

The building he stops in front of doesn’t strike her as anything special. It’s a Muggle
neighbourhood which in itself is interesting given Malfoy’s predispositions, but it looks just
like any of the ones around it.

A good reason, she realises, for the selection.

She almost can’t believe it.

Malfoy draws a key from his pocket, and a string of wandless spells tumble from his lips
before he even slides it into the lock. Hermione feels the powerful wash of his magic roll
across her skin when he swings the door open.

“I was going to invite you along for the real estate hunt,” he drawls, casting another series of
revealing charms as he stands in the foyer. “But it turned out to be much simpler than
necessary. And I haven't wanted to raise unnecessary questions or call excess attention to it.”

“Does Theo know?” she asks, peering around into the house. It’s sparsely furnished, and a
thin layer of dust sits on some of the surfaces.

“No one knows,” Malfoy returns. “The real estate agent and everyone involved in the sale
have had all knowledge of the meeting extracted from their minds, along with false
information implanted about where the money came from.”

Memory modification spells always tug at something uneasy within her, and she doesn’t
respond. She quashes an errant thought of her parents—this isn't a world for them to live in
anyway.

“And won’t someone notice the money going missing?”

Malfoy cocks a brow.

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she realises how absurd the question is, thinking back
to the utterly obscene wealth she witnessed in his vault.
But he answers anyway. “No. I withdrew a sum when we were at Gringotts to get your ring,
and I didn’t reveal my purposes to anyone while we were there. The goblins are unable to
witness the deposit or withdrawal activity on such a high level vault.”

At the intricacy of everything he’s put into this venture, Hermione can’t help but marvel.

“It’s… nice,” she allows at last, drifting further into the house.

“It’s fine,” he returns, with a crisp nod. “Nothing special—exactly as it’s meant to be.”

Although the house is an ordinary Muggle abode, the air is already rich with magic, and
Hermione knows instinctively how heavily he’s imbued it with wards and protective magic.

Hermione nods. “So this is… what, our base of operations?”

A smirk twitches at his mouth, the first real show of amusement since they met up that
afternoon. “Something like that. You’re the Secret Keeper.”

The words clang through her mind, and she’s struck suddenly with the level of trust such a
position merits. She’s oddly touched, despite that she knows it’s the most pragmatic solution.
“Okay,” she returns quietly, catching his eye for a moment.

And for just a second longer, he stares at her, his expression softening. Something settles in
the space between them that she can’t quite put her finger on.

She suspects it’s some extension of everything that’s occurred between them in the last
months.

“So I need you to keep this place protected with your life,” Malfoy says, his throat bobbing
with a swallow when he averts his gaze at last. “And we’ll go from there.”

“Okay,” she says again.

The kitchen has a small round table with four wooden chairs perched around it. The sitting
room is bare but for a single armchair along one wall. A small end table sits at the nearest
corner.

“If we… expand,” he adds, “and we bring people in, then things will change as needed.” He
lifts a brow at her confusion, and adds, “Theo. Potter. Longbottom. I don’t know—we’ll have
to see how it plays out. For now, this is a safe space for you and I to work on what comes
next without anyone seeing or hearing anything they shouldn’t.”

She smiles at the thought. They feel like more of a team than ever, and though she knows so
many things contribute to the fact, both internally and externally, warmth coils within her.

“Yes,” she returns with a nod. “It makes sense.”

His fingers graze her elbow. “Good.” He meets her eye again. “We’ll need to be careful, but I
thought you might like to spend some of your time making this place a little… nicer.
Furniture, maybe a coat of paint or two. A bit of life.”
The thought makes her swallow, and for a fleeting instant, she envisions what might be
possible. It’s just a house now, scuffed white walls and aged carpet, worn almost threadbare
in places.

But what he’s offering… it’s not just a base of operations. It could be a home.

A home of sorts—enough of one for her to be able to breathe just a little deeper.

“Leave it to me,” she muses, drifting her fingers along his arm. “I think I can make
something work. And we’ll both like it.”

“I thought you might,” he says quietly in return.

And she can’t help the true smile that draws at her mouth.

Legs crossed beneath her as she leans against the blank white wall, Hermione allows her
mind to drift. For the first time in as long as she can remember, she's alone. For years, she
was surrounded by resistance fighters, and even in the weeks since she left to Malfoy Manor,
she hasn’t been truly alone, even when Malfoy has been out.

The unease has sat on her ever since, a tight compression in her chest and shoulders. That
feeling that there's always someone keeping an eye on her.

Malfoy responded to a summons in his Dark Mark shortly after he brought her to the house
he purchased, and he gave Hermione the option to return with him or remain at the house.

She'd jumped instantly at the chance.

Although the air is a bit stale, she draws deep, relaxing breaths, basking in the isolation of it.
Spending most of her time in the manor feels almost as stifling as when she was crammed
into a resistance safehouse.

The house isn't anything special—as Malfoy intended when he selected it—but she can't help
a smile. He'll allow her free reign, within reason, to bring the small space to life, and it feels
nice to have a project that isn't related to some sort of life or death mission.

Although they'll have to be careful, especially with making any purchases in public, Malfoy
withdrew and converted enough galleons into pounds that they should be able to visit only
with Muggle shops, glamoured to disguise their appearance.

The thought sinks in slowly. That it's probably the nicest thing Malfoy's ever offered her,
whether intentional or not.

As the manor's constrictive strain seeps from her skin, an odd sense of relief swells instead,
and it's enough to cause her chest to tighten in a different way entirely. Her eyes grow watery
and she hastily swipes the tear that threatens, chiding herself. It's a sitting room, not
something truly sentimental.

Maybe it's the fact that it's a true step in the right direction.
They've been toeing too many lines by planning their next course of action within the manor,
under the suspicious watch of too many Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself.

It's all been layers upon layers of excuses, half-truths, and downright lies—but this is
something entirely theirs.

Her mind spins, turning over idle thoughts of how they might transform the nondescript
space—and while mostly unproductive, she's almost delighted by the thought of it. A wry
smile pulls at her lips and she can't find it within herself to push back the anticipation.

The doorknob rattles and she tenses, grappling instinctively for her wand. Maybe they've
been found out, and her joy has been tremendously short-lived.

But before she can jump to her feet, she spots a flash of blond and relaxes. Malfoy eyes her
as he closes and wards the door, not bothering to hide his bemusement. "Why are you on the
floor?"

"Why not the floor?" she asks, tucking her wand back into its holster. "I'm thinking. You were
quick."

"Just a briefing for an upcoming mission," he drawls, and to her surprise, he crosses the room
and drops down onto the floor beside her. His head falls back against the wall with a quiet
thud, and his shoulder presses firmly against her own. "Do you like it? I know it's nothing
fancy."

"It's perfect," she says, her voice carrying more sentiment than she meant to reveal. She can
feel his gaze slide to land on her. "It's just what we need, I mean."

Malfoy nods once. "I think so, too." Silence falls for a long moment, as though neither of
them are keen to break the easy quiet, then he huffs, "Fuck, I'm tired. Are you ever just...
tired?"

She can sense the deeper meaning, and she doesn't suspect he's referring to a lack of sleep. So
she whispers, "All the time."

He shifts, dropping his face into her shoulder. His next words are muffled. "I'm so bloody
sick of pretending. I don't want any of this—I don't want to fight for a fucking sadist."

Her stomach clenches into a knot at the admission, at the raw, devastating honesty.

"I know," Hermione breathes. Every shred of vulnerability he displays leaves her out of sorts,
and this is no different. But maybe she knows him better now. She recognises the small
details that make him tick.

He's familiar.

She slides her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp, and instead of tensing he only
deflates further, as though he's run out of everything that keeps him going from day to day.

"We're going to get through this," she murmurs. "I know it doesn't always feel like it."
"There's so much," he says.

He doesn't need to finish the thought when she knows exactly what he means. So many of
their plans are just plans, yet to be enacted, and so many things can go wrong.

"We can only do what we can do." Hermione wishes she could believe her own words with
more conviction. But halfway is all she has right now. "The important part is that we are
doing."

"Yeah," he mutters, lifting his head from her shoulder. His eyes meet hers, dull and forlorn, a
furrow of sadness drawing at his brow. He blows out a breath. "You're right." To her surprise,
a chuckle falls from his lips, as though at the words that left his mouth. "Merlin, imagine if
I'd killed you."

A laugh slips from her, bright and genuine. "You'd have made more problems for yourself."

His amusement drops off almost immediately, but his gaze remains intent and fixated on her.
"I would have." He hesitates for a moment, and then says, "Do you believe in fate? That
things happen for a reason?"

"I don't know." The question catches her off guard. "I don't think so. Not after everything
that's happened. I can't believe all of this—years spent fighting in a war that never ends—has
any true purpose in the scope of the universe."

Sometimes she wishes she could truly read Draco Malfoy's mind—to reach beneath his skull
and dissect his thoughts and motivations. The mercurial characteristic that drives him from
one mood to the next. From the side of him that's cold and ruthless and deadened to the
atrocious things he needs to do in order to survive.

To the side of him that sits beside her now, silent and pensive, a lost soul gazing back at her.
"Yeah," he says again, twisting his mouth to the side. "Yeah, of course. But... what if this
world was meant to collapse because it wasn't working? What if you and I were meant to
survive to this point—to work together to a new end?" Even as he speaks, he shakes his head.
"It's bollocks, of course."

But a wry smile curls her lips. "Maybe it isn't all bollocks."

Because every so often she can feel something between them, beyond the deep-seated
animosity and the slow thaw borne of necessity and ambition. The way she can sometimes
detect his magic even when she isn't looking for it.

"Maybe we were meant to do this," she murmurs. "To put an end to all of this chaos."

"From chaos," he says, the words soft with reverence, "comes order."

Then he's kissing her, his mouth soft but firm, the easy slide of his tongue when it meets hers
awakening the heat in her core. Breathless in an instant, she draws him close, the reckless
rove of their hands on each other making quick work of the clothes that separate them.
It was only a matter of time, she supposes as she drags her fingers through his hair, before
they christened the new house.

And they do, right there on the threadbare carpet.

"Next steps," Draco says, sifting through a stack of parchment on the kitchen table. He's
made their excuses with the Dark Lord, and the pair of them have spent the day holed up in
their new base. Granger's snagged a few new furnishings so far, and he was surprised that
morning to see she'd painted the sitting room a soft grey-blue. He glances away and adds,
"Now that Flint's out of the picture."

He appreciates that she hasn't called him out on it. That she didn't ask too many questions, as
though she trusted him to make the right call.

If they ever see Flint again, it'll be with their heads on the chopping block. But Draco
suspects the man has enough self-preservation to stay far away.

At least until all of this is over.

Granger releases a sigh and echoes, "Next steps."

Drawing a careful breath, Draco says, "Thicknesse."

Her eyes land on his. "What are you thinking?"

"A hit," Draco says, cold and decisive. "Upheaval. Remove the Dark Lord's man atop the
Ministry and watch the pieces crumble while they rush to find someone new."

"A blow to the Dark side," Granger reasons, "but also to wizarding society."

"A reset," he corrects. "And a much needed one." He slants her a look, drawing his coin out.
"But who would be in line? The Ministry hasn't had a stable bureaucracy in years."

Curiosity tugs at her brow. "I don't know."

Draco begins sending messages. "I think I have an idea."

Within an hour, they number five. Although the mission with Flint went off better than he
anticipated, Draco's been hesitant enough about letting anyone else into the new house that he
arranged the meeting spot for the same forest as the last time.

It'll take more than one thwarted spy to garner that much trust.

"I'm looking for a hit on Pius Thicknesse," he says without preamble.

Potter blinks at him. "He's Imperiused."

"No, he isn't." Draco paces the small clearing. "That might have been the case early on—but
Thicknesse has always been an opportunist. He never took the Mark—too openly biased for
the Minister to take a side like that—but it didn't take the top job for his loyalty to lock on
permanently. And besides, it would have been too easy to free him from the Imperius years
ago."

He points to Theo, who stands beside a tense Longbottom. "Take care of it?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," Theo says, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I'll figure something out."

If nothing else, Draco can still count on Theo to take care of business.

But Longbottom fixes Theo with a look and clears his throat. "I'll do it."

"I will do it," Theo confirms, grinding his heel into the top of Longbottom's foot. The latter's
jaw tightens.

Draco waves a dismissive hand. "One of you, then. Work it out together, yeah?" The last
thing he needs is for a lover's spat to break out, but there's something reassuring in knowing
Longbottom has Theo's back—especially given the way matters between them have been
stilted by questions of Theo's wavering loyalty.

At the end of the day, Draco doesn't care who does it or how, as long as Thicknesse is no
longer a piece on the board.

Potter folds his arms, a frown on his face as he looks between them. "Say in theory I
understand why you're taking Thicknesse out of the equation—but where is the situation
meant to go from there? You could end up with someone in the position with ties to the
resistance, and you certainly won't be any better off."

For days, Draco's weighed the gamble in his mind, sifting through the pros and cons, and
hoping against everything that it's a viable option.

"Which is why we need it to be someone with both the experience and the influence—
someone not in the resistance."

Hermione shifts at his side as he speaks the words, as if she's piecing together the same
thread of logic, and she sucks in a breath. A smirk draws at Draco's mouth.

"Years back," he drawls, "I heard talk of your pal Shacklebolt in line for the Minister's seat."

Potter scoffs. "Kingsley's high level resistance and that isn't a secret. If that's your great plan
—"

"And he'll never get the position if that remains the case," Draco says, cutting him off. "The
Sacred Twenty-Eight holds plenty of sway inside the Ministry and they will never support it.
But he's still one of us—they will if he openly severs ties with the resistance."

The small clearing falls into a hush.

Granger's eyes glimmer when they catch his.

At last Potter drops his chin and says, "I see."

"Do you?"

The ramifications if this doesn't pan out are staggeringly against him, and Draco hates those
odds. But if he can dislodge Shacklebolt from the clutches of the resistance, it'll not only be a
blow to Warrington and the other resistance leadership, but it'll throw a wrench in
Voldemort's power too.

Unfortunately, he has no way of ensuring the bureaucracy's direction.

Potter shakes his head slowly, almost incredulous. "It makes sense—if it plays out."

"Precisely," Draco clips. "And all of our lives depend on it. I need you to persuade
Shacklebolt that he can contribute more to the wizarding world as a whole from a seat atop
the Ministry than a grungy safe house with the resistance."

"Kingsley is dedicated to the resistance," Granger speaks up though she's been curiously
quiet. "If Harry tries to convince him of anything along those lines, it'll be suspicious."

Smirking, Draco shoots her a look. "Not if Pius Thicknesse is dead."

Another of those tense silences fall over the group, and Draco would swear he can hear four
other brains spinning.

"High risk," Longbottom says at last, squaring his shoulders. "High reward."

Considering Longbottom and Potter came into the situation relatively blind, Draco has to
admit, they're assets to the cause right now. He recalls the way Longbottom held strong in the
face of his questioning, and he suspects the man is little more than a mercenary at this point.
It's an intriguing juxtaposition from the boy he remembers when they were at Hogwarts
together.

But then he remembers, not for the first time, the man beheaded Voldemort's snake.

"Precisely," Draco clips, eyes sliding between the group. He glances at his watch; he can only
make so many excuses for why he's been away from the manor more than usual before his
motives garner suspicion.

"So I'll have to approach Kingsley after we take out Thicknesse?" Potter asks. The question
hangs between them all—the precarious timing of it and all the many things that could go
wrong.

Theo's the one to respond. "It's likely the only way to keep Shacklebolt from growing
suspicious and conferring with Warrington and the other resistance leaders. He can't know
any of what's happening behind the scenes here. But you'll have the inside line to when it
happens—so there will be a small window where we can act." He allows a grimace in Potter's
direction. "You'll have to be more persuasive than you've ever been before."
 Draco knows what that means. That if Shacklebolt refuses, they'll have to put him under an
Imperius.

By the unease that takes Potter's countenance when he shifts on the spot, Draco surmises he
understands well enough too. If Shacklebolt doesn't make a play for the Minister's seat in the
wake of Thicknesse's removal and someone else takes the position instead, all of this will be
for nothing.

And a part of him desperately desires the blow to Warrington's chain of command. There's
too much bad blood between them at this point and Draco wants to see the man knocked
down a peg or two.

"Got it," Potter says in a low voice. "But for the record, all of this... everything I'm doing is
for Hermione."

"I never suspected otherwise," Draco drawls.

"Thanks, Harry," Hermione says, offering her friend a tentative smile. "I know most of this
doesn't make sense, and this is all unorthodox—and we'll all wind up dead if things backfire."
She lets the sentiment hang, as if any of them don't already know this. "But I do hope you
know everything we're doing is in an effort to put an end to this nightmare."

"I know," Potter says gruffly. "I get it now."

Then his stare slides to Draco, and he offers a nod. A quiet moment passes, and Draco
believes him. "Right, then. Theo, Longbottom—for fuck's sake, do not let anyone know
who's behind the hit, yeah? Let everyone know as soon as it's done."

"Then I'm up," Potter adds.

There's a lot to be said for fighters who are tired of the fight. Who want nothing more than to
put an end to the mess they're in, no matter the cost.

They all have so little left to lose.

Draco blows out a breath, searching within himself for some shred of fortification. "Okay.
Then we proceed."

Granger's fingers brush his when the rest of the group Disapparates, and he draws her silently
into him before Apparating them both back to the manor. He can only hope against
everything that this works out.

Chapter End Notes

Hello! Thank you all so much for your patience with me in taking the holidays off from
posting. I realized partway through December how burnt out I was, and sometimes
posting a new chapter makes me very stressed out lol. I hope you enjoyed this one, and
we're back on regular Tuesday updates moving forward. Big things are coming for these
guys! I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season, and wishing you the very best in
2023!

BTW follow me on twitter for updates and snippets on my fanfic and original writing!

Alpha and beta hugs, as always, to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

 Chapter 30
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The instant Hermione awakens, tension seizes hold. She and Malfoy don't know the details—
it's best for fewer people to know—but anxiety wracks her spine even as she forces herself to
rise from her bed.

If everything goes well, Thicknesse will be dead by sundown. Leaving the Ministry with a
rather gaping hole and decisions to make.

Maybe the part of her that might have resisted this in the past is now dead to this sort of
thing. To the idea that certain lives aren't worth the consequences of this war carrying on in
perpetuity. The plan, if carried out as they hope, will have far-reaching effects on both the
resistance and the Death Eaters—as well as ripples that will impact the rest of wizarding
Britain as a whole.

When she emerges into the sitting room, dressed in casual clothes and with only mild effort
afforded to her curls, she isn't surprised to see Malfoy already awake though he doesn't look
quite as flawless as she's come to expect from him. He wears a thin pair of frames as he scans
that morning's Daily Prophet.

Hermione slips into a seat at the off breakfast table across from him, helping herself to a mug
of coffee. "Couldn't sleep?" she asks.

Although he's hardly acknowledged her presence, he turns the page and murmurs, "Not in the
slightest."

Early on, she might have been surprised to find honesty on his lips. Now, she's grown
accustomed to the side of him that no one else sees. She suspects it's made the situation
between them more palatable.

"All we can do is wait," she says, selecting a slice of toast and an assortment of cubed fruit
from the platter before her. "And hope everything turns out."

"Yeah." He rakes a hand through his hair, further mussing the pale strands. "I just hate it. If
this goes wrong today..."

When Hermione looks more closely, she can see the deep shadows bruising the pale skin
below his eyes.

He doesn't need to finish the sentence, when her own imagination has been thorough at filling
in the gaps. Neville and Theo could get caught—and the two of them implicated as a result.
Malfoy's ability to control things is borne of Voldemort's trust in him, and it's a difficult line
to hold.
If any of this goes wrong, they're all dead.

It's a precarious line, but they have no choice but to keep walking it.

As Hermione sips her coffee and nibbles at her breakfast, Malfoy makes his way through the
Prophet, though his eyes scan with only cursory interest. Like it's habit rather than curiosity
that keeps his focus on the page.

"We should go for a walk," Hermione says at last, finishing her toast. She eyes the grounds
through the window. "It looks like a nice day out."

And they could both use a distraction today.

"Fine," he murmurs, glancing up as he tosses the paper aside. "That's fine. I've been thinking
we ought to look around for some furniture for the house, but... maybe not today."

"Best not to taunt too many beasts at once," she muses.

A wry smirk tugs at his mouth, the first show of amusement she's seen since waking up.
"Something like that."

Hermione scrubs at her own eyes, attempting to dispel some of the frustration that holds her
in its grasp. "It might be a good idea to be seen around the manor today anyway." She shoots
him a glance. "Just in case."

"Good idea." The response is so straightforward and open, and she's surprised by how easy
it's become for the pair of them to acknowledge each other in such a way. "The last thing we
need is for anyone to grow suspicious."

An hour later, they reconvene in the sitting room, Hermione in a sleek but casual dress, and
Malfoy in an elegant shirt and trousers. Even when it's just the two of them, it's still a show—
it's always a show—and it would be both foolish and dangerous to ever imagine otherwise.

They walk the manor in idle conversation, and despite the tension that always hovers around
every corner, the exercise is enough to dispel some of Hermione's nervous energy. She quells
any remaining trace of it lest anyone see.

Malfoy's expression vacillates between cool indifference and cruel disdain—just another
mask he wears that she's come to recognise as surely as the one of silver and black. It's
remarkable when she truly thinks on it—when she attempts to dissect all the ways in which
things between them have changed.

They visit the gardens, inspecting Narcissa's floral bushes in her absence, and Hermione
thinks not for the first time of the conversation they shared regarding the war.

She finds herself curious so she asks Malfoy about the wellbeing of his parents—though she
can’t truly be bothered over Lucius—and he fills her in with banal assurances.

Her life in the manor is so bland and surface level. She knows if it weren't a necessity for
their circumstances, she would hate it. Sometimes, she tries to imagine if she were to marry
Malfoy in a different context—or any pureblood of his standing—without the war weren't
hanging over them and she can't do it. The lack of personality she's forced to maintain and
independence she has to surrender makes her skin crawl.

Eyes follow them through every room and across the grounds, and though she knows it's a
good thing that they likely won't be implicated in anything that's set to happen later that day,
Hermione despises the show.

Malfoy's palm lands on the small of her back, soothing yet possessive, and she wonders
whether he can tell how unnerved she is despite her best efforts to maintain a casual air.

If nothing else, at least she has him.

It's a laughable thought—that Malfoy has become her greatest ally. Or it might be if their
lives weren't so dependent on the presentation of it.

He ducks in to speak in a low voice, his breath ghosting the shell of her ear, his body tense.

Yaxley's watching them from down the corridor, and although Hermione doesn't like any of
the Death Eaters, every encounter with Yaxley leaves her feeling as though she'll never be
warm again. Or clean.

He eyes the pair of them with a cold sneer, and the only way she recognises the shift in
Malfoy's countenance is by the way his fingers curl into her back. He lifts his chin and purrs
a cold, "Yaxley."

"Lieutenant." The acknowledgement from Yaxley doesn't carry half the respect as it does
from the rest of them, but Malfoy's face doesn't betray a thing. Yaxley stares between them,
his eyes cold and dead. "Out for a walk. How pleasant."

Malfoy levels Yaxley with a look, and it's enough to drop the temperature in the room.
Hermione opts to stay silent, to let him deal with it. A part of her basks in it—in the cruelty
that dances in his eyes as he observes the man.

So many parts of herself now she never would have recognised before.

"It is pleasant," Malfoy drawls, his tone inferring anything but.

"Mm," Yaxley agrees, "even despite the unpleasant happenings of late. Marcus Flint, for
instance."

Malfoy lifts a single brow. "Indeed."

The Dark Lord had been frustrated over losing a strong fighter—but Death Eaters fell in
battle regularly. A necessary side effect of the war carrying on as long as it has. Malfoy had
taken his anger in stride, and he hadn't had anything to report beyond what Voldemort had
already learned.

Exactly as they'd planned.

Hermione still remembers the way he returned to their quarters late in the night after the
party. The way the Dark Lord's vitriol had nearly left him in the ground, beaten to a pulp. She
doesn't imagine she'll soon forget the consequences of the Dark Lord's temper.

And they'll be playing with fire with Thicknesse's murder.

"One can't help but notice," Yaxley continues, conversational yet leading, "the two of you
have been... absent quite a lot lately. I sure hope there isn't anything going on that we ought
to be aware of."

Malfoy snorts, cruel amusement dancing in his gaze. "And are you our keeper? Am I not
allowed to enjoy time alone with my wife without lecherous eyes following our every step?
Need I seek permission before doing anything in my own house? Before leaving the grounds
on my own business?"

Despite his mild tone, Hermione can sense the warning tone beneath it.

Yaxley's upper lip curls with the makings of a sneer—but he must recognise it too. The razor
sharp edge beneath the congenial. But there's something else within it as well—a coolly
patronising suggestion. That the time they spend together is not for anyone else to witness.

She might blush if it weren't true. If she didn't know better to keep a lock on her emotions.

So Hermione only lifts her chin and allows a hint of a smile for her husband. Infuses a little
heat into her eyes.

Yaxley shifts on the spot, called out, but eventually he dips his chin in deference. "Of course,
Lieutenant."

She frequently suspects Yaxley's mental state is fractured. Of all the Death Eaters she sees
with any regularity, Yaxley is the one who unnerves her the most outside of Voldemort
himself. But even he reports to Malfoy although his words don't contain any true respect.

Sometimes Hermione wonders exactly how the man at her side earned so much of the Dark
Lord's trust at such a young age. But she knows well enough. And she doesn't care to learn
the ugly details of it—there isn't any sense in lingering on the past when they have such a
different path ahead of them.

A path that doesn't include the sins they've committed before now.

Yaxley strides away from them without any further hesitation, and Malfoy stares after him for
a long moment, eyes narrowed with sharp focus.

His face remains blank, chest lifting and falling with slow, easy breaths. His eyes slide to
meet hers.

And under his breath, less than a whisper, he says, "He's going to be a problem."

"Yes." Locking her hand into the crook of his elbow, Hermione allows him to lead her
onward. She offers him a thin smile with a low, "What do you have in mind?"
The look that crosses his face would chill her to the bone if they weren't on the same side
now. But he hunted her for long enough that she recognises the gleam of murderous intent.

And she can't deny the slight thrill—doesn't want to.

Smoothing his hand along the small of her back, he drawls, straightening, "I'm certain we'll
think of something."

Following a long, indulgent bath, Hermione slips into fresh knickers and a silk robe that
doesn't quite reach her knees. Although there's nothing either of them can do about the
situation now, nervous energy has quaked through her veins all day. She's fatigued, but knows
she won't find sleep until they've heard anything.

She ties the robe, the cool fabric soothing on her bare flesh, and emerges into the sitting
room.

Malfoy's on the sofa, feet propped on the coffee table and frames perched on his nose as he
skims a letter. He freezes, gaze drifting slowly up the length of her until he reaches her stare.

He clears his throat. "Are you turning in for the night?"

"Soon," she murmurs, stepping closer so she nearly stands over him. "I may not sleep just
yet, but I thought I would get ready for bed."

He smooths one hand along the back of her bare leg, drawing her close. Hermione stands
with one knee between his legs, her core clenching at the gentle brush of his fingers against
her inner thigh. She leans down, aware of the way her robe falls a little looser. The way his
eyes slide down, as though tracking a hint of cleavage. Finding the delicate peak of her
nipples against the silk.

She brushes a kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering for a moment while he palms her
arse. Breathes a quiet, "Good night."

He doesn't respond, heated gaze following her as she slips back into her bedroom.

Draco doesn't wait for her to close the door before he tosses his letter aside and follows her
into the room. A coy smile teases against Granger's lips as she assesses him, then turns to
face the full length mirror.

"I wasn't sure if you might join me," she muses, catching his eyes in the reflection.

He allows a smirk, though he can see right through her. "It sounded like an invitation."

Smoothing a hand up her side, he catches her breast through the silk, weighing the flesh in
his hand before giving a squeeze. She's bare beneath the fabric, and he brushes his thumb
against her nipple.

Mischief lights her eyes. "It was."

Draco ducks in to brush a kiss against her jaw, standing behind her. "What's on the menu?"

Recognition flashes across her face as she sinks back against him, flush to his chest. "What
do you care for?"

He considers the question, weighing her trust in him. The fact that she even offers causes a
surge of arousal to rush through him.

You, he wants to say. Wants to bury his face between her legs and drink in her pussy until
she's writhing under his touch. But he eyes her for a moment longer, the way she's so pliant
and willing under his indolent touch. He tweaks her nipple hard and she moans, unreserved.

And maybe he wants to have a little fun first.

He doesn't always know what she does and doesn't like—he's still learning the ways her body
receives his touch—but he knows well enough that she's willing to be honest with him, and
that's empowering all on its own.

Draco reaches for the tie of her robe, tugging the silk bow and letting it fall open, exposing
her bare breasts. Her red silk knickers. He groans against her neck, teasing her nipples with
barely there touches.

"You knew exactly what you were doing," he whispers against her skin.

Desire threatens to burst through his skin, and he wants nothing more than to take her against
the wall. But he keeps his touches light, leaving her breathless as she holds his gaze in the
mirror. Sliding a hand down her stomach, towards her knickers—where he knows she's
already soaking wet—he instead catches her hand.

He doesn't miss the flicker of question in her stare.

"Show me," he breathes, tightening his hold on her wrist and moving her hand between her
legs.

In an instant, her understanding registers with a sharp intake of breath. She doesn't instantly
respond, and Draco finds himself desperate for it.

He sucks on the shell of her ear. "I want to watch."

She releases a quiet whimper.

He lets go of her wrist, unwilling to force her if she doesn't want to. But she bites down on
her lower lip and, not looking away from his stare, she brushes the gusset of her knickers. A
harsh breath falls from her lips; her pupils blow wide with desire.

Draco doesn't dare so much as blink.

Her fingers begin to move, slow, tantalising circles against her clit. She slides her other hand
slowly along her ribcage, palming one breast and squeezing the tender flesh. She presses a
thumb against her nipple, then pinches it. Her breath hitches.
"Good," Draco murmurs, unwilling to interrupt though he can't resist pressing another kiss to
her jaw. "Show me what you like best. How you get yourself off. Merlin, look at that
gorgeous body."

A low groan breaks from her lips at the words, and she grinds against her own hand. Moving
the fabric aside, she traces one finger along her slit then slides it between her folds, glistening
with moisture.

Draco bites down on his bottom lip. He's painfully hard, and though he doesn't want to
distract her, she presses her arse against him. The last thing he needs is to juice his own
trousers.

She slides a second finger inside of her with a whimper, her eyelids fluttering shut only for a
moment before sliding open to lock on his once more. Easing into a gentle rhythm, she curls
her fingers inside her, pressing against her own clit with the heel of her palm.

Draco watches, his breaths falling quicker. His own fingers itch to reach for her.

"Make yourself come," he breathes, lips brushing her cheek. "Bring yourself off for me."

She releases another cry, as though spurred on by his words, and her pace increases. Her
cheeks are flushed but she doesn't look away, holding his stare in the mirror’s reflection.
Grinding against him again, she shifts, rolling her hips into her own palm, and he can see the
moment when her orgasm hits.

She moans, fingers missing a beat, and tenses as pleasure wracks her form. She falters,
fingers still buried inside her own cunt.

"That's it," Draco whispers, reverent against her skin. She sags against him and he bands an
arm across her front, holding her against his chest. He drawls against her ear, "Another."

Her eyes snap open, still glassy with pleasure. For a moment, they only stare at each other,
and he's certain she's going to say no. But she slides her fingers from her folds, slick with her
own juices, and brushes them against her clit.

Draco catches her wrist and brings her fingers to his mouth. Holding her gaze in the mirror,
he sucks her come from each of her fingers in turn, watching the way her eyes blow wide
once more. Licking the delectable moisture from her fingers, he says again, "Another.
Please."

He can hear the desperation in his voice, but he can't dredge forth even an ounce of shame.
He wants nothing more than to watch her fall apart, again and again in his arms.

He'll watch her come all night if he can. See how much pleasure they can wring from her
body.

She slides the silk knickers from her hips, letting them pool on the floor before kicking them
aside. She wears nothing more than the short robe now, hanging useless from her shoulders.

"Touch me, then," she whispers, and brings his hand to her breast.
Draco bites down on her earlobe, pinches her nipples, basks in the groan he draws forth.

And she sets about herself again, her careful pace giving way to something a little more
erratic, a little more wild. He marvels at her sensitivity, her courage, the way she draws
pleasure from her own flesh for his indulgence.

"That's it," Draco purrs in her ear, teasing the sensitive peaks of her nipples. "Fuck, Granger,
you're so damn hot."

A cry bursts from her lips as she comes again, her entire body seizing with the force of it, and
Draco nearly comes at the way pleasure takes her. The harsh expulsion of breath; the furrow
in her brow.

He needs this with a desperation that courses in his veins, hammers behind his ears, pulses
with adrenaline.

Tearing the robe from her shoulders, he scoops her up into his arms and lays her onto the bed.
She reaches for him, her eyes still glassy with the pleasure she's already wrought forth, but
Draco pulls his shirt over his head with one hand, then releases his belt and yanks his jeans
down.

"More," he says, asks, begs.

Granger gapes at him, without words, even as she rubs at his cock through his shorts. "I don't
know—"

"Another." He lowers his chin, licks his lips. "Let me."

A smile curls her lips—something in between disbelief and pure, raw lust. "Okay."

Seeing her laid bare before him, he longs to worship at the altar of her flesh.

Before she can say anything more he spreads her legs wide and dives in, sucking on the
tender flesh, drawing her clit between his lips. He laps at her, tasting the juices she brought
forth by her own touch, and all at once he's ravenous for her. For the way cries tumble from
her lips even now; the way her fingers tangle in his hair and tug so hard that the pain of it
stings.

He thrusts two fingers into her, curling them against her walls, meeting that spot that he
knows makes her crumble.

Draco wants to draw release from her again, to see how many times she can come. She
begins to tense, her legs wrapping around him, and he softens his touch, circling his tongue
against her clit, sucking on the flesh.

Merlin, he wants to bury himself in her. He never wants to stop watching her.

She comes with a sharp cry of his name, glorious from her lips, and she rides his tongue
through her orgasm, hips bucking against him. Harsh, ragged breaths fall from her lips, a
sheen of sweat on her brow, and she deflates into the bedding.
A soft, sated smile curls her lips.

Draco smirks up at her from between her legs and drawls, "Another."

At this, a disbelieving huff falls from her lips. "I don't have another."

He doesn't look away, holding her stare, and offers a bit of a smile. "Are you sure?"

Granger bites on her bottom lip and returns a lazy grin. "As much as this is wonderful," she
murmurs, dragging her nails along his scalp, "I fear you've wrung me dry."

He presses a kiss to her inner thigh, then the other, writing a slow, indolent trail up her
abdomen. She clenches beneath him, her knees knocking together as a quiet breath slides
from her lungs. Sucking one nipple between his lips then the other, he breathes, "If you're
sure."

When she hesitates, he smirks.

At this point, he wants anything she's willing to give, even if it means his own release doesn't
come. Even if he needs to finish himself off in the loo.

He's delirious with the idea of drawing still more pleasure from her body.

But she reaches for him. Leaving him unsatisfied is not even a thought in her mind. She
palms him through his shorts then pushes them from his hips, taking him fully into her hand.

Lacing her fingers into his hair, she drags his mouth to hers and murmurs, "You're welcome
to try."

Then she slots him against her, and with a rakish grin, Draco slides into her.

"You," she gasps as he rolls his hips against hers, seeking salvation inside her searing heat,
"are a constant surprise."

He draws her mouth against his in another heated kiss, their tongues tangling as she winds a
leg around his hip. "I always want you to get off."

It isn't a lie—if she doesn't come, he doesn't want to either. He's addicted to it.

Knowing she's already sensitive, he moves slowly against her, stirring desire within them
both despite that he feels like he won't last. Her pussy is so wet, so tight around him, and she
meets him thrust for thrust, urging him deeper, harder, their breaths mingling and skin flush.

"Another?" he asks, smirking against her mouth. Brushes his thumb against her clit.

Amusement and surprise colour her tone as she whispers, "Yes. Fuck, Draco."

"Yeah," he groans, bringing their bodies together again and again. As he feels them both
approach that peak, he opens his mind to hers. Finds the current of power roving between
 them, and nudges against her magical core with his own. The feel of it is nearly enough to
drive him to madness. "Give me one more."

She tightens around him at once, a bright cry tumbling from her lips, and her nails bite into
his shoulders as she clutches him tight. A jumble of curses slide from her lips as yet another
orgasm crashes through her, and this one he can feel too.

Unable to hold back, he welcomes his own release, the force of it blurring the edges of his
vision with a star-speckled blackness. It's so intense he can't keep track of his own thoughts,
his mind and body a mass of feeling, and for a moment, he can't tell himself distinct from her.

Her pleasure is his, and his own orgasm courses through her.

It's more than he ever imagined—more than he can handle.

They collapse in a heap of little more than magic and sensation, rapid breaths mingling as
one. Draco doesn't know how much time passes before his eyes slide open, the pleasure at
last dissipating, and his heart roars in his chest as he blinks at her.

Granger only stares at him, eyelids heavy, and Draco suspects she has no more words.

She shifts against him, her legs coiling with his, and her eyes flutter shut.

His heart races for long minutes as he draws her against his chest, pulling the blankets over
them both. Almost as an afterthought—despite that it was his focus for most of the day—
Draco casts a wordless summoning charm on his golden coin.

The face of it is warm when it hits his palm, and Granger blinks sleepy eyes open to stare at it
when he reveals the message.

It's done. Phase two commence.

They share a glance, the significance of it burying itself deep within Draco's being. A slow,
lazy smirk draws across his face as he slides into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading. The continued support on this fic means more than I
can say, and your comments make me smile week after week. I hope you liked the
chapter! (And how are we already at 150k??)

As always, hugs and love to my team, kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

 Chapter 31
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The instant his mind stirs into wakefulness, Draco's struck with recollections of the night
before. Hermione's tangled up around him, not a breath of air between them. He releases a
slow exhale through his nose and sinks back into the pillow.

He doesn't know what time it is, but the morning light seeping in through her curtains is pale
like the fresh moments following sunrise.

She stirs in his arms, arching her spine as she stretches out, and her eyes slide open to land on
his. Stifling a yawn behind her palm, she murmurs, "Good morning." But to his surprise she
doesn't try to extricate herself from his hold; she only burrows deeper into his chest.

Draco can't exactly pinpoint the moment when they started becoming closer. When trust
started to form more easily.

When they began to choose each other.

And maybe it all stems back to a matter of necessity—or maybe it doesn't.

Maybe it's something else entirely.

"Morning." Draco sweeps a tangle of curls from her face, finding her eyes warm on him. He's
so caught up in the quiet moment with her that the memory of Theo's message late at night
registers only belatedly. He rolls onto his back, bringing her with him. "We have work to do."

Hermione hums against his chest, drumming her fingertips idly across his pectoral. "We do.
Harry does, more like."

Because no one has inside access to Shacklebolt's ear like Harry Potter. And Draco can only
hope he has the guts to take things further if the need arises. So many of their steps moving
forward will be impacted by the way things play out now.

"Yeah," he murmurs, yanking a hand through his hair.

A curious glimmer shines in her eyes. "I had a nice time last night."

A grin spreads across his face. "Good."

He's of half a mind to pick up where they left off—to keep her in this bed until they're both
thoroughly spent—but she presses a kiss to his chest. Trailing her fingers along his sides, she
shifts her body from his, ghosting a line of kisses along his abdomen and lower. Draco
watches her, his breaths falling a little quicker, and his insides clench when she reaches the
line of his hips.
Watching her with parted lips, he takes a handful of her curls and forces her to look up at
him. But she only gives him a wicked smile.

She takes his cock in her palm and laves her tongue the full length of the underside.

Draco's mouth goes dry, heart clamouring in his chest.

She presses a kiss to the head of him, dipping her tongue out to trace the slit.

"Fuck," Draco groans under his breath. Then a dart of searing heat burns his forearm and he
tenses, with a more voracious, "Fuck."

Hermione pauses, pumping him slowly with her hand as she gazes up at him from between
his legs. "What is it?" She must read the answer in his face, because she frowns. "Summons?"

Draco groans a spiteful, "Yes."

"Make him wait," she whispers, taking him between her lips. His eyelids slide shut, indulgent
pleasure coiling tight in his core as she takes his cock deeper into her throat. She sucks him
hard, swallowing. Then she comes off him with a pop and adds, "He can't expect you to drop
everything every time he needs something."

"You'd be surprised," Draco drawls as she darts her tongue out to taste his length. He attempts
to banish the thought from his mind, focusing on the heat of her mouth wrapped around him,
but his Mark burns again, more painfully this time. The Dark Lord's anger is visceral even
from a distance. He growls, "I am going to fucking kill him."

Sensing his distraction, Granger gives him a mocking pout. "That's the plan."

At the moment, it doesn't feel like enough. She shifts from him, amusement dancing in her
stare, even as he summons his robes and mask from the next room. "I'm going to cut out his
heart with my bare hands."

She laughs, eyeing him as he dresses. There's no hiding a raging erection, but as the thought
of being tortured doesn't do anything for him, he hopes it will dissipate by the time he reaches
the hall.

"Sorry," Draco mutters, catching her eye as he reaches for his mask. "I'll find out what he
wants. I imagine he's heard about Thicknesse."

She sobers at the thought, reaching for a sheet to cover herself. "Then we're on the clock."

"Yeah." Draco grimaces. "Send a message to Potter."

Granger nods.

Then he ducks in, catching her mouth in a kiss. "I'll see you soon."

She deepens the kiss for a brief moment, and he can taste himself on her tongue. "We'll pick
up where we left off."
At least he has something to look forward to after this.

The juxtaposition between waking to Hermione's mouth on his cock and facing the early
morning rage of Lord Voldemort is stark.

Draco knows which he prefers.

"Pius Thicknesse has been killed," the Dark Lord hisses, his scarlet eyes aglow with the force
of his fury.

Draco is incredibly grateful for his mask, because he doesn't know what his master expects of
him. He remains rigid, hands clasped at his front. "I had no idea, My Lord. Who did it?"

"How would I know?" The words drip with cruelty, and Draco refrains from flinching. At any
moment, he'll feel the sting of Voldemort's wrath in his own flesh.

He ducks his head. "What can I do?"

"Find out who is responsible," the Dark Lord grinds through his teeth. "And dispose of
them."

"My Lord," Draco confirms. "I will get right on it."

Already, his mind spins with ideas. Framing and forgery. But he's expected this from the
moment they arranged the plot.

He knows better than to speak, keeping himself as immobile as possible lest he invite
Voldemort's fury unnecessarily.

"We will, of course, need to plant someone else."

Draco isn't surprised by this either. They're all expendable, even him—especially him, if his
plans come to light—and Voldemort's only frustration in the matter is the fact that he will
need to find another puppet to maintain his interests atop the Ministry.

The fact that he's been bested.

He'll certainly suspect the resistance's involvement, when Thicknesse's bias has been
apparent for years.

"Who do you have in mind?" Draco asks, keeping his voice low and even. "Surely, the
resistance will attempt to seat one of their own as Minister."

Voldemort scowls at him; he hasn't thought this far ahead yet. "I will let you know. And you
will make it happen."

Ducking his chin, Draco fights a smile beneath his mask. "Yes, My Lord. Of course."
"And in the meantime, report in with the Ministry. It is imperative we know exactly what is at
play while leadership is frail."

The Dark Lord's anger is banked in the wake of strategy, but Draco knows better. If he
doesn't pay for this now, he will later. The irony of the situation rests in the fact that this, if
not all the rest, is Draco's fault.

Some part of him basks in this—in seeing Voldemort unhinged over his own actions.

The danger in it is empowering. Like a step he's taken of his own free will, rather than at the
hand of his cruel master. He desires this—the power it gives back after so many years
without.

"I will go to the Ministry today," Draco demures. "And report back on anything I find."

"Yes," Voldemort hisses. "And whoever is responsible for this will pay."

He allows the smirk to colour his words. "They most certainly will."

A message sits on the face of her coin when Hermione emerges from the shower, a cloud of
steam enveloping her as she reaches for a towel. With a quick glance into the bedroom to
ensure Draco hasn't returned, she reads the short note.

Going to the Ministry. Check in with the others?

She reaches for her wand. In a quick series of spells, her hair dries into loose curls, and she
shrugs on a robe.

Will do. Meet up later. House?

A long pause follows, and Hermione isn't certain how long his message waited for her.
Perhaps he doesn't still have his coin handy, or he doesn't know what to answer. At last, a
message comes through.

Your discretion. I don't need to tell you what's at stake.

A smile tugs at her lips.

Hermione can only imagine how Voldemort took the news of losing his puppet, but Draco
communicating in full sentences is promising. Hopefully he hasn't taken too much of the
Dark Lord's anger over this. There’s a strange amusement in the fact that this is the only time
Draco has actually been responsible for the trouble.

Hesitating for a long moment, she stares at her coin.

She understands exactly well what could happen if the wrong people learn of the house. The
Dark Lord would absolutely view it as an act of rebellion on Draco's part.
But although trust is hard to come by—and increasingly so, as the war worsens—she wants
to believe she can still trust Harry and Neville with her life.

If nothing else, they all have enough dirt on each other at this point that any double crossing
will take some consideration to pull off. All of them are involved, all of their hands dirty.
And her friends are smart. Smart enough, she hopes, not to turn on her and Draco.

Draco will inform Theo, she's sure. Especially since Theo and Neville appear to be a unit
these days. That isn't her business—but it's oddly reassuring from both sides.

Particularly when she considers that Neville might not be alive if not for Theo's leniency in
his torture while he was kept at Malfoy Manor.

There's a strange sort of solace in the thought that they'll all go down together.

Decision made, she taps out a series of messages into her coin. After watching the clock for
fifteen minutes, she checks her quarters for any sign of house elves, and Disapparates through
the Malfoy wards.

It takes a convoluted series of Apparition jumps and stretches of walking to get Harry and
Neville through the extensive wards, and a shiver of trepidation courses the length of her
spine despite that she knows—hopes—she can trust them.

Once, she would have believed the sentiment without a second doubt.

The war has made cynics of them all.

They gaze around the small house, a combination of distrust and surprise on their faces, and
Hermione watches them with a held breath.

"This is your new house," Harry says at last after clearing his throat. "Malfoy's house."

"A bit ratty, isn't it?" Neville adds.

Hermione nods, a little stilted. "It is. And, for the record, if either of you say a word about it
to anyone we'll all be dead."

They both stare hard.

Harry breaks the tension with a sigh. "I think at this point we're all in this mess for better or
worse. I may not trust everything Malfoy's done, but I know why he's doing what he's doing
—and I know you trust him." His voice softens. "And I trust you."

"Yeah." Neville drags a hand along the back of his neck. "I guess it all makes sense, doesn't
it? If we carry on with the status quo as it's been, nothing changes. And we're poised to lose
this bloody war."

"Plus he's sleeping with Nott," Harry says, a teasing lilt to the words.
Neville fires him a scowl, though Hermione can sense the good-natured ribbing. "And if I
thought he was going to betray me again I'd put a curse through him while he sleeps."

She doesn't doubt him. And that alone is enough of a reminder of how much everything has
changed. How much is at stake.

"Okay." She releases a breath. "This is our house, yes. I've been gradually furnishing it,
though it's still a little sparse. The most important part is that we're safe here to discuss what
we need to."

The pair before her exchange a look, and Harry's gaze lands, unwavering, on her. "Maybe
what we ought to discuss," he says baldly, "is how you got wrapped up in this to begin with.
Because now we're all involved, and I'm still not fully convinced we're going to come out on
top when you're considering the two powerful groups on either side of us."

Hermione hums at the assertion and leads them through the sitting room into the spare
bedroom. She's taken the time to furnish the room with a table and chairs, affixing maps and
tactical information to the walls.

They've designated it a war room of sorts.

"I wish I could say I was innocent in it all," she says at last. "But Draco can be very…
persuasive."

Coercive, threatening, violent.

She doesn't need to tell them about any of that—especially Neville.

To her surprise, neither of them listen with any judgement as she supplies an abridged version
of the story. The small exchanges of information—how he informed her of the raid leak. How
he demanded she learn the identity of the Foray informant in return.

"How did you end up being Nott's handler, by the way?" Harry asks at that point.

Neville shrugs. "I was the only one he trusted. So I brought him to Cassius. For a long time, it
was only the two of us who knew what Theo was up to."

As Hermione considers the logistics of everything that's happened, her coin warms in her
pocket.

Ministry is a mess. I'll be there as soon as I can.

Drawing her wand, Hermione taps in a response.

Harry and Neville are here.

A long pause follows—long enough for nerves to prickle along her skin. She knows of his
reticence to involve anyone else more than necessary—but he also knows they can't
accomplish everything that needs to be done alone.
Finally, a response comes through again.

I'll bring Theo.

A small, absent smile rises to her lips at the easy response, and when she glances up again,
both Harry and Neville are eyeing her with incredulous stares.

"You have got to tell us how this happened," Neville says, waving a hand in her direction.
"You and Malfoy."

"I didn't have an option at the time," she clips, glancing at Harry. "Warrington pieced together
that I was the one who leaked information about Foray and Harry warned me before they
could track me down. Malfoy took me to the Manor—and we both knew if he didn't appear to
have turned me to his side, the Dark Lord would have taken me out faster than I could blink.
So we got married."

By careful omission, she doesn't mention the Black family bonds. She doesn't think Malfoy's
even told Theo the full truth about the ritual—and it's a secret weapon they've kept close.

"And if we make it through all of this?" Harry asks. "Is the marriage permanent?"

Hermione nods, straightening her shoulders. "He... isn't all that bad." She wants to say
something more. To assure them that Malfoy isn't the monster they came to know him as
before. To convince them that he's been there for her when she needed someone.

She looks around the small house. It may look shoddy and sparsely furnished, but to the two
of them, it represents so much more.

"Maybe he's grown on me," she adds, offering a hint of a smile. "But we've become a team
all the same. If we make it through all of this and have to spend the rest of our lives together,
well... there are worse ends to meet."

Harry still looks a little dubious, but at length, a smile spreads across his face. "It all makes
so much more sense now. The way you two had so many run-ins but didn't kill each other."

Hermione knows her decision-making through all of this has been suspect, but she can't
regret leaving him alive now. And she doesn't care to dwell on that any longer.

"Let's deal with some business," she says, taking a seat at the table. Following her lead, Harry
and Neville pull up seats as well, their countenances sliding easily into alertness. "Thicknesse
is out—were there any problems?"

"None," Neville says. "Theo and I took care of it late last night. Scans showed no one else in
the area at the time. Thoroughly checked for any evidence we might have left behind."

"Okay." Hermione nods, staring at a map of magical London affixed to one wall. Her gaze
lands on the outskirts—the factory district where she and Draco spent so much time caught
up in duels. "And does Kingsley know?"
"He learned this morning," Harry says sharply. "Warrington heard about it before I was even
awake—which shrinks our window in getting to Kings. But I managed to find him alone for a
few minutes and it was enough to plant the seed. We'll have to see whether he takes the bait."

Any hint of the casual conversation between old friends from only minutes ago has vanished,
replaced by the machinations of three soldiers caught up in too long a war.

"And do you suppose he'll go for it?"

Harry and Neville exchange a calculating glance.

"Hard to say," Neville says, leaning back in his seat as he gazes around the room. "I think
Kingsley understands the situation more extensively than anyone. But he's been caught under
Warrington's foot for too long. I'm sure he's weighing every angle as we speak."

"It's a shite situation," Harry says, dragging a hand through his hair, "because if Kingsley
doesn't go for it this could all get so much worse."

Draco strides into the room as he's speaking, Theo on his heels. "I promise you it will," he
drawls, a grim look on his face. "Which is why we need this to work."

Draco feels Granger's stare on him from the moment he enters the room, and he drags a chair
into place at her side. Theo sits at his other side, next to Longbottom, and Draco surveys the
small group for a moment. The few people in the world he can trust—and only one of them
someone he might have guessed at only a few months ago.

"I've just heard from the Dark Lord," he says, rolling tension from his neck after an arduous
morning. "And he's set to position someone else for the Minister's seat at the very moment."

"Do we want to know?" Theo asks, droll irreverence concealing the distress in his eyes.

"No," Draco returns, "but I'm going to tell you anyway because this situation just got a lot
fucking worse and I don't want to stew in it alone."

Granger gives him a sidelong glance, then releases a sigh. "Let me guess."

"Yeah," Draco huffs under his breath, nudging her knee with his own under the table.
"Yaxley."

A varied silence hangs over the group. Theo scowls at the table while Potter and Longbottom
exchange a glance—but Draco supposes to them, a Death Eater is a Death Eater.

"For context," Draco adds, "this is not who any of us should want running the wizarding
world. Thicknesse was a bloody picnic compared to Yaxley."

He can feel the tension radiating from Granger at his side, and he prods briefly against the
magic between them. He doesn't care to voice what he knows she's thinking: that Yaxley has
already grown suspicious of the two of them.
That he's already a problem even without this.

But he could feel the Dark Lord's rage in his own veins when he informed him of his
selection for the Minister's seat. Never mind that Yaxley's halfway insane and would do his
level best to drive the Ministry into the ground.

Because he's cruel, and that's all the Dark Lord—also insane and cruel—cares about.

Draco earned his own form of his master's respect through cruelty—but no more.

He won't say no to vengeance.

"I don't have any say in how this plays out, for the record," Draco says when no one else
speaks. "If I try to persuade him otherwise, he'll grow suspicious."

"Not if," Theo says, "you tell him you want the seat."

The words catch Draco by surprise. Granger's gaze skirts up to land on his again. He reviles
being caught off-guard.

"He would never put me into the Minister's seat," Draco says after a moment, though he hears
the uncertainty in his own voice. "I'm too valuable as his boots on the ground."

Now he can hear the bitterness.

"Obviously he doesn't care any longer about keeping bias out of it," Granger says quietly, "if
he wants one of his most ruthless Death Eaters to take the spot."

"Obviously," Longbottom echoes. "So if Kingsley doesn't go for it, all of this has been for
nothing?"

His expression is stoic, but he was partly responsible for assassinating the Minister of Magic
the night before. Draco can only imagine the magnitude of disarray in his thoughts.

He shoots Theo a glance and says, "Exactly right. Where are we at with Kingsley?"

"Undecided," Potter breaks in. "But he knows the stakes."

Draco nods, turning over the options in his mind. "Fair enough. Let me know the second you
learn more." He eyes each of the circle in turn. "Anything else?"

"Might just be me," Longbottom says, folding his arms across a broad chest, "but Cassius has
seemed off lately."

"Not just you," Potter replies. "I think he's reacting to the pressure. A few safehouses have
taken significant losses in recent days, and the resistance is seeing numbers dwindle in a lot
of areas. Fewer people willing to stand up against the Death Eaters these days."

Grimacing, Draco nods. "I'd like to see Warrington crumble. But all the more reason to
prevent the Dark Lord from holding the Ministry. The last thing he needs right now is more
power."

"Agreed," Granger says at his side. "What's the situation with the Ministry as of now?"

"Chaos," he replies with a bit of a smirk. Longbottom and Theo exchange a grin. "You'd think
there's never been a Minister assassinated before. But, of course, we all know that's how
Thicknesse came to power. They're arranging a bureaucratic structure in the interim before
they can put together an election—though we can only imagine how fair it'll be. The
Ministry's been corrupt as hell and in the Dark Lord's pocket for years. It sounds like other
leadership positions are already beginning to scatter."

"So what are we going to do about Yaxley?" Potter asks.

"You," Draco replies, "just need to focus on Kingsley. I don't care what you have to do, but
we need him to set his sights on the Ministry and abandon his role with the resistance. Tell
him you've heard Yaxley's opposing him if you have to."

Potter nods once, ducking close to murmur something in Granger's ear.

"I think," she says out loud, casting Draco a glance. Her fingers brush his under the table.
"We'll figure something out for Yaxley."

It's the least pleasant thing Draco's had to consider in a long while—and that's saying
something, given the amount of unpleasant things he does. "Yeah," he says at last. "We'll deal
with that."

He pulls her hand into his with a squeeze, drawing a measure of comfort from the contact. As
though understanding, she tugs at the magical bond between them, and he allows her mind to
brush against his. He wants to sink into it, to push all the rest of it away and ignore the new
host of problems before them.

He settless back into his seat, gripping Granger's hand tighter, and drawls, "We know where
we're at, so I guess that's it for now. And in case Hermione didn't mention, if any one of you
gives up this house, I will come for your throats myself."

"You're good, mate," Potter says, rising to his feet, "It's not that nice of a house."

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. "It's a fine house." Granger slips her hand from his and rises,
pulling each Potter and Longbottom into a brief embrace. Draco follows suit, clapping a hand
to Theo's shoulder before he slips from the room with Longbottom.

At last, only Draco and Granger remain in the small room with its austerity and utilitarian
furnishings, and he finds he can't stand it.

He leads her into the sitting room, yanking a hand through already messy hair.

"How bad was it?" she asks, turning to face him.

"It's fucked," he drawls, "which is, of course, what we were going for. The Ministry's been in
such a state for years that there aren't contingencies in place to deal with this sort of thing.
The Dark Lord is beside himself over the idea of losing power."

"It should never have been his power to begin with," she bites out.

Draco observes her for a moment, finding the fire in her eyes. "You were quiet in the
meeting. How come?"

Her eyes open with surprise, brows high, and she shrugs. "I suppose I don't know how to deal
with all of this. For years, I've been little more than a fighter. Harry and I used to call the
shots, but that was a long time ago. Maybe we settled into a place where we kept our heads
down and did as we were told. Strategy doesn't come as easily to me as it does to you."

Catching her arms, he draws her closer. "I haven't had a choice."

"You did," she returns quietly, "because you could have chosen to remain a low level Death
Eater. Instead, you became his highest ranked lieutenant."

Draco considers the thought for a moment. "That doesn't mean I have a clue what I'm doing
most of the time. Most of what I've done—and haven't done—has all been a matter of
survival. I've learned to keep moving, keep planning, keep acting, because the alternative is
nothing—and as far as the Dark Lord is concerned, doing nothing means we're useless."

Granger lifts her chin, eyes finding his. "All the same. I admire that you're always thinking
ahead."

"Thank you." The words catch him off guard in a way he couldn't have anticipated. "I
appreciate that. But I feel like I'm shooting blind so much of the time. I have no idea if any of
this is going to work out. If you and I aren't just digging an even deeper hole that we'll never
find our way out of. I don't know if this magic we're nurturing will be enough."

Vulnerability has never come easily to him, and even now, with the woman to whom he's
bound his life. But some part of him knows she won't judge him for his thoughts and feelings,
and it's oddly reassuring.

Reaching up, she brushes her fingertips along his jaw. Presses a kiss to his mouth.

Something like fire dances in her eyes when she draws back. "I don't know how all of this is
going to turn out, either," she says with a quiet ferocity, "but I do know we're in it together.
And I have faith in this. In us."

He stares at her, a sudden tightness taking hold in his chest like a vise around his heart. And
Draco finds himself without words.

"As far as the magic goes," she says, eyes glassy. "I think by the time we need to strike a
blow… we'll be ready."

Her determination galvanises his waning strength, and Draco nods. He releases a long breath.

For now, he'll borrow her faith—and hope it's enough.

Chapter End Notes

Hello, thank you all, as always, for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and that
you're stoked for what's to come! It's been a rough week and all your kind comments on
the last chapter made me smile xoxo

Alpha love to kyonomiko, and beta creds to sweetestsorrows.

 Chapter 32
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

For years, the slow creep of complacency has been little more than a red flag.

Draco knows better than to ever allow his guard down. When he thinks he has a situation in
hand, it only means it's time to double down.

All it takes is one misstep—one error in judgement, one word slipped—for everything to
come crumbling down.

And the stakes have never been higher.

As a loyal lieutenant, Draco's become intimately familiar with the searing pain of the Dark
Lord's wrath. Now, he's acting in treason. Following a plan of his own accord. Plotting the
kidnap and murder of his own subordinates.

More than his own life will be forfeit if these machinations are discovered.

Although they all know what they're up against—the war has claimed too many lives already
—Draco would see himself killed before Granger.

She's only here because of him.

An outsider in a foreign camp.

Some days Draco thinks he's paranoid. That he's gone mad, seeing shadows where none exist.
But then he reminds himself of the cost of a single wrong move.

And he knows an easy death will be a mercy they won't be afforded if discovered.

He Apparates to the small house he purchased, feeling a rush of tension sink from his
shoulders. Every time he arrives, he's struck by something new Granger has done to the
home, some new furniture or artwork she's acquired, and he likes that he asked her to take on
the task.

She spends so much time sequestered away at the manor with little else to occupy her time,
and he suspects she appreciates having a project.

That doesn't surprise him.

What does surprise him is the way he feels when he appears in the small home. A tentative
sort of peace he hasn't known in years, and it strikes him as innocuous. Unexpected, like
there's more to the house than ragged carpets and peeling paint.

He's caught by surprise every time.

Maybe it's what the house stands for. Maybe it's the fact that, were Granger someone he
selected for a proper marriage by some strange twist of fate or circumstance, this might be the
way they would actually go about settling a home for themselves.

Of course, Draco can't think of a situation where that would have been the case. And
certainly not where he would have purchased a mediocre house in such a condition.

It's the principle of it all the same.

In the way that this is what strikes him as important, above everything else that ought to take
precedence in his life.

He sinks into the unfamiliar sofa—he doesn't know where it's come from, but he knows
Granger well enough to trust that she hasn't done anything to risk their privacy or safety. He
drops his head back against the cushion. Allows his eyes to slide shut.

It isn't anything overly fancy. A simple loveseat in pale sage green upholstery. The cushions
aren't particularly soft, and he wouldn't even be able to lie down on it without his head or feet
going over one edge. But some part of Draco that longs for an end—for a new start—covets
this damned sofa.

Granger joins him a short white later, taking a seat at the opposite end without a word. They
sit in silence for several minutes, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Draco is
able to focus on the slow intake of his breath. The long, gentle release.

The air in this house feels different.

Draco supposes a lack of toxicity does that.

"What do you think?" Granger finally asks, her head rolling along the back of the cushion to
face him.

Although she could be asking him such a vague question in regards to so many other topics,
instinctively he knows she's referring to the sofa. Because he suspects this house means as
much to her as it does to him.

In the slow, meaningful assembly of it.

Draco presses his fingertips into the cushion at his side. "It's good."

"Yeah," she says. "It's from the liquidation store."

He knows that one. Most of their new artwork came from the liquidation store in several trips
so as to remain unnoticed. Easy transactions in Muggle cash; different times of day and days
of the week. A different disguise each time.

Small costs for either of them to pay in order to have a place where they can fucking breathe.

Draco eyes the sofa another moment longer, brushing the fabric. "Should we fuck on it?"
"It's brand new." Her tone holds a hint of disapproval, but when she glances his way, her lips
twitch.

For a long time, he didn't care about sex. And even when he did, he didn't. Because how
could he possibly care about something so frivolous with the life he leads? For years, the
only encounters he bothered to indulge were casual ones.

There's something about Granger—about the way that neither of them truly wanted to get
married but did anyway. In the simplicity of necessity gone rogue.

That even though they don't have to, they do.

And even though their early discussions regarding the matter rather intentionally skirted over
the topic, they've slid headfirst into a world where they don't question it anymore. Now,
Draco thinks a lot more about sex.

He thinks about Granger's curves, the scintillating quirk of her mouth when he knows she's
thinking about it. The way she breathes his name when he's buried deep inside her; the quiet
cries that tumble from her lips when he brings her off.

"All the more reason," he says after a moment. He pictures her laid out on the new sofa, sage
green and bare flesh, naked and willing beneath him.

Maybe it comes from the way they hunted each other like prey in the days before. And now
he has her in ways he never could have imagined.

Maybe he's insatiable for her.

"What we need to do," she murmurs, "is discuss the matters before us: Thicknesse;
Kingsley."

"Yaxley," Draco agrees.

But he doesn't miss the way her voice drops, growing a little breathier, and all it takes is his
fingers curling around her wrist for her to shift closer.

"There's no way we can let him install Yaxley in the Minister's position." She swings one leg
across his lap, straddling him, and her mouth falls open slightly when she settles herself
against him. Merlin, Draco's already hard just thinking about her riding him on the new
fucking sofa.

"Not a chance," he returns, a breath hitching in his throat. He palms her arse, manoeuvring
her against his cock. "We'll need to take him out."

Granger's eyelids flutter. "It's a massive risk."

"It's a risk either way."

Eyes sliding open to meet his, she grinds against him, her pupils blown wide. "What are you
thinking?"
Draco reaches for her, making quick work of the closure of her jeans. He searches for her clit
through her knickers, gratified when a low moan slides from her throat. It makes his erection
jolt.

He leans the side of his face against hers, drawing slow circles on the sensitive nerves. Even
as he does it, he reaches for the thread of power between them with a tug. The Black lineage
bonds. Granger sucks in a breath, but whether it's from the suggestion or his touch, he doesn't
know.

She fumbles for his belt, grazing his cock through his jeans. "You can't kill him or the Dark
Lord will know."

Draco bites down on her earlobe. "I can't use my own magic on him."

Her eyes land on him again as she catches his face between her hands. Heavy breaths fall
against his lips in the moment before she captures his mouth in a quick, desperate kiss. "We
don't know if the magic is strong enough. We could ask Neville—"

"Longbottom is not a hired assassin," Draco drawls, nudging her knickers aside to reach bare
flesh. His upper lip curls with distaste. "And I want to be the one to put an end to Yaxley."

Merlin knows the man has made his years miserable. He's mad and cruel and those are the
least of his issues. Especially now that Yaxley's grown suspicious, Draco cannot allow him to
live.

Whatever Granger sees in his stare, she doesn't question it.

Peeling her jeans from her arse, he breathes against her mouth, "I would tear him apart with
my bare hands before I would see him atop the Ministry."

She shifts on his lap, tossing her jeans to the floor, then wrenches his from his hips and frees
his cock from his shorts. With heavy breaths, she drags her lace-covered pussy against his
erection and Draco groans, feeling her wet heat on him.

"He'll die," she gasps, pulling her knickers to the side and teasing the tip of him with her
entrance. "Even though it will be suspicious."

Draco stares at her. "Yes. It's the only way."

"Okay."

He could get off on her faith in him alone.

He pulls her down onto him hard.

Hermione stares at her coin, sucking in a breath as her heart leaps. "Kingsley's going for it,"
she breathes. Her eyes snap up to find Draco on the sitting room sofa. "He's stepping back
from the resistance."
He smirks, a genuine brightness coming into his eyes. "Wish I could see Warrington's face
right now."

Gnawing on her lower lip, she releases a snicker. "Same, honestly. What now? Kingsley will
announce his intention to run for Minister—but so will Yaxley. The Dark Lord will be angry."

"Of course he will," Draco returns easily, "but he's always angry."

"He'll take it out on you."

He ducks his chin. "Yes."

By his easy affirmation, she knows he's expected this all along. But in her experience, he isn't
one to shy away from physical pain if it means he accomplishes his goals.

"I'm coming with you," she clips. "When he finds out. Maybe he'll go easier on you."

"Not a chance."

Hermione scowls at him, folding her legs beneath her. "I'm not pulling you back from the
brink of death again."

"No," he drawls, "you won't. Because you'll take the torture alongside me and we'll both end
up a wreck. I need you to stay on the periphery of this in case I can't get myself together." His
voice softens. "As much as I appreciate that you want to stand up for me. I can take it—I
promise."

She frowns, hating the position all of this leaves her in. She's used to acting, to carrying her
own weight in these things. For months now, she's had to watch Draco go off to fight, acting
as the Dark Lord's intermediary between his forces, unable to do her part.

Realistically, she understands the situation. Any resistance fighters who see her at Draco's
side will target her in an instant, and the Dark Lord would never send her to fight for him
anyway. She suspects he still doesn't fully trust her presence in the manor.

It's a strange irony, when Draco's willing to take torture curses on a regular basis, but won't
see her fight.

Hermione knows her benefit in this situation is behind the scenes. But still, it stings to watch
him leave—never knowing if any given day will be the one he doesn't come back. If she'll be
left with the mess of their half-formed plans to deal with on her own.

She doesn't know if she would be able to deal with it all alone.

Not alone, she has to remind herself. Harry, Neville, and Theo are involved now.

"I don't want to keep watching you take his shit," she grits out quietly.

Pursing his lips, Draco assesses her. "I need you to look at the big picture. This is our reality
now, but it isn't going to be the case forever. I have to know you're okay if things go south
and I need you."

"Fine." She presses her fingers to her temples, staving off a migraine. "What do we do now?"

Draco folds one ankle over his knee. "The Dark Lord expects me to run a campaign for
Yaxley's election to Minister." He snorts. "But meanwhile, I'm plotting his demise."

"And we need to make it look like we support Yaxley's bid," she reasons. "Not Kingsley's."

"Right."

Grimacing at the complexity of it, she shakes her head. "What can we do to ensure Kingsley
gets elected?"

He stares at the book in his lap for a long moment, then lifts his face with expectant brows.
"What do you think we're going to do?"

Despite herself, a smile creeps across her face.

It's fucked up, Draco decides, that he knows how to mentally prepare himself for torture. The
muscular relaxation; the mental disengagement. The way he channels into some part of him
that can block it out a little easier.

He knew the Dark Lord would be upset over Thicknesse—and subsequently, Shacklebolt—
but there are more important matters at stake.

It doesn't mean he's keen on facing down his master's Cruciatus curse.

But he'll take it. He even thinks he might deserve it this time. It's by his machinations that
any of this is unfolding, after all—and he has to fight off a smirk at the thought.

One day all of this will be worth the pain. It's a desperate, naive thought, but he has no choice
but to cling to some small scrap of the hope he's discovered. He can't handle the thought that
all of this is for naught. That he'll end up dead—that Hermione will end up dead.

The first spell hits and searing pain roars through him, ripping through skin and muscle and
wrenching at bone.

He knows this pain well, but it doesn't get any easier to withstand the initial blow.

Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to slide beneath his own mental walls, to seek shelter
within himself against the storm raging in his flesh. A spark of magic hovers within him, and
instinctively, he latches onto it.

All at once, he recognises the essence of it. Granger.

The magic is a comfort and a relief, and he sinks into it, surprised to find some of the pain
dissipates. As though the magic has formed a protective shield around him. Some of the
tension slides from him, and it's an effort to keep his face straight in light of it.
And as the torture carries on, Draco slips into oblivion.

He finds Granger in their sitting room, perched in an armchair with a book in her lap. "You're
back," she says, glancing up from her page. She searches his face for a moment. "He didn't
take it well?"

"No," Draco says, "he didn't. But—" He cuts himself off as he observes her. There's
something pale about her, depleted, as though she's exerted a great amount of energy. Horror
slams through him at the implication. He lowers his voice. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," she whispers, though she doesn't quite meet his eye. "I didn't do anything."

"What happened?" he asks, planting his hands to the arms of her chair and leaning in. "With
the magic?"

"I don't know." She shakes her head. "I... felt something in the connection. I felt pain."

For a long moment, he only stares at her, brain whirring as he sorts through what she's
saying. What she isn't saying. She stares back, something defiant tinged with the exhaustion,
and Draco isn't certain he's breathing.

"What," he grits out, "did you do?"

"Nothing," she breathes. "I didn't even realise at first what was happening, and then—"

His fingers tighten on the arm of the chair, a surge of frustration rising within him. He
recognises how irrational it is, but the very thought that she might have somehow reached
into him, taken the pain away, strikes at the part of him that already loathes the situation he's
forced her into.

Unable to verbalise the sentiment into words, he only asks, "Are you alright?"

Merlin, he can't even meet her eyes. He's used to the Dark Lord's wrath—but the thought of
subjecting her to it makes him nauseous.

"Fine," she whispers, her eyelids fluttering shut. "It wasn't... that bad, I don't think."

Draco grips the back of her head, fingers digging into her curls, and tilts her face up towards
him. Her eyes snap open to land on his once more. They're glassy and bloodshot.

"It was that bad," he says, guilt and shame roiling within him. The only thing he's been able
to manage through all of this is to keep her relatively safe. "I haven't seen him that angry
since the night of the party."

Her fingers curl around his wrist. "It's okay."

They stare at each other, and despite himself, curiosity grows within him as a seed. Until this
point, they've tested the magic of the bonds in other ways, but they haven't been able to reach
into each other in such a way. To truly draw from each other.
"I couldn't let you take it alone," she breathes.

The fact that she not only sensed the torture, but leeched it from him, absorbed it into herself,
strikes a nerve within him.

"How did you do it?" he asks, voice shaky. Drifts his fingers along her cheek. Steels his
resolve. "Tell me how."

When she nods, he watches the last of the strain leave her and her stare clears. "I'm not sure
—it was so instinctive. But I think I can figure it out again."

"Good." He presses a kiss to her mouth, hoping she can taste the apology, the despair on his
tongue. "Because we're going to need it."

The Ministry is in complete disarray.

In the days since he's last been here, what little structure existed appears to have collapsed.
Draco smirks, grateful for the Death Eater mask concealing his features as he casts a sidelong
glance to Theo at his side.

"Interesting," he drawls with as much affectation as he can muster in case anyone is listening
in. "That this system is so shoddy all it takes is one little death for the entire thing to
collapse."

Draco barely hears Theo's snort. "Interesting is one word for it."

Raising his volume, Draco says, "The Dark Lord is incredibly displeased."

A woman working at a desk nearby noticeably cringes.

"The problem will be resolved soon enough," Theo says with a definitive nod, his tone
reassuring as though anyone around them actually wants another Death Eater running
operations. "And everything will get back to normal."

It's all for show, of course. An exertion of the Dark Lord's power over those in wizarding
society who don't care to stand against him. Those miserable half bloods and purebloods still
working as cogs in the corrupted system but unwilling to actively join in the war.

Draco hates them. He envies them the option.

Even so, if he has his way it won't be Yaxley—or any other Death Eater—running the
Ministry. It will be someone actually qualified for the position. Someone who might restore
some semblance of order.

"Thank Merlin," Theo mutters under his breath, and Draco knows well enough the sentiment
isn't about anything the Dark Lord has planned either. He walks along the aisle of desks,
peering at several of the workers' desks, and Draco watches as most of them flinch away
from his closeness. But none of them dare speak out.
The whole system is trash. The fact that anyone can still do paperwork while they're out on
the streets fighting for their lives every week rankles him in a way that he should be used to
by now.

These tactics are little more than intimidation. To ensure the people in between sides
acknowledge and respect the Dark Lord's power—and don't dare rise against it. It's how
they've kept the resistance relatively subdued despite the increasing cruelty of the Death
Eaters.

As they proceed through the charade of examining the Ministry of Magic, Draco reaches for
the seed of magic within him, finding it almost instantly. Through to the other side, he can
feel Granger's signature, and he nuzzles against it.

A smile tugs at his lips when he feels her attention on the other side.

They've been working on pushing the magic even further, strengthening every element of it in
preparation of what they have to do. The timing around Yaxley's demise will be suspicious no
matter what happens, but Draco needs to ensure every other aspect of the hit goes off as
planned.

It isn't a plan they can rush—at a point in time where every day matters.

Already, the Ministry's interim leadership is preparing for an election—and Draco's been
keeping tabs on Shacklebolt through Potter as much as he's been watching Yaxley.

There isn't any way for it not to appear like an assassination. Not when his bid for Minister
has already been announced. All Draco can do is make it look like a resistance take down.

But it has to be late enough in the proceedings that the Dark Lord won't have time to insert
someone else.

All of it has brought Draco into this exact position multiple times since Thicknesse's murder,
observing operations at the Ministry when he has a multitude of more important things to do.

"Nott," he snaps, straightening his shoulders. He rakes the Ministry employees with another
hard stare through his mask. "Time to go."

The house Draco procured in London has a small garden, barren but well kept, and imbued
with so many protective enchantments the air is thick to breathe. Hermione sits on a bench,
eyeing an empty patch of earth but for a small skiff of snow, when Draco emerges from
inside the house.

Her gaze slides to find him, unsurprised. As they've dialled deeper into the bonds between
them, she finds she's aware of him more often than not, and when she focuses, she can
determine his location. Sometimes, his mood.

"How are things proceeding?" she asks, turning her gaze back to the pale blue sky.
He drops down at her side, his back stiff, and rakes a hand through his hair. "As expected," he
murmurs. "The Dark Lord believes he's got the upper hand, Yaxley believes he's about to be
the next Minister for Magic, and they've got me running around like a dog serving their
bidding." His upper lip curls with distaste. "It's a bloody circus, to be honest."

"According to Harry," Hermione replies, "Kingsley has made efforts to distance himself from
the leadership of the resistance. I read an article in the Prophet this morning that he believes
he can inspire more progress in the wizarding world without resistance affiliations."

"He's right," Draco drawls. "Especially when a significant and influential portion of the
voting pool have connections to the dark side. But no one wants to see Yaxley atop the
Ministry. Honestly, they're shooting themselves in the foot with him as a candidate."

Hermione shoots him a tentative look. "I'm honestly surprised he didn't try to make a bid for
you as Minister."

For a long moment, Draco doesn't respond. Hermione knows better than to think he wouldn't
have considered it even a little.

"I am too," he announces at last. "I'm too young, of course, and too prominent a Death Eater."
He says the words with great distaste. "But I am surprised he didn't consider it."

"Would you have?"

"If he wanted me to run, I would have run." He gives a flippant shrug that belies the tension
in his shoulders. "Would have made one hell of a mess, though. In a lot of ways, Yaxley's
easier to clean up. And I don't want to be in power. If we ever make it through all of this... I
don't want anything to do with any of it."

Her own response to the sentiment surprises her. For a long time, they've operated under the
unspoken assumption that they aren't likely to survive to see the end of this. That they're
simply trying to make things better for society moving on beyond them.

Merlin knows Hermione's hands will never be clean—and she can only imagine the blood on
his.

"If we make it through," she breathes, "maybe we just leave."

Silence hangs between them, and she wonders if he's sorting through what that might mean.
Their lives are irrevocably linked, and there's no way to walk away from the bonds. But it
doesn't necessarily mean they need to stay in close proximity.

If they no longer have a common goal one day, would there be anything left tying them
together?

Somehow, the thought makes her stomach twist into knots.

"Yeah," he says at last. "I guess we could."

 Stretching his legs out before him, he squints up at the pale sky, hands folded across his
middle. As the silence stretches on again, his eyelids droop, as though he can no longer fight
to keep them open.

She remembers a time when he never would have trusted her like this. With his honesty. With
his life.

Sighing, Hermione tucks closer, warmth filling her when he slips an arm around her
shoulders. They so rarely find a quiet moment together that the easy touch startles her, but
she allows herself the indulgence and settles into his hold.

"I don't know if any of this will ever feel like home again," she says quietly. She thinks of her
parents, locked in an alternate reality across the world, and not for the first time, she's glad
they don't know her anymore. Most of the time she doesn't even know herself. "Or if I'll feel
comfortable staying."

If she's searching for a response, she doesn't know what she's hoping for him to say.

He releases a long sigh, adjusting his grip on her shoulders. "None of this has felt like home
for as long as I can remember."

Hermione wants to voice something else—that at least they aren't alone. But she doesn't
know how to say it without hinting at something else. Something deeper.

"We'll figure it out when the time comes," she says instead, biting down on her tongue. "And
there's plenty ahead of us before any of that. If we even make it through everything that's to
come."

"A big if," he drawls into her hair. "Sometimes I think it'll be for the best if I don't make it out
anyway. What sort of a life is even waiting after everything I've done?"

She wants to refute his doubts, to promise something she has no right to do, but the words
catch in her throat. Because she's wondered the same about herself too many times. She's
been responsible for so many lives lost, and for a long time, she forgot what it was like to feel
anything at all.

Her gaze slides to the blond at her side.

Even now, she doesn't know how to trust herself with emotions.

It's for the best, because there's no room for her heart with what has to come next.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading. It means the world to me to have you all along for the
ride. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and see you next time xo
alpha and beta love to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.
 Chapter 33
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Prophet polls are showing Yaxley in the lead.

Draco scowls at Theo's message as the letters vanish from the surface of his coin.

Bloody cowards, the lot of them. Even if he weren't a Death Eater, he would have easily
recognised Shacklebolt as the more reasonable option. It only takes one glance at Yaxley to
know the man is incapable of looking after himself let alone all of wizarding Britain.

The irony doesn't escape him that he's pushed this swing in the polls by running increased
Death Eater patrols through all of London and the other major magical communities across
Britain. Anyone who doesn't want Death Eaters knocking on their door will voice their
support for the Dark Lord's pick for candidate.

Whether they truly vote that way is a different matter altogether—but Draco can't allow that
risk.

The election is only three days away.

Reaching for the thread of magic, Draco tracks Hermione, and smirks when he realises she's
in the shower. She nudges back against his intrusion, annoyance mingling with amusement.

Their near-constant experimentation with the magic of the bonds has led to numerous
revelations, and he digs within the connection for thoughts of her in the shower, naked and
wet, and sends a surge of desire through the bond.

He waits, his heart beating a little quicker, until she reaches for the thread of magic, a
seductive twining of her core with his own, and gives a tug.

An invitation.

Merlin knows they could both stand to take the edge off their nerves.

He grows hard almost in an instant. And leaps up from his seat.

If she hadn't come to know a different side of Draco Malfoy, Hermione might believe the
hard-faced stoicism of the man before her. A shiver trawls the length of her spine when she
thinks back on the days when they hunted each other down, when they were only ever one
curse away from claiming the other's life.

When all she knew from him was cold indifference.

She can see it in him now, the cruel facade he erects when he needs it. The darkness within
him that's landed him a position at the right hand of the most evil wizard in living memory.
Hermione hates this side of him—but she needs the reminder.

For as much as they've grown to trust each other, this is far from over.

For days, she's coiled her magic within herself, allowing it to swell and overtake every other
part of herself. Her skin vibrates with it, overflowing, and little by little, she's released the
excess into Draco through the bonds.

The magic now flowing rampant between them is more than she's ever wound within herself
at one time. More than she thought herself capable.

It is this magic—the carefully cultivated skill—that initially caught his eye.

And now they're going to need every shred of it they can gather.

Draco stands tall at her side, Death Eater robes on, mask propped atop dishevelled hair. His
expression is empty, eyes deadened. Magic buzzes in the air between them, and she knows if
he drew his wand, his hand wouldn’t waver. He's channelled into that part of him that exists
only for survival. The part that's willing to do whatever it takes to make it through one more
day.

The part that she can't help but feel drawn to.

Her own nerves quake.

Casting her a look, he lifts his left arm, rolling his sleeve to the elbow. He blows out a long
breath.

Hermione gives an almost imperceptible nod.

In one smooth, practised movement, he drags the pad of his thumb along the snake and skull
that mars his forearm, black as night, and they both wait with bated breath.

One minute passes—then two.

With a quiet whoosh of robes, Yaxley appears before them in the empty warehouse. The same
one where Draco once kept Hermione prisoner in an effort to draw out the depths of her
wandless magic. Where they met to negotiate Harry's release.

It only feels fitting now.

A furrow of confusion settles into the man's brow when he sees Hermione—in the same
instant Draco waves a hand and builds a solid wall of anti-Disapparition wards.

Yaxley tenses, his gaze darting between them. He lifts his mask from his face with an ugly
sneer.

Draco's face remains unreadable.

"What's this about, then?" Yaxley growls, looking between them. Hermione spots the instant
when he grows uneasy, eyes tightening as he attempts to piece the situation together.

For weeks, Draco has spearheaded his campaign for Minister.

Finally Yaxley reaches for his wand, gritting his teeth. "Made some plans of your own then,
have you?"

A mild, unamused smile touches Draco's lips. "I'm afraid so."

And when Yaxley fires the first spell, Draco lifts his hand. A flash of light bounces off the
invisible shield and collides with the far wall.

Hermione's heart leaps, adrenaline racing in her veins at the prospect of a fight for the first
time in months. She's accumulated so much raw magic she doesn't need her wand, and when
Yaxley fires another spell at Draco, she releases a spear of magic at the man, capturing his
hands and binding his wrists together.

He swears as the sudden movement twists his wrist; his wand drops to the ground with a thin
clatter.

Wide-eyed, Yaxley turns to her. A sudden jolt of fear flashes across his face.

"You," Draco says quietly, "have underestimated my wife for too long."

Digging within herself for the pent-up rage she's kept beneath the surface for as long as she's
been living in the Manor, Hermione shoots another spike of magic to lock his legs, her pulse
roaring behind her ears.

Another bolt—and he freezes in place, immobile.

Still, magic pours from her in waves, overflowing the thread of the bonds and filling the air
with a gentle sheen. She sucks in deep breaths, raw power coursing through her.

Trapped on the spot, Yaxley only stares at her, eyes wide with something between terror and
reverence.

Hermione stares him down, lifting her hands.

Opening her palms, she releases the magic she's assembled together for days, letting it spool
free in a sudden rush. It's a sight the likes of which she never could have imagined.

She catches Draco's eye at her side, his lips curving with an admiring smirk. "She's
something else, isn't she?" The words are directed to Yaxley, but his eyes remain locked on
her, flooding with desire.

A breath catches in her throat at the blatant heat in his stare, and she can't tear her gaze away
as he catches the magic, funnelling it into himself through the bonds between them. It's far
more magic than they need—enough to kill ten men if channelled in such a way, she
suspects.
It slides into Draco's fingertips, alighting the veins in his arms, and the sight of it is
intoxicating. The way his silver eyes glow with the raw threads of her magic.

Her stomach twists up, heart racing a desperate cadence in her chest.

"I know what you're thinking," Draco goes on, almost conversational, as he turns back to
Yaxley. "I can't kill you without my master finding out."

Yaxley only stares back, still frozen and pinned to the spot.

Draco tightens his fist for a moment, shimmering with the glow of magic, and when he opens
his palm—a slow, lazy unfurling—a surge of raw power follows. He smirks at the magic as it
grows white hot, dancing with the hot lick of flames.

"But this isn't my magic."

As the magic builds, heat enveloping her like she's entrapped in a forge, Hermione's chest
grows tight. Her vision darkens, the magic of the bonds drawing on her strength, her core
magic. But still she holds strong, clinging to the bonds with all of her might.

Darkness creeps in behind her eyes, her breaths falling a little quicker.

Maybe Draco can feel it too, because his gaze slides to snag on hers. The sensation is
reminiscent of the bonding ceremony—when the magic crept in and knocked them out.

But he shoots her a wink, a hint of wry amusement playing about his mouth.

Then without warning, he turns back towards Yaxley and releases the magic.

It hurls across the warehouse, a gleaming wave that narrows into a focused bolt of power.

The magic bursts cleanly through Yaxley's middle, and the life vanishes from his eyes before
she can blink.

His body crumples to the floor, a hole drilled cleanly through his chest, the wound cauterised
instantly around the edges.

Draco stares at her side, and the only indication he's even aware of what happened is a small,
quiet intake of breath.

Chest lifting and falling with rapid breaths, Hermione reaches for his hand and his fingers
link tightly with hers. She can't quite wrap her head around the moment—the intensity of the
magic—the suddenness of Yaxley's death.

Her eyes linger on the gaping hole where the man's heart used to be.

All she can hear is her own heart hammering somewhere between her chest and throat.
Excess magic still shimmers in the air, bright and joyous despite the insidious act it just
performed.
And as she stares, gaping at the lifeless form, Draco clenches her hand again, and she can feel
wisps of magic circle at his bidding.

The shimmering magic encircles Yaxley's body, and before her eyes he vanishes, dissolving
into ash and dust before catching a breeze and sweeping through a window.

At last, Draco releases her hand and steps forward. He eyes the spot on the floor where
Yaxley stood, but it could be any other spot on the floor. No evidence remains, the magic so
thorough and instant not a drop of blood spilled.

Hermione finds herself without words as Draco toes the concrete floor. Then he lifts his gaze
to hers.

"That worked," he drawls under his breath.

Suddenly, the implications strike her all at once.

The bonds worked. The coil of magic was more than enough. And in the prolonged silence,
she can only surmise that Draco's actions didn't trigger the magical protection the Dark Mark
affords Death Eaters at one another's hands.

Within herself, she can't find a shred of regret. Maybe she's been responsible for too many
deaths that didn't register.

But this one is significant.

Draco continues to stare at the spot on the floor where Yaxley fell, and Hermione walks over,
tentative.

"Are you alright?" she asks, thrown by his quiet contemplation.

He looks up, his expression unfamiliar.

"For years," he says softly, "I've been forced to kill. To end lives for no good reason at the
bidding of a madman." He draws in a quiet breath, expelling a few remnants of magic from
his fingertips. "This is the first time I've actually done it for myself. For us."

The words strike hard at her chest, and the look on his face makes him look less a hardened
Death Eater and more a conflicted young man.

It's a side of him she doesn't know.

The side she might have come to know had they not been embroiled in war since they'd been
teenagers.

She reaches for the dredges of pent up magic within herself and waves a hand to release the
wards. Then she takes his hand, draws him close, and Apparates them both to the London
house.
Fatigue crashes over her, a combination of the massive expulsion of magic, the strain on the
bonds, and the release of adrenaline.

Draco holds tight to her hand, then turns to face her, pulling her against him. "We've just
unlocked a new realm of trouble," he murmurs against her temple, pressing a kiss to her
brow.

"We'll figure it out," she breathes, sinking into him. "We'll figure all of this out."

Blackness pulls once more at the corners of her vision—all magic has a cost. The drain grows
stronger, drawing at all that remains of her magical core. The magic isn't friendly, and it isn't
light, but it's vital, and today it's proven its worth.

Draco stares at her, his vision unfocused, lids fluttering, and she knows he's feeling it too.
She slides his robes from his shoulders, tossing them over the chair.

She tugs him towards the single furnished bedroom in the house, slipping off her boots; he
follows suit and settles beneath the covers, drawing her back to his chest, both of them still
fully clothed.

And as the darkness seeps in, she succumbs in the comfort of his embrace.

They sleep for hours, and when Draco stirs, groggy and with a pounding headache, his entire
body feels stiff. Hermione is sprawled across his chest, fully dressed.

He shifts her over, careful not to disturb her rest as he rises from the foot of the bed and
stretches the stiffness from his muscles. He grapples for his coin, warm in his pocket, and
finds several messages from Theo that appear one after the other.

How did it go?

Anything to share with the class?

Hello???

For fuck's sake, don't tell me you're dead.

He snorts at the last and taps a message into his coin.

I'm dead.

The dark magic of the bonds did a number on him after enacting their task, and Draco's head
still spins—both at what happened and the aftermath of it.

The intensity of the magic, and the depth of it.

He can imagine Theo's eye roll when the next message appears on his coin.

Don't tease me like that. Obviously I'm still stuck with you. Did it work?
Although the answer hangs at the front of his mind, Draco slips the coin into his pocket and
pours himself a glass of water. Did it work? It's as loaded a question as any, despite its
simplicity.

Because the fact that the bonds worked to combine their magic, to channel Hermione's power
into him, means that it has worked on so many levels. It means that his ultimate goal—
putting an end to Lord Voldemort—is possible.

It means that all of this can be twined together with a fragile thread of hope.

That, for the first time in years, Draco can consider the thought that there might be an end to
all of this.

He can't allow himself to think about it long or he doubts he'll find the fortitude to do what
still needs to be done.

When he feels Hermione's presence, he sets down the glass. She walks up behind him,
wrapping her arms around his middle and resting her face against his shoulder.

Draco takes her hand into his where it rests on his abdomen, and brings her knuckles to his
mouth. "We did it."

"We did it," she echoes, the words muffled against his shirt.

For a long moment he basks in the quiet calm, a sense of peace niggling at the jagged edges
of his soul. Maybe he doesn't even deserve this scrap of hope—but Merlin, it's been so long
since he's felt anything close.

"The first step of many," he says, voicing one of the endless doubts that still live within him.

She tightens her hold. "One at a time." Releasing him, she rounds to face him, leaning back
against the kitchen counter. "Are you alright? Truly."

He eyes her for a moment, her hair messy with sleep, a hint of makeup smudged at the
corners of her eyes. Draco brushes a spot with the pad of his thumb, then drags it down to her
lower lip.

She grazes his thumb with her teeth, eyes alight with a smile. Loops her tongue around the
digit.

Draco longs to take her back to the bedroom, to relieve the sudden pressure in his groin. To
celebrate this victory.

But his coin warms again and he curses, fumbling for it as he remembers he didn't respond.

??? Did it work?

Shaking his head, he taps in a message.

Yes.
Before his message even vanishes, another comes from Theo.

Good. Get back here—we've got work to do.

Rolling his eyes, Draco turns the coin towards Hermione. He smacks her on the arse, drawing
a startled squeal, and drawls in her ear, "Later."

And Apparates them back to the manor.

When she thinks about it, the situation is infinitely more complicated now that Yaxley is
dead.

The election for Minister is only two days away, and it's only a matter of time before anyone
—namely Voldemort—realises Yaxley is in the wind. Literally.

As of now, only one registered candidate remains.

According to Harry, Kingsley is in good position for the role, though he refuses to reach out
too often lest he raise suspicions with the former resistance leader.

None of this makes sense any more, and the further they all drift from any semblance of a
side, the more convoluted everything grows.

With Flint and Yaxley both gone, and with Kingsley having absconded from the resistance,
there are fewer key pieces in play—but still enough for everything to march on. As evidenced
by the fact that Draco's currently engaged in a large-scale altercation.

It was the best way to play off Yaxley's death—because it's only a matter of time before
Voldemort notices the man's absence and looks into the Dark Mark connection only to learn
that he's gone.

Hermione doesn't know how she would manage all of these pieces if it were only her. She's
never truly been the strategist, and she's grateful for Draco's mind in a lot of ways.

But at the present, she doesn't know where to go next.

She finds herself drifting the corridors of the manor, observing the Death Eaters as they skirt
past. For the most part they allow her a wide berth because of Draco—and she appreciates
that she rarely has to deal with them personally.

Ideally, they ought to dismantle resistance leadership. Kingsley was a great loss to
Warrington's chain of command—but they need more. They need Warrington in the dust
before the end.

Making her way back to her quarters, she prods at the connection with Draco.

Only for an instant, she feels his surprise. And then his magic curls around hers, teasing and
seductive, and she presses her legs together. Despite the great length of time she hated the
man, she can never quite get enough of him now.
She thinks of him, wrapped around her in bed, and funnels the thought down the length of the
bond.

Cool amusement spiked with desire answers her.

Hermione bites down on her bottom lip, wracking her brain to test. Although he's caught up
in a fight, he wouldn't be reacting to her if it were urgent or dangerous.

Accumulating a mental image at the front of her brain—herself nude but for black lace
lingerie—she takes care to manoeuvre it through the connection. She fights a smile when his
instant, unfiltered reaction cycles back towards her.

She digs within herself, assembling something even more salacious, and a quiet burst of
laughter breaks free.

But before she can visualise anything into the bonds, a pop of Apparition alerts her to Draco's
presence, and he fixes her with an unimpressed stare.

"And if I had been caught in a duel?" he purrs, leaning over her seat. His mouth twitches with
a smirk. "Fucking tease."

Hermione grins up at him, looping a hand around the back of his neck and dragging his
mouth to hers. He's still wearing his Death Eater robes, and she yanks the mask from the top
of his head and tosses it aside.

"How did it go?" she asks, as he laves a trail of kisses along her neck, shifting her on the
length of the sofa and climbing atop her.

"Boring," he muses against her skin, shrugging out of his robes. "Until my wife started
sending me intrusive mental images." He glances up with a smirk. "So I left Theo in charge."

She grinds up against him, a heavy breath sliding from her lips when she meets his hard
arousal through his trousers. "I can't imagine he was particularly happy."

"I don't care," Draco drawls, peeling her shirt over her head. "And he owes me several."

Hermione arches from the cushion as they make quick work of the remaining clothes
between them. "In that case, Lieutenant," she breathes against his mouth, "how about you
fuck me into this sofa?"

A teasing grin spreads across his face. "I fully intend to."

Hermione glances up at a tapping on the window to see an owl flapping its wings outside.
She paces to the window, swinging it open, and the bird immediately swoops in. She's
become so accustomed to seeing Draco’s name on any missives that she's surprised by her
own name.

And even more surprised seeing her new surname in tight script: Hermione Malfoy.
Scanning the letter with several spells to ensure it isn't malicious, she opens the scroll,
curiosity rising within her. The words are in a soft, feminine hand.

Hermione,

Pansy and I are going to lunch today and we wanted to see whether you would be available
to join us?

Daphne

Hermione reads the letter three times before the simplicity of the request sinks in. She hasn't
thought of anything so ordinary as meeting friends for lunch since her days at Hogwarts, and
for a moment her head spins.

She thinks of what Draco said after the party, when Daphne and Pansy helped her prepare.
That they were kept protected from the worst of the fighting. That for them, the war is an
inconvenience but ultimately not something they concern themselves with.

Compared to what they did two days earlier, the juxtaposition is startling.

Draco walks into the room, one brow lifted, and without a word she shows him the letter.
Watches his throat shift with a swallow. And she wonders whether he's thinking of the same
thing.

"You could go if you want to," he says.

But the idea of leaving the safety of the manor and walking a public street is nerve wracking
enough. Hermione can't imagine willingly going out and letting down her guard in such a
way—even now. Especially now, when anyone who spots her from the resistance won't
hesitate to harm her.

She shakes her head once, gnawing on her lower lip. "I'll invite them over instead, if that's
alright with you."

A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth. "The elves will be thrilled to put something together for
the three of you."

Hermione blows out a breath of relief.

A little more than an hour later, Pansy and Daphne come through the wards in their wing's
receiving room—Draco wasn't keen on the idea of them traversing the entirety of the manor
with so many Death Eaters about. The weather is seasonably warm, so the elves set out a
lunch spread on the balcony of their quarters, the air kept comfortable by magic.

Despite her best efforts, Hermione immediately struggles.

When the pair helped her prepare for the party, they had a baseline of common ground to
discuss. Now, face to face with the stark differences between her life and theirs, Hermione
finds herself grappling for things to say.
She can't speak of her plans with Draco—and neither does she care to dig too deep into the
subject of their marriage and its foundations. The last thing she needs is to slip up and let on
that it's all an elaborate ruse.

Instead, she listens as Daphne and Pansy discuss the sorts of things that affect society women
on the peripheral edge of a war.

And she can't relate with a damn thing.

The thought is disheartening, when the concept of having friends at the manor beyond her
tentative connection with Draco was initially a promising one. She has to remind herself, not
for the first time, that she isn't here to make friends.

It shouldn't matter if she gets along with Daphne and Pansy—if she has anything at all to
contribute to their conversations.

But yet, it does.

As though sensing that she isn't certain how to properly engage in their conversation, they
mostly speak to her, informing her of the things they deem important. Hermione takes some
small measure of relief in it, able to grasp on and nod and smile as necessary.

Even around these two, with whom she feels relatively at ease, she has to be careful.

Everyone on this side of the wall believes her to be loyal to Draco through some combination
of coercion or magic, and no matter that these two aren't involved in the fighting, she can't
afford to let down her guard.

Their lunch isn't unenjoyable, but fatigue crests within her by the time they leave.

After, Hermione sinks into the sofa in the sitting room, allowing a moment of reprieve as her
eyelids slide shut.

"That good?" Draco asks, settling down beside her.

"It was nice," she murmurs. "They're nice. I do like them."

As though sensing the but, he hums softly. "I like them, too. I was friends with them both at
Hogwarts."

She recognises the but in his sentiment, too, and for a moment, they stare at each other, a
mutual understanding passing between them.

"Please don't misunderstand," she breathes, darkness seeping in at the edges of her heart. "I
am glad they aren't forced to fight. I wouldn't wish this life on anyone."

"But they don't get it," he says at last. "Not like you and I do."

"Yeah."
 She feels guilty even saying anything, when no one else has reached out to her, and she can
sense the women do genuinely want to make an effort. But somehow, she can sense he
understands that, too.

"Maybe," he says softly, "it won't always be this way. Maybe one day we'll be able to enjoy
things. To have lunch, or go to the shops, or open a damn book without thinking of all the
ways in which everything could come falling down around us."

Hermione's voice drops to a whisper. "Today isn't that day."

"No," he says softly. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not even next month. But eventually."

It isn't much, but for now it's all they have. She allows her head to rest on his shoulder,
nodding once. "Yeah."

And at least for now, they have each other.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate all of you so much, and I hope you're all
doing well! Tomorrow is my fandom anniversary, so keep an eye out for a new
dramione one shot <3

Cheers to my wonderful team, kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows, for their assistance on

this fic.
 Chapter 34
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

SHACKLEBOLT NAMED MINISTER FOR MAGIC

In an unusual turn of events, Kingsley Shacklebolt was elected Minister for Magic,
uncontested, when his opponent Corban Yaxley failed to submit his final registration. Yaxley
has been unavailable for a comment.

Draco snorts and tosses the newspaper aside without reading the entirety of the article. He
doesn't need to know what else it says, nor does he care. All he cares about is the fact that
Yaxley will never comment on the matter because the man is no longer alive.

Stirring a cube of sugar into his tea, he leans back in his seat at the breakfast nook.

He doesn't care about Shacklebolt either, aside from what he might do with the Ministry.

He supposes all of this affects him as far as the fact that the Dark Lord held him responsible
to put Yaxley into the Minister's seat—but Voldemort's outrage is nothing new. Draco has
been preparing himself for days for the punishment he'll likely receive from this news.

Taking a sip of tea, he peers through the window to the grounds below.

The more this plan with Granger advances, the more his machinations prove that the Dark
Lord's Death Eater machine is not, in fact, infallible—and the more it emboldens him. Draco
knows better than to grow sloppy—but there's a certain measure of solace in the idea that
some of what they're doing has made an impact.

"Next steps," he drawls when Granger slips into her seat across from him. He swivels the
newspaper to face her, lifting a brow. "Where do we turn next?"

"I've been wondering about that myself," she admits, skimming the headline, halfway
distracted as she selects a slice of toast. A small, indulgent smile pulls at her lips. "You know,
I always thought Kingsley would make a proper Minister for Magic. I'm actually quite
content to see this."

Draco eyes her for a moment with amusement. "If he isn't taken out next week."

Hermione levels him with a stare. "You're not going to let that happen."

"Not if it's in my control," he concedes. "But I have a feeling this will officially demote me to
the Dark Lord's bad books."

She releases a sigh and begins spreading a slice of toast with butter. "I've been worried about
that. Honestly, he's lucky you still do anything he asks with the way he treats you."
"It's all with the long term in mind," Draco says quietly. It stings every time he's forced to
keep his head down and take his master's punishments, but he knows better than to stir the
waters. Especially not with everything he's planning now. The last thing he needs is to draw
any unnecessary attention to his actions. "But I promise you, I don't care for it either."

Hermione sets down her knife, then her toast, and lifts her gaze back to his. "Do you think at
some point you'll disengage from the Death Eaters entirely?"

His brows lift. "Maybe. But I've worked hard to gain his trust. I have an invaluable access
point from here—and believe it or not, he treats me better than most of them."

"I understand that." She releases a sigh. "But I mean... you aren't planning on going down
with the ship."

"No." Draco smirks. "I am not."

She reaches for the raspberry preserves, offering him a small smile. "Good. I'm glad to hear
that."

"Why do you think we've been preparing the house?" He takes a bite of his toast when her
eyes light up. "When things go south here—which they inevitably will—I intend to survive
the fallout."

"Okay," she says, the word little more than an exhale. "For now then—next steps."

He's jerked from the conversation when his Mark begins to burn, and he drops his head back
with a heavy exhale. "We’ll have to discuss this later. Time to atone for my sins I suppose."

Hermione snickers. "We don't have that long."

"Funny," he says, rising from his seat and shrugging his robes on. "I don't remember you
being funny before."

"Back when you were trying to kill me?"

"No." He pauses, reaching for his mask. "Back at Hogwarts."

She fixes him with a look, as though she's trying to figure him out and can't quite manage it.
"We never even tried to get along at Hogwarts. How would you have known even if I was?"

The words strike him in a way he doesn't expect. Maybe if he had, even once, made an effort
to get on with the witch and her friends, his life might have been different. His entire
trajectory could have taken an alternate route.

As if following the same train of thought, she sobers, her face falling blank. "Come back to
me in one piece, please."

"I will." He ducks in, brushing a kiss to her lips.

Without allowing himself another glance back, he slips from the room, aware of his blood
pulsing behind his ears. Despite all of the punishments Draco has taken before, this one feels
different.

For one, this is for something he actually did. And that in itself provides a sort of liberty he
wasn't expecting.

For another, his tolerance to put up with this bullshit grows thinner by the day. As he grows
closer to Hermione, borrowing the scraps of her courage he finds along the way. As he
fortifies the circle of operations, and comes to know the people he's working with—fighting
for.

He thinks of his family. His mother. Even his father.

None of this makes sense anymore, and maybe Hermione's right. He should have walked
from this ages ago, even if it meant his own life would be forfeit. Maybe he should demand
better—but maybe the price is more than he's willing to pay.

He's never denied he's a selfish man, and he can't deny it now.

Even though he knows the likelihood of surviving any of this is thin, he can't help but want to
stay alive.

Even if he doesn't deserve it.

He reaches the hall where Voldemort holds his court, chin held high and shoulders back.
Sliding his mask down into place, he draws strength from the familiarity, the anonymity of it.
And he doesn't know if any of it matters at all.

"My lord," he drawls, ducking his chin. A sneer curls his lip, concealed by the mask. "Your
summons."

Voldemort turns cold red eyes on him. The room is empty, but that isn't surprising. The Dark
Lord never cares for an audience when he's prepared to do his worst.

Maybe Draco is prepared for that, too. Maybe the worst his master can do is the end.

He didn't want to mention such a thing to Hermione. Hadn't wanted to see the fear on her face
—and he knows with every certainty in his being that he won't allow her to leech his pain this
time. Not if there's a chance he won't survive this.

"You told me you were going to make this happen," The Dark Lord hisses, seethes, a fire
blazing in his eyes that would make a lesser man cower.

"Yes." Draco keeps his chin high. "I did. And your candidate fled."

The Dark Lord scowls at him. "He has vanished."

Draco doesn't respond, measuring his words carefully. A well-composed silence can speak as
loud as any words, and if this is the difference between life and death, he isn't going to take
this sitting down.

He reaches for the thread of magic almost instinctively, nudging against it. Hermione's gentle
touch on the other side of the bond bolsters his waning courage—and he tries to think of what
she would do.

It isn't even a consideration—he knows she would stand up for herself.

The strange, would-be-amusing irony in the situation is that this is the one thing he's to pay
for that he was actually responsible for.

For only an instant, he allows himself to coil his magic tightly around hers, before he retreats,
tunnelling into himself in preparation for the pain that will lance through him at any moment.

"Maybe," Draco drawls, coating his tone with as much flippancy as he can manage, "he didn't
want to be the Minister for Magic."

"He is dead," Voldemort grounds out, anger flashing once more across his face. "And your
insolence is not helping your case."

Draco refuses to shrink. Refuses to give in.

"If he is," Draco lies, "I am not responsible."

A long, tense silence hangs in the air, and Draco thinks he might drown in it if he tries. If he
doesn't try.

The Dark Lord grips the arms of his seat with long, thin fingers, white-knuckled in their
intensity. His voice is deadly quiet when he speaks again. "Are you not?"

"No." Draco bites his tongue on a stronger retort. The Dark Lord might simply kill him out of
spite—and he still needs this position. Needs the intelligence he can gain and the trust he's
earned through the years and too many hard decisions. "Did not several Death Eaters perish
in battle this week? Perhaps someone from the resistance didn't want old Yaxley sitting on
top of the Ministry."

He infuses dry irreverence into the words, as though he can't be bothered to care either way.

His heart beats a ferocious pace in his chest.

At that, Voldemort sits back a little, steepling his hands across his front. "Did you see Yaxley
participate in the fighting yesterday?"

The lies come so easy at this point that they're second nature. "Yes. Several times."

"And at the end?"

Draco shrugs, resisting the urge to shift. "I didn't see him at the end. But you know how these
things go. Anything could have happened—maybe the resistance captured him and took him
as a prisoner. If you'd like me to ask around—"
"I do not," the Dark Lord hisses.

But some of the ire has deflated from his words, and Draco doesn't dare let out a breath. For
all he knows, he's only prolonging the inevitable—but he's learned that the only way to slow
Voldemort's ire is to throw him off his guard.

"Battles are messy, and we're often forced to clear out with haste. Anything could have
happened to Yaxley. And if he is, in fact, dead, there is nothing I could have done to ensure
his seat in the Ministry."

The Dark Lord scowls once more, but they both know he can't logically refute the claims.

It's at that moment that reality strikes. No matter how his master treats him, the trust he's built
runs blood deep. He doesn't truly suspect Draco of treason—of Yaxley's murder.

Not yet.

Draco stands a little straighter when Voldemort doesn't respond—when he doesn't lift his
wand.

"It seems to me," Draco goes on, "there's nothing to be gained from dwelling at this point. I
will see what I can learn about Yaxley's death and report to you with what I find out. If, as I
suspect, his loss is a casualty of war, there is little to be done now."

The only reason they're even in this war is because of the madman in front of him—but
Draco suspects mentioning that detail will be taking things too far. He's lucky he hasn't taken
half a dozen Cruciatus curses yet.

The Dark Lord's fingers twitch towards his wand, as though he has no other outlet for his
pent up rage, but the anger visibly deflates from his countenance.

Draco sneers at the man he once admired.

Despite all of his efforts, the years of parading himself as something more than he truly is, he
is still simply a man. Even with the extra layers of convoluted magical protection he wears
like a cloak, he is no closer to being immortal than Draco himself—Potter and Longbottom
saw to that years ago at the Battle of Hogwarts when they destroyed the last of his Horcruxes.

When the silence only stretches on, Voldemort's calculating glare resting on him, Draco feels
the odd standstill settle in around him.

"I have a mission to undertake, My Lord," he announces at last. "On your orders."

As though reticent to let him walk away, Voldemort waves an idle, dismissive hand. "You
will report back with what you learn. We will determine a different solution regarding the
Ministry."

Draco ducks his chin, subservient as ever. "Of course we will, My Lord. They won't use this
to gain an edge on us."
And he sweeps from the hall in a billow of robes before Voldemort can change his mind and
bury a curse in his spine.

As he strides down the corridor, a private smile pulling at his mouth beneath the mask, he
reaches for Hermione's end of the thread in a sudden move, coiling himself around her.

He feels the surprise, then the annoyance, and then something akin to relief. It's the last he
latches onto, sending a frisson of his own down the line.

It isn't a battle won, but he'll take the small victories where he can.

Hermione scans the small office before her, gnawing on her lower lip as she waves her wand
to manoeuvre several pieces of furniture. Second-hand bookshelves line one wall, piled high
with some of her favourite tomes and others Draco gave her to smuggle out of the manor.

Some of his prized copies, no doubt. She doesn't even want to know how much the collection
before her is worth. Several times the cost of the entire house.

She steps forward, reaching out to brush the spines of some of his oldest books, but catches
herself and observes them from a respectful distance instead. Draco has been keen on
completing the rest of the house, and she's spent several days in and out, transporting and
installing furniture, restoring the walls with fresh paint, stocking the cupboards.

Just in case.

In the event things go sideways without warning and they need to leave the manor.

So they have a place to go. A contingency that grows more and more likely with every step
they take down this path. But she can't bring herself to indulge fear or worry—only a mild
but powerful sort of anticipation. Of conviction.

For so long, her strongest ability was that of compartmentalisation—of determining what is
and isn't important, staving off the despair that threatens almost daily. Of keeping every little
thing in its own damn box.

And she can't allow that crippling, paralysing terror that used to haunt her dreams.

All they can do now is take one step forward at a time, assess every angle, proceed with
caution.

The galleon in her pocket warms against her leg and she draws it out. Draco has been
investigating Yaxley’s disappearance—a thought that makes her want to laugh in a delirious
sort of way—and she hasn't heard from him all day. She doesn't need—or want—to know
what he's doing.

But she recognises the magical signature as Harry's.

Updates at the Ministry.

The message is vague enough that it could be positive or negative, and she ignores the spike
of adrenaline in her heart as she taps a response with her wand.

House.

The last time Harry, Neville, and Theo were over, they attuned the wards of the house to
recognise the three of them—effectively making each of them the only others who possess
any awareness of its location or purpose. Hermione doesn't think she would trust anyone else
beyond the three of them to know about their haven in the heart of London. Even so, the
protections come with a wide assortment of spells that prevent them from sharing anything
about it.

A few minutes later, the wards activate and she walks into the sitting room to find Harry and
Neville standing before her, the latter holding a potted plant.

Neville flashes her a grin and places the pot squarely on a table near the window.

Hermione cocks a brow and observes its wide leaves. "Why am I not surprised you've
brought a plant?"

"Because," Neville says, "I haven't had cause to get anyone a plant in years. It's a
housewarming gift."

They all look around the still somewhat sparse room, and Hermione smiles all the same.
"Thank you, Neville. Though I can't say whether it will be watered regularly."

Neville waves a hand. "It's imbued with spells, of course. It'll look after itself."

For some reason, the sentiment is just touching enough that she doesn't know what to say. It's
such an innocuous gesture, but the sort of thing she hasn't had room to think about in so long.
It revives thoughts of her mother and the way she kept Hermione's childhood home full of
lush greenery.

Thoughts stir of what could one day be their reality. If they get through all of this.

"Thanks," she says again, a little softer, and finds she can't meet his gaze. "It's very
considerate of you."

A somewhat uncomfortable silence follows, as if none of them know quite how to proceed
from here. So Hermione blinks rapidly several times and turns to Harry. "You said you had
news about the Ministry?"

"Yeah." Harry glances around. "Is Malfoy here?"

Hermione shakes her head, leading them from the sitting room into the spare room they've
designated for war operations. "He's working. He might come by later but I haven't heard."

Dropping into one of the seats, Harry interlocks his hands across his middle and peers
around. "Kingsley's settling into his new role amidst a string of controversy, as you might
expect. The Yaxley supporters are calling foul play."
"As is the Dark Lord," Hermione adds.

Harry grimaces. "Right. I can imagine. Anyway—we're doing what we can to keep Kings in
play for as long as possible. Warrington's still pissed at him for leaving resistance leadership,
but they've thwarted two assassination attempts already. Small-time disgruntled civilians
who, for whatever reason, really wanted to see old Corban in the seat."

"Why anyone would want that I can't imagine," Neville grumbles.

Hermione sighs, sorting through the report. "I suppose we were anticipating this. Interesting
that Warrington's still supporting Kingsley though he's outside of the resistance. I guess he's
just relieved a Death Eater didn't take hold of the Ministry again."

"Kingsley really is our best hope," Harry says. "Not just right now, but in the future. It's
important we keep him atop the Ministry."

Nodding silently, Hermione leans back in her seat. She wishes Draco were there, if for no
reason other than the expertise he can add to the conversation. They still haven't determined
what exactly their next course of action should be.

"Where are we at now?" Neville asks, and the three of them glance up when Theo strolls into
the room and drops into a seat at Neville's side.

When Hermione cocks a brow at him, he drawls, "Draco told me you were here."

Of course he would have felt the wards shift even from the manor. "How are things going?"
she asks, uncertain whether she truly wants to know. Draco does some brutal work for the
Dark Lord—it's how he managed to rise in the ranks—but even she doesn't care for the
details.

"Things are... delicate," Theo says crisply. "But the longer he can distract the Dark Lord from
what's really going on, the better."

Harry blows out a breath. "We need to start thinking about how all of this is going to come
crumbling down. You obviously had no issues taking out Yaxley?"

When three sets of eyes land on her, Hermione hesitates. Only she and Draco know the extent
of the marital bonds and how they connect their magic, and she's reluctant to bring it up.
"No," she says, "no trouble."

She can feel Theo's eyes on her and knows what he's about to say before he opens his mouth.
"Death Eaters can't attack Death Eaters without the Dark Lord finding out."

"There are workarounds," she replies softly, "and we found one. I promise you he doesn't
know—Draco wouldn't still be alive if he did."

To her relief, none of them question the response.

Theo snorts, slinging an arm around the back of Neville's seat. "The fact that he's got Draco
investigating who's responsible for Yaxley's death is fucking hilarious, actually."
Hermione snickers, and it's enough to break the somewhat subdued tension. Harry's gaze
lingers on her—and she doesn’t know whether he’ll let this go so easily—but for now they're
able to move past it.

"Resistance leadership," Neville says, reaching for a quill and marking out a sheet of blank
parchment. "And Death Eater leadership. Let's figure out where we hit next."

By the time Draco manages to escape the manor, it's late in the afternoon. He's spent the
majority of the day investigating a death he's responsible for—and the situation might make
him laugh if it weren't so exhausting.

Apparating into the house, he freezes when he sees the sitting room full, boxes of Muggle
takeaway spread on the coffee table.

"I see I wasn't invited to the party," he drawls, loping into the room and taking the empty seat
at Hermione's side. His gaze drifts towards the window where a plant sits in a brightly
patterned pot. "What the fuck is that?"

"It's a philodendron," Longbottom retorts.

Draco purses his lips, debating what exactly happened while he was busy working. "And
what is it here for?"

"It's a housewarming gift," Hermione says, beaming at Longbottom.

"A gift."

"A gift for Hermione," Longbottom adds.

Cocking a brow, Draco stares at the man—though a part of him wants to laugh at the
absurdity of it. "It's my house, too."

Hermione presses her shoulder against his, and though he's so riddled with stress and tension
he wants to push the issue, he finds himself relaxing instinctively in her presence. Scrubbing
a hand down his face, he forces the strain from his shoulders. "What have you lot been
working on? Tell me you've determined something."

"There are options," Theo says carefully. "But nothing definitive."

Draco releases a loud sigh, irritation prickling at him once more. "We need definitive. We
can't allow things to settle out as they are now. The only way to keep this moving forward is
to keep both sides scrambling."

The situation has begun to wear him thin from every side, and he doesn't know how to
manage anything that's going on anymore.

"What happened at the manor?" Hermione asks softly, reading his mood. She can probably
feel his mood through the bonds—and he makes an effort to tamp down his frustration.
"Nothing," he bites out. "I've told the Dark Lord Yaxley fell in battle—it's the simplest way
without trying to implicate anyone else from our side when he'll know that isn't the truth. If
any Death Eater attacked Yaxley with their own wand, the Dark Lord would have known. So
it has to be someone from the resistance—and the best way to make that realistic is to make
him a target in battle. It isn't hard to imagine someone from the resistance didn't want to see
him running the Ministry."

"Straightforward," Potter agrees. "So what's the issue?"

"The issue," Draco drawls, scrubbing at dry eyes, "is that he wants proof. No one saw Yaxley
go down, though fortunately, several people claim they saw him—even though they didn't.
But we all know how battles go."

The group hums their acquiescence. Plenty of chaos and too much activity happening at once.

"So I've spent the day acting like some sort of bloody Auror with nothing to show for it."

Hermione presses a partially full takeaway box and a plastic fork into his hands and he begins
to eat without even caring what it is, suddenly realising he's famished.

"He'll let it go if he has bigger things to worry about," she murmurs.

"Which he does," Theo says, "because he's facing a Ministry run by a former resistance
leader—and protected by a current resistance leader."

Draco mulls over the thought as he chews on some sort of breaded chicken. "Warrington is
protecting Shacklebolt?" When Theo nods, Draco sighs. "I suppose it makes sense.
Shacklebolt is the best chance at stability right now—but the Ministry's still a fucking mess.
He'd be better off burning the whole thing down and starting over."

"The problem with all that, of course," Longbottom says, "is that Warrington's crumbling
without Kingsley. The resistance hasn't been strong for a while, and if we do anything more
to dismantle their leadership too soon, we'll run the risk of losing the Ministry to the Death
Eaters again."

Closing his eyes, Draco drops his head against the back of the sofa. "And all of our efforts in
getting Thicknesse out will be negated overnight."

"Right," says Hermione. "We're staring at two increasingly unstable houses of cards,
wondering which to knock down first."

"Both." Draco rakes a hand through his hair. "They both have to fall."

A precarious silence takes the room.

Draco forces himself to eat, despite his vanishing appetite.

"I think the reason we're struggling," Theo says, breaking the silence, "is that both sides are
structured in their leadership. This has all been falling into place for years. Warrington has
plenty of people backing him up—safehouse leaders and the like." He glances at Neville,
who nods to confirm. "And of course, the Dark Lord has his loyal lieutenants."

Draco snorts.

"It's really the heart of why we're doing things the way we are," Hermione reasons. "If you
lop off the head of either side, another will grow back."

"We knew this would all be a convoluted fucking mess going in," Draco says with a sigh.
"And that hasn't changed now that we're in the middle of it. What do you suggest?"

Another cool tension settles across the room, this one leading enough that it sets Draco's
nerves on edge.

Finally, Potter says, "You know you're the Dark Lord's greatest asset."

The words strike like a physical blow, and he scans the four sets of eyes resting on him. He
gulps down a suddenly dry bite of chicken. "You're suggesting I walk."

"Obviously it won't be easy," Hermione says, "but there are ways to ensure you can't be
tracked, right?"

His gaze skirts down to his covered forearm, then he glances at Longbottom who's already
staring at him. They took Flint's Mark before he left England—Draco can still hear the
screams. "Yes." Propping his elbows on his knees, he mulls over the idea. "The problem is
that, from the inside, I have connections to everything. We need to be very certain we're
ready to give that up if I leave."

"We'll have to go about it in stages, I think," Potter says, eyes tightening. "Ensure you have
everything you need and that all the appropriate protections are in place. Without you, the
Dark Lord will be crippled. It will take time for him to bring someone else up to your level."

"Not necessarily," Draco interjects.

"There are others," Theo reasons, "but none he trusts like he does you."

He can't deny that. But still, the idea settles into an uncomfortable pit within him, and he can't
begin to comprehend all the details that matter. His parents. Adequate protection for
Hermione. Theo would need to leave, too. All the ways the Death Eaters might be able to
find him—never mind the sudden lack of information.

"I understand that it will need to happen," he drawls. "Hermione and I have already discussed
the eventuality. But we can't allow him the chance to rebuild. If I leave, it needs to be a
checkmate."

They all stew on the idea for a moment, and Draco walks into the kitchen for a glass of water,
allowing himself to contemplate the thought without everyone watching him.

He can't deny that he wants to leave. To get out from under the foot of the man who's abused
him for so long. But he can't do any of that until they're absolutely positive they won't need
 anything else from the Death Eaters.

Pressing his hands onto the kitchen counter, he draws several deep breaths.

The idea of walking away holds so much promise he almost can't stand it. A thrill of
exhilaration darts through him at the very thought—of ridding himself of the Dark Mark once
and for all—of proceeding with his own life without a cruel master watching his every step.

But they aren't ready for that. And he needs to be sure the people he cares about are safe.

Hermione sidles up next to him, leaning against the counter.

"What do you think about this?" he asks without looking up.

"It's complicated. And obviously we aren't there just yet. But no one can deny it won't be a
strong blow."

"If I'm leaving," he says under his breath, "I'm taking the entire inner circle out before I go."

She doesn't reply for a long moment, her shoulder brushing against his. Desperation and
indecision course through him in equal measures, and he draws strength from her easy
presence.

"Do you want to go?" she asks at last.

"More than you'd fucking believe." The words come out hoarse, drawn from some dark,
hidden place within him.

She nods once. "Then we'll get you out as soon as it makes sense."

His heart tightens in his chest and he looks up. "Okay."

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading. I feel like I just repeat myself every week, but I cannot
say how much it means to me to have you all reading along. Your comments
consistently brighten my day. xoxo

Alpha and beta hearts to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

 Chapter 35
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

A new plan slowly begins to slide into place, and it's both terrifying and a relief. It's the
biggest step so far—even more so than taking out the Minister for Magic—and Hermione
regularly questions whether they're doing the right thing.

Before they can take out the Dark Lord or Cassius Warrington, they have to dismantle
everything else beneath them.

It was the plan all along, but things have shifted and twisted up as problems have arisen; as
they’ve been forced to respond. And now, they're faced with the heart of the matter again.
That both sides need to fall.

Battles have grown increasingly volatile, even more casualties stacking up, and Hermione
suspects both leaders are throwing caution to the wind.

The Dark Lord has always been unhinged, but with his loss of the Ministry, he's desperate
now too.

Maybe if they're lucky, the two sides will whittle each other down to the barest of bones.

Draco has no qualms about taking out any of his fellow Death Eaters before he goes—with
the notable exceptions of Theo, who's more than ready to leave as well, and his father, who's
rarely around the manor to begin with.

As soon as they're ready to sear the Dark Mark from his arm, Draco is prepared to do
whatever he needs to get out.

Hermione has no doubt about that—and knows he could likely do it now with the magic of
the bonds. But they have to ensure everything is prepared, because there's no going back
from such an explosive exit.

The more delicate side of the matter is that Warrington, almost inadvertently, has done the
wizarding world a favour by keeping Kingsley Shacklebolt alive. If they take out Warrington
or the resistance's remaining strength too soon, Voldemort will seize the opportunity in an
instant—and then install someone like Yaxley or worse.

She and the others have taken to meeting at the London house as often as they can, usually in
small groups to exchange information without drawing undue attention.

And for the first time since Draco mentioned his plans, they have the early stages of
momentum in their favour. Both sides are scrambling to cling to power, and both sides are
slowly sinking into the mire.

It's what they've hoped for, but it's hard to see through the dust and smoke.
Draco has taken to his new ambition with a particular voracity she hasn't seen from him, as if
now that he has an exit strategy he won't rest until he accomplishes it.

Hermione, for her part, can only hope they all make it through alive.

Right now, there are too many variables in place, and she can only stand to manage so many
pieces at once.

She glances up from a sheet of notes on the bed to find Draco hovering in the doorway to her
room at the manor. Although they've maintained separate rooms, they haven't spent a night
apart in weeks. Even so, he still acts as though he doesn't have free reign over the entirety of
their quarters.

"What is it?" she asks, setting her quill on the nightstand.

His chest sinks with a sigh, and he drifts into the room, observing the notes before her. "I
don't know. I can't help but think we're missing something."

"I'm sure we're missing plenty of things," she returns.

Draco sits on the edge of the bed, meeting her stare. "And I have a feeling that everything is
going to go wrong."

A smile curls her lips despite the seriousness of the conversation. "I think things are
absolutely going to go wrong. But we're trying to control as much as we can."

He clenches his jaw. "I can't stand the thought of anything happening to you."

The words sink in with a slow, resonating force, and the amusement drops from her face. The
raw vulnerability in his stare isn't something he shares with her often, and she doesn't
immediately know how to respond.

She reaches for his hand, drawing it into hers and twisting their fingers together. "We both
know there's no way to avoid every possible issue. And we’ve known from the start that
there's a good chance we won't make it through this."

Draco thins his lips. "I think you should go." He holds up a hand before she can refute, a
denial already on the tip of her tongue. "Just while Theo and I are getting out. It's going to
be... messy. Longbottom can help with removing the Marks—he already knows how."

"Absolutely not," she whispers. "We're in this together. I'm not leaving you to deal with
everything on your own without the strength of the bonds." A breath hitches in her throat at
his unflinching stare. "Do you think I want to deal with all of this if you don't make it?"

The words slide from her throat, ragged and with a sort of feeble hopelessness she doesn't
recognise.

Draco releases a slow, measured breath. "I don't care if I make it out, if it means the plan
comes to fruition. I care that you survive."
"That isn't acceptable," she snaps.

"If I get into trouble," he fires back, "the easiest way to make me suffer will be through you!"

The words settle into a sudden and uneasy silence.

Moisture stings at her eyes but she refuses to give in to tears.

"If you don't know by now that I can look after myself," she breathes, "then I guess we don't
understand each other half as well as I thought."

Draco's jaw tightens. "How can you say that after everything? Of course I know you can."

"Then don't try and shove me off like some bloody damsel who needs protecting."

Nerves prickle along her skin, and she hates the way she defaults to this. Anger and
defensiveness and a need to prove herself.

Realistically, she knows Draco respects her and her capabilities—but she can't stand the
thought of leaving him to deal with this alone. Of walking away, hiding out, uncertain
whether she'll ever see him again.

No part of this arrangement has been safe. And they knew from the start none of this would
carry any guarantees.

"I'd sooner die at your side," she says, reaching for his hand, "than live through this alone."

A long exhale slides from his lips. "Don't say that. If one of us deserves to survive, it's you."

"I don't think that's true." She offers him a sad smile. "I've done too much to truly find
peace."

He squeezes her hand. "I think we all have."

Hermione allows her eyelids to fall shut, a sudden wall of fatigue slamming into her.
Physical, mental, emotional. Feelings she's repressed for months and years breaking through.
"Maybe all I want from this is for others to have the future we were never given." She slumps
against the bed frame, feeling some part of her that's fought for so long collapse.

Draco stares at her for a long moment, and when she meets his gaze, she can't bear what she
finds there. "I don't need to make it through this," he says at last, little more than a whisper.
"And I think you're the only reason I'm still fighting."

Despair seizes her heart at his words, and the tears break from her eyes unbidden, sliding
down her cheeks. But within herself she finds no words.

Reaching deep for some scrap of logic, for the pragmatism on which she's prided herself, she
shakes her head. Banishes the melancholy than threatens. "And what if you need to access the
bonds? I'm not going to leave you without that protection. Not when that's the whole point of
all this. You need to get out—and you'll need the bonds to do so."
"I can get out without them," he returns softly.

Hermione knows exactly what that means. That it won't matter what happens to him—that by
then he won't care if the Dark Lord knows. It'll be likely he doesn't leave quietly.

"Why would you?" she asks, keeping her voice as steady as she can manage, "when you
could have them accessible?"

He fixes her with a stern look, but if he thinks she's going to take any of this lying down he
doesn't know her very well. The thought stings all over again—that they haven't grown
together in the ways she's started to think.

"Maybe I'll be able to access your side of the power at a distance. We already can to a certain
extent—and we can work on it."

"I refuse," she breathes, the words sliding from her lips without any consideration. "I'm not
leaving you behind."

Merlin, if the version of herself from a few months ago could hear her now—she would
suspect she’d been Imperiused or cursed in some other way. Manipulated or threatened into
saying such things.

But she has faced altogether too much with the man at her side to walk away now.

"We are in this together," she grits out, low and desperate, and squeezes his hand hard. "And
you're not doing this alone now."

With a forced nonchalance she doesn't believe for a second, he drawls, "And if I don't make it
out? If I leave you in danger as a result?"

Tears prickle at the back of her eyes again and she clings to his hand like a lifeline. "Then I
guess you'll just have to make it out. I know you've done a lot of things you aren't proud of,
Draco, but so have I. And neither of us would have made it this far without that self-
preservation you're so fond of." She meets his eyes, unflinching. "Don't go turning selfless on
me now."

She watches the moment her words click, when his stare hardens, his shoulders going rigid.
A hint of something like bemusement crosses his face. "I don't want to die, Hermione. And
I'm not going to do anything intentionally heroic. I'm not Potter."

She jabs him in the ribs.

His face sobers. "I just don't want to see you hurt. And I don't want to put you in the way of
harm."

Despite herself, she smiles at the sincerity behind his words. "I seem to recall you hurting me
more in the last year or so than anyone else."

"Shut up," he mutters, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "You're not as clever as you think. And
that goes both ways."
Then he's kissing her, hands roving her body, trailing his lips along her throat. "I'm not going
to let you get hurt again," he murmurs against her skin, raking her collarbone with his teeth.
"And I don't care what I have to do—how many people I have to murder—to keep you safe.
I'm not going to lose you."

In any rational world, the words should terrify her.

Heat flares in her veins.

In a twisted, convoluted sense, it's the most romantic thing he's ever said to her. And maybe
she's too far gone, too, because she only draws him closer until no space remains.

Draco glances up from a letter on the desk, slips his reading glasses off, and scrubs at his dry
eyes. "What do you think about a small trip?"

"A trip," Hermione deadpans from the sofa. "What do you mean, a trip?"

Setting his quill down, he carefully measures his words. He flicks a glance through the room
to ensure there are no house elves in their quarters. He may run the manor these days, but one
person's authority still threatens his own on that front. "I mean a few days away."

Her eyes tighten. "You're going to have to elaborate. Or have you missed the part where we're
caught up in a war?"

Carefully folding his letter in half, then into quarters, he pours a small pool of wax onto the
closure and seals it with his Malfoy signet ring. "Hard to miss that," he drawls with wry
bemusement. "But yet—it occurs to me we never took a honeymoon. A few days will hardly
cover it, of course, but it feels like the perfect time."

Hermione gapes at him a moment longer, and he can see partial comprehension in her stare—
as though she knows he can't speak freely but can't quite piece together his intent.

Draco rises from his seat and crosses the room, handing the letter to his owl perched near the
open window.

She offers him a banal smile as they both watch the bird's departure with a flutter of wings.
"And where did you have in mind?"

"Spain." Draco turns to her with a mild glance from across the sitting room. "I thought we
might visit Spain."

He sees the moment when her suspicion gives way to understanding, and she stares through
the window where the owl vanished—carrying a letter to his mother in Andalusia. When he
turns back to Hermione, she offers him a winning smile.

"Spain sounds lovely."

Theo prepares the two of them a Portkey set to leave the following morning, as soon as Draco
receives a response via owl from Narcissa Malfoy. She's delighted to hear from him, and of
course, she would be happy to play host for the two of them for a couple of days.

Most of the time, Draco trusts the manor wards to keep his business contained, but he doesn't
want to let on to the details of this arrangement to his father—or anyone who could be
persuaded to tell his father.

Almost without any necessity of explanation on his part, Hermione pieced together his intent
to warn his mother of his plans for defection. After years spent mangling his own soul for the
cause of keeping his family safe, the last thing Draco needs is for things to go south now. For
Voldemort to target his mother to spite his own actions.

And it certainly isn't anything he can safely convey through a letter.

Although Voldemort wasn't thrilled about the prospect of Draco leaving for a few days—
especially on the tail of Yaxley's death and with the Ministry in a state of upheaval—he
offered a begrudging acceptance of the matter.

It was all Draco needed in order to convince Hermione they were going.

If he's truly honest, the prospect of leaving the wartorn terrain of London, even for a few
days, has buoyed his spirits in a way he didn't expect. Even more so, the chance to spend
some time with Hermione that doesn't revolve around schemes and plots and death.

Although they'll be staying on the Malfoy property, the land and outbuildings sprawl far
enough that it will almost feel like they're alone.

"I don't know what to bring," Hermione says, eyes wide when he peers through the doorway
into her closet. "I haven't been on a trip since I was still in Hogwarts."

The admission is sobering, when he realises the same is true of him. Suddenly, the casual
throwaway of a simple few days away feels heavier.

"We're only going for a few days," he says, slipping into the closet and leaning against the
wall. "A few sets of clothes—basic toiletries. Mother keeps a couple elves, so they'll provide
anything else you need."

"Okay." Hermione gnaws her bottom lip before turning to him with a self-deprecating eye
roll. "Tell me why this makes me nervous? When the idea of leaving London for a few days
should be so much less stressful than everything else we're up against?"

There's something to be said, Draco thinks, about the fact that she can be honest with him
about trivial matters. That they've somehow reached a point where they can open up to each
other about things other than basic survival.

Releasing a sigh, he takes a step closer and wraps a hand around her waist. "Because this is
new." He meets her eyes, roving his thumb along her hip through her shirt. "And we're so
used to something vastly different."
"I've met your parents before," she murmurs, and to his astonishment, her cheeks turn pink
with a flush. "I don't know why I'm so anxious."

Despite himself, amusement lifts the corner of his mouth. "Maybe," he murmurs, ducking in
to brush a kiss to her mouth, "it matters more to you now."

He doesn't dare voice the underlying sentiment. That he matters more to her now. It feels
horribly presumptuous, even though the shift between them over time has been noticeable.

Weighing his next words, he feels his own chest tighten. "Maybe one day, I'll have the chance
to meet your parents. And I'll probably be just as nervous."

Her brows lift in surprise, and a myriad of emotions play out across her face. He knows about
her parents, of course—he learned everything there was to know about her while they were
chasing each other—but he hasn't found the right time to mention it.

And now it feels like too much time has passed.

The sentiment hangs like an elephant in the room with them.

Finally she chokes out a quiet, "My parents don't remember me." She doesn't shift her gaze
from his, though her eyes take on a glassy sheen. "I removed myself from their memories
before leaving with Harry and Ron after sixth year."

"I know," Draco admits, ducking his chin. "I was tracking you, remember?" He lets the words
wash over her, wondering if he's fucked something up in a way that trying to kill her didn't
accomplish. "But there are ways to undo a spell like that."

Hermione draws in a shaky breath. "I don't think I will. I've... debated it, of course. Tried to
view the situation from every angle. But every time I think about it, all I can think of is how
disappointed they would be in me. I... I've killed so many people. They wouldn't understand."

"We've all had to do things we hate in order to survive," he murmurs, drawing her
instinctively into his chest. Tension wracks her form before she relaxes. "Don't you think they
would be happy to see you after so long?"

"I don't know," she whispers when he releases her and steps back. "I don't... I've tried not to
think about it too much. There isn't room for sentiment and nostalgia when I’ve spent so long
fighting to live."

Draco understands that all too well. He swipes the pad of his thumb beneath her eye. "You
don't need to make any decisions right now."

Maybe he can see why a weekend to visit his family is more nerve-wracking for her than
either of them anticipated. He wishes he were better at this—at soothing her nerves. But he
has no experience in caring for a woman. Not truly.

And Hermione isn’t like he ever imagined.

She doesn't answer, staring for long moments at the contents of her closet.
"We have to leave in twenty minutes," he murmurs at last. "And for the record, my mother
can't wait to see you again.

Then he slips from the room, leaving her alone to the task.

Realistically, having seen Malfoy Manor, Hermione shouldn't be surprised by the size of the
estate in Spain. In the sprawling countryside outside of Granada, the property spans as far as
she can see, open land speckled with various buildings.

Although autumn has begun to hang on the air in England, the air in Spain is warm and
inviting.

Several things strike Hermione all at once.

She hasn't left England in years—and some part of her has longed for even a brief respite
from the unending ravages of war. The last time she took a proper holiday was with her
parents before she started her sixth year at Hogwarts.

The thought stings, even despite the distance from it. Maybe it's because of the way she tore
the old wound open when Draco asked about it. When he asked whether she wanted to
restore their memories.

It's something she hasn't allowed herself to think of in ages—and most of the time she's afraid
of what they would think about who she's become. Hermione can handle the thought of them
alone across the world without any memory of her—she's forced herself to come to terms
with that reality.

What she doesn't think she can handle is their disappointment.

She and Draco will be staying in one of the peripheral carriage houses on the estate, but she
can see he's keen to take care of the first order of business they're here for. So once they drop
off their belongings in the light, airy house—Hermione almost can't wrap her head around the
thought of staying here for a few days while the war carries on at home—they make for the
main villa.

According to Narcissa, Lucius has been checking in on another property in France—and

keeping an eye on the situation in England from a distance.

Exactly as Draco hoped.

She hasn't summoned the courage to ask about his relationship with his father, but she can
piece together enough of the fraught shards on her own.

He wants to share his plans only with Narcissa—and that speaks volumes in itself.

When they broach the threshold into the villa, Hermione is struck all over again at the
vastness of his wealth. The foyer alone is almost as large as her family's home—and her
parents were financially successful in their own right.
She isn't certain whether they still practise dentistry in Brisbane—she's never found the time
or the nerve to visit.

"Draco," Narcissa exclaims, greeting them in lieu of an elf. She beams between them. "And
Hermione—how wonderful to see you both."

"Mother," Draco returns crisply, clasping her by the arm and ducking in to press a kiss to her
cheek. "You as well."

Although Hermione has always considered Narcissa imposing in character, she's physically
dwarfed by Draco's taller, broader stature. Still, Hermione feels herself shrink when the
woman's blue eyes land on her.

"Thank you for having us," Hermione says quietly, lowering her chin. The thought that
Narcissa Malfoy is her mother-in-law still strikes her as oddly surreal.

Amusement dances in the woman's expression when her eyes flit to Draco and back. "Of
course, dear—all of this is yours now too, remember?"

She hasn't been able to forget. But some part of Hermione still can't quite parse the thought
that Draco's material possessions are hers as well. She doesn't even feel right accepting that
she has to spend his money—although she has very little of her own and no form of
employment.

She offers as true a smile as she can manage. "The villa is beautiful."

Narcissa's answering smile is mild but genuine, and she gestures towards the adjoining room.
"I've had the elves prepare tea in the parlour, if you'll join me."

Draco straightens, any familiar sentimentality vanishing in an instant—replaced by the cold-

faced lieutenant. "Thank you. We have plenty to discuss and little time."

With a derisive sound in the back of her throat, Narcissa leads them into a bright, airy room
filled with windows. "I am your mother, not one of those maggots you command."
Hermione's eyes widen at the blatant disrespect, but she doesn't speak. "You don't need to
speak so formally—and your father shouldn't return for the duration of your stay here."

At the confirmation, Draco deflates a little, softening into a version of himself that's as
relaxed as she ever sees him.

Not for the first time, she wonders at the relationship between the pair.

"Then I'll be as blunt as possible," Draco drawls, the three of them settling at a table while a
house elf prepares three cups of tea. After the elf vanishes with a small pop, he turns back to
Narcissa. "I don't know what you have or haven't pieced together about the nature of our
relationship and the driving factors behind it."

Narcissa's eyes dart to Hermione, wry amusement lifting her lips. "Enough that this visit
doesn't surprise me."
Beneath the table, Draco drops a hand to Hermione's knee with a gentle squeeze. She rests a
hand atop his, twining their fingers.

"We are about to be in trouble," he says, matter-of-fact as though he's commenting on the
weather. "And it is imperative that you prepare for such an eventuality."

"The wards on this villa are already incredibly comprehensive," Narcissa returns without
missing a beat. "Surely you detected them when you arrived."

"Strengthen them." Draco's level gaze doesn't leave his mother. "Enact blood wards. I can do
it while we're here."

His mother lifts a brow. "What sort of trouble?"

"The sort," Draco begins with caution, "where the full force of the Dark Lord's wrath is about
to land on us—and on this family."

Narcissa takes a sip of tea, her hands steady as she rests her cup back on its saucer. At last,
she looks up, eyes settling on Hermione before sliding back to her son. "I knew I did
something right in raising you," she says quietly, and Draco's hand tightens in Hermione's
hold. "Very well, then. I presume your father isn't aware?"

"Not yet," Draco drawls, "and I don't know whether I can trust his loyalties at this point. I
will need you to keep quiet about the reasoning for all of this."

With a pensive nod, Narcissa says, "I hope this means you're finally getting out."

"Once things are prepared," Draco says, "and everything is aligned the way we need—yes."

Because Merlin knows they have to be entirely certain. There are a lot of benefits to Draco
remaining within the Dark Lord's inner circle—at his right hand. But Hermione doesn't know
how much longer she can stand to watch him dragged through the mud.

Even so, she’s surprised by the palpable relief in Draco's tone.

"Thank Merlin," Narcissa says in a quiet huff. But just as suddenly, a furrow knits her brow.
"Do be careful."

Hermione nods, hoping to convey reassurance. "Everything needs to go smoothly in order to

get out alive—and we won't act until everything is as prepared as possible."

"When I met you," Narcissa goes on, turning to face Hermione, "and I learned the two of you
had wed, I could only hope there was something else at play. I am so incredibly relieved to
learn my instincts were correct."

Hermione remembers some of the earliest words Narcissa spoke to her, when they met for tea
in the gardens.

He'll slide headfirst into his own ruin.

 She grips Draco's hand tighter beneath the table.

Despair mars his features. "I've done so many despicable things in his service," he breathes
out, staring hard at his untouched cup of tea. "I suppose I've reached the end of my rope." His
gaze lifts to meet Hermione's. "But I don't think I ever would have made a move on my own."

Hermione offers him all she can dredge forth of a smile. "We're doing what we can now."

Narcissa beams at the pair of them. "Wonderful. And you will protect each other."

The words aren't phrased as a question, but Hermione detects the sentiment all the same.
Releasing a breath, she nods. "We'll do our best."

Everyone present knows there are no guarantees in any of this. None Hermione can offer—
and none Narcissa can expect.

But if the sincerity doesn't bleed through her words, she'll be surprised.

Narcissa nods, her eyes glassy, and says, "Draco says you are staying on the grounds for a
few days—I do hope you'll join me for dinner."

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading. I hope you're all doing well xo

Alpha and beta hugs to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows respectively.

 Chapter 36
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

For the first time in as long as he can remember—longer, most likely, given the general
annoyance he felt towards many of his classmates at Hogwarts—Draco finds himself around
only people he likes.

Every part of the situation in Spain leaves him with an odd feeling of discontent. The way his
days instantly turn from the matter of battle strategies to trivialities and small, insignificant
details that he might once have cared about.

It's a reminder of his past, and he's not certain he cares for it.

Hermione is on the expansive grounds, far enough away that he can't quite catch sight of her,
and though he knows she's safe here—they're all safe here, thanks to the elaborate blood
wards he installed without hesitation—he can't force his heart rate to settle.

He understands why, and he appreciates the consideration. But caution has been ingrained in
him for far too long.

His mother sits across the table from him, sipping tea, picking at a tray of dessert squares,
and for a moment, he only stares at the surreality of it.

It's a stark thought that he might never readjust to society.

That, after everything he's done, everything that's happened since he was fifteen years old, he
might never move past it even if the war comes to an end.

"You and Hermione seem far more comfortable with each other than you did the last time I
saw you," Narcissa says, a casual intonation beneath the words that belies the utter interest in
her face.

"Subtle," Draco drawls. "If you'll recall, the last time you saw us together we were also in a
hall surrounded by Death Eaters at a party thrown by the Dark Lord."

Narcissa doesn't waver, a small, indulgent smile on her lips. "That isn't what I meant."

He knows exactly what she means. That was the first night he and Hermione properly kissed.
His thoughts drift, only for a moment, to the way she helped him after the Dark Lord
punished him for disobedience.

The way he fucked her into the wall after.

"Yes, well." Draco stirs a lump of sugar into his teacup, eyes flitting towards the direction
where Hermione vanished. They've been at the villa in Spain for two days now, and they've
spent most of their time together. He appreciates the time to visit with his mother, even
though it feels worlds away from everything else on his mind. "I suppose we've come to rely
on each other."

Something akin to smugness crosses his mother's face, and Draco barely resists the urge to
roll his eyes.

If nothing else, his mother doesn't treat him like a lieutenant of the Death Eaters, and he
appreciates her for it.

"More than reliance, as far as I can tell."

Draco shoots her a look. "It's a number of things."

His mother's knowing glance might drive him up the wall if not for the utter relief in being
able to spend a few days here away from the crumbling remains of his life in England.

"Well," Narcissa says demurely, "I for one am glad of it. However the relationship originated
—and I imagine there were numerous considerations, none of which involved romance—I
am pleased, Draco. She is a wonderful match for you."

The words catch him off guard, as does the sudden tightness in his chest. He ducks his chin in
acquiescence. "I think you're right. Nothing was truly meant to come of this beyond our
original motives. But..." He trails off, unwilling to delve too deep into it. "I think so, too. And
for some reason, she doesn't mind me either."

"Of course she doesn't." Narcissa takes another idle sip of tea. "No matter what else, Draco,
you keep the person you always were contained. And maybe she's never seen that side of you
before, but it doesn't mean she shouldn't."

His eyes fall shut for a moment, and Draco forces out a breath. "Things aren't any better in
England, Mother. In fact, they've grown worse than you probably realise. We don't have room
for anything else."

He doesn't have the time—the mental bandwidth—to sit around and play husband when lives
are on the line.

"That doesn't mean you can't nurture your marriage."

Draco grinds his jaw, biting back several retorts that fly instantly to the tip of his tongue. It's
rich for Narcissa Malfoy to talk to him about marriage, when she stood by for much of his
youth and watched his father steer him towards this path.

But he doesn't hold any of that against her—he never has, really.

Not when he knows how entirely responsible Lucius Malfoy was.

Some part of him weakens under his mother's penetrating blue gaze, and he releases a heavy
breath, rolling some of the ubiquitous strain from his shoulders. "I admit it's nice to get away
from everything for a while."
"You know you're welcome here any time." Her casual tone, once again, falls short of its
intention. "You both are."

"And you know I have responsibilities that tie me to England." He casts her a pointed glance,
suppressing the sting in his chest at the thought. "I cannot simply walk away."

He bites his tongue, again, on a remark against his father, who spends most of his time
elsewhere despite maintaining a position in the inner circle.

The air grows tense as he recalls his main purpose for visiting Spain in the first place. He
knows by his mother's calculated silence she's thinking of the same.

"When the time is right," Draco says, lowering his voice on instinct, "that will no longer be
the case."

Narcissa selects another square from the platter, but Draco's stomach has been a pit of nausea
since leaving England. "I know you're more than capable of looking after yourself," she says,
"and, I imagine, so is Hermione. But it does not stop a mother from worrying while you're
caught in that dreadful war."

He flashes her a thin, disingenuous smile; it isn't a topic he wants to continue discussing.
"We've had to be after this long."

Her mouth draws tight with a scowl, and as she opens her mouth to say something more,
Hermione drifts closer.

The part of Draco that's been fraught with tension for as long as she's been out of sight eases.

He nudges the empty seat next to him with his boot, shifting it away from the table. He
catches her gaze as she approaches, a hint of a smile on her lips.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," she says even as she slips into the seat.

"Not at all," Draco drawls, "though we were talking about you."

Idle humour crosses her face. "Not all bad, I hope."

"None, in fact," Narcissa says, beaming at Hermione, and Draco's struck by the fact that his
mother rarely likes anyone.

He spent most of his adolescence wondering what it would take to find a woman his mother
approved of. The irony that he didn't even have to look strikes him with a sudden jolt of
amusement.

A smirk tugs at his mouth as he reaches for the teapot to pour her a cup and he drawls, "It's
not often that my mother grants her approval so easily. You ought to be pleased."

Hermione's smile widens, and she reaches for a cucumber sandwich. "I am," she muses,
taking a bite. "And I'm quite fond of her as well."
When they share a look, Draco wonders just what exactly he's gotten himself into. And
whether, one day, he might have cause for concern.

It feels strange to breathe.

Although he knew leaving London in itself would feel odd, Draco expected he would feel a
greater sense of urgency to return. If not for the fact that they still have so much unfinished
business back at home, he might be tempted to stay away forever.

As it is now, their visit in Spain feels altogether too short.

He's grown used to Hermione's bright smiles; the way she's released some of the tension she
wears around her, almost ubiquitous. They've spent the past two days lounging, basking in
the sun, reading and resting and enjoying such simple things Draco hasn't had time for in
years.

It's sobering to think of what they have to return to—and a part of him has already started to
despair in it though they have one day left. But if anything, the break away has furthered his
resolve that the war needs to end.

A small part of him wants to survive after all. To explore the life that might one day wait for
them if they make it through this together.

But a larger part doesn't dare to hope, and quashes that side of him that wants a forever with
her.

He collapses into bed at Hermione's side where she's reading a book, legs stretched out on the
mattress in front of her.

"Yes?" she asks, mouth twitching. "What is it?"

"Let's go somewhere for a while."

"Elaborate on somewhere," she says distractedly as she finishes her page then marks her spot
and closes the book. "We've been hesitant to leave the warded grounds."

Draco tugs her down on the bed to lie next to him. "I mean on the grounds. We don't need to
go anywhere else. There are trails we haven't explored yet."

The villa only encompasses a small portion of the grounds, and even with the outbuildings—
including the carriage house where they've set up temporary residence—the rest of the estate
encompasses vast swaths of wilderness.

"Trails," she echoes with a hint of disbelief, entwining their legs atop the covers. "You don't
strike me as the hiking type."

"I'm not," he murmurs against her mouth, drawing her into a kiss. "But I don't want to go
back home without making the best of our time away. It is beautiful here, and I think you'd
like it."
If he's honest, he wants to see her reaction to everything. Ever since they married—since he
started to see her as something other than an adversary—their lives have been fraught with
chaos and fear. He wants this time away to be something different between the two of them.
Something worth remembering.

She indulges him, sinking into the kiss and opening her mouth to his. A soft moan slides
from her lips when she grinds her hips against his. "If you think so, then who am I to argue?"

"We could always stay in instead," he drawls, reaching for her shirt. When she doesn't resist,
he tugs it over her head, squeezing one breast through the thin lace of her bra. He plants a
kiss to the curve of her cleavage, then drags his tongue along her peaked nipple through the
fabric. "If you're more inclined to that."

Hermione arches from the bed with a breathy laugh. She reaches for his trousers, rubbing at
his hardening cock. "I imagine we have time for both."

Warmth has come so much easier between them while they've been in Spain. Relaxation and
ease and the way he hasn't forced himself to restrict his own enjoyment. It feels strange
without so many demands on his time, and he groans when she winds a leg around his hip,
bringing him flush against her.

Some part of him loves the idea of fucking her in the middle of the day because they have
nowhere else to be.

He releases the clasp of her bra, taking her skin fully into his mouth as he reaches for her
jeans. "I think," he murmurs, fixating on the sensitive skin and the way she melts beneath
him, "you're right."

Hermione releases his belt, tugging his jeans and shorts from his hips in one movement, and
takes his cock into her palm.

A smirk drags at his mouth. "You're going to be the death of me," he breathes into her midriff
as he trails a line of kisses downward.

"A better way to go than most," she whispers, pushing down her own knickers.

When he reaches the apex of her thighs, he breathes her in, eyelids fluttering. He darts his
tongue out to taste her arousal, laving a strip from her core to her clit. She bows from the bed
with a cry, fingers tugging his hair while he licks and sucks at her, drawing pleasure from her
skin as he indulges in the intoxicating taste of her.

Sliding his tongue into her cunt, he groans at her wetness, his erection almost painful. "You're
so damned wet," he growls, driving two fingers between her walls as he returns a teasing
assault to her clit.

"All for you," she gasps, shifting her hips closer to his mouth. A breathy string of expletives
falls from her lips, and he looks up to catch the lazy grin on her face.
His chest tightens at the words and he redoubles his efforts, drawing her orgasm forth with a
bright cry of his name. And when she reaches for him again, aligning him at her core—as he
slides in, burying himself in her tight heat, he makes a silent vow.

And he doesn't care what it takes or what it costs him. He'll give her the world, even if he has
to tear it from the sky himself.

As Draco predicted prior to their mid-afternoon distraction, Hermione loves the walking
trails. The expansive views are gorgeous in their purity, the raw beauty of nature—and she
can't complain about the company either.

Since arriving in Spain, they've been acting less like soldiers and more like the young adults
they are, exploring each other and drawing every ounce of enjoyment they can from the time
away.

For the first time since they decided to work together—no matter how forced the situation
became at the time—she's allowed herself to indulge those butterflies without regard for the
rest. The way she's come to feel about him—the energy that sometimes flows between them.
How respect and trust has grown from the most feeble of seeds.

Draco shoots her a sidelong glance as they reach the crest of a hill, his fingers brushing her
elbow. For a moment, their eyes lock; a smile plays about her lips. "Let's take a rest."

He settles himself on the ground, leaning against a large rock, and Hermione stares, baffled,
before joining him. With a smirk, he rummages in his satchel and withdraws a bottle of
whisky.

Grinning, she shifts closer until their sides press together, and he slings an arm around her
shoulders with a great sigh.

"This is nice," he says quietly as he cracks the seal on the bottle. He gazes out into the
distance, a vibrant sun beginning to duck lower on the hilly terrain. His face sobers. "Getting
away from everything for a while."

Hermione nods, taking a swig when he hands her the bottle. "It's startling," she adds. "We've
been caught up in war for so long that sometimes it's hard to remember the whole world isn't
dealing with the trouble like we are."

As she speaks the words, the truth of it hits her. That there's no easy way out of this war—and
even now, it only becomes more volatile. Both sides grow continuously more aggressive,
clinging to shreds of power as they dissipate on thin air.

"We could just say fuck it all," Draco muses. "Never go back."

Although it would be the easy way out, it surprises her to hear the words fall from his lips.
He's given up more than even she has in the course of this war—he's fought even harder for
his own desires.
And the conversation reminds her of one she shared with Harry, before everything began to
crumble.

Some part of her desperately longs to agree.

"If I said we could," she breathes. "If I said we should run and forget the rest—would you?"

He hesitates, taking a deep swig from the bottle. Hermione finds herself anxious for his
answer—because even now, he continues to surprise her. If she had any lingering doubts that
he's no longer the cowardly boy he was, this one moment in time would assuage them all.

"No," he says at last. "I don't think I could. Not after everything we've already committed. We
would spend the rest of our lives—or at least until everything crumbles and ends some other
way—on the run. That's if we don't end up hunted down for sport."

"Yeah." Hermione swipes the whisky and takes a swig, the liquid searing her throat on the
way down. "Don't know that I could live with myself anyway."

Draco snorts, a low, amused sound. "Everything we've done, and that's the limit."

Glancing at him, she realises he's right. That for as long as she's sworn there's no part left of
her worth saving, maybe she still has something.

And he does, too.

She reaches for his hand, giving his fingers a squeeze, and he entwines their fingers. For a
long moment, they sit in silence, sipping his bottle of whisky until a gentle warmth overtakes
her thoughts. Hermione drops her head against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut as a
warm wind grazes her face.

"You know," Draco says quietly as the comfortable silence coils around them, "back when we
were at school, I always preferred flying over anything. It was the only way I could find
peace—when everything started to fall apart."

Hermione freezes, unblinking, unmoving. He hasn't broached the topic of their Hogwarts
years since they married, and the topic catches her off guard.

He releases a long breath. "I can't remember the last time I've been for a fly now. Since I had
time to indulge in anything personal."

Shifting at his side, she reaches for the whisky bottle, but her grip only tightens on the neck
when he speaks again.

"It was all so trivial, looking back on it now. But... I don't know. I guess I thought if only I
did what he wanted—if I did this one task, that would be it. My family would be safe, he
would let me live, and his focus would switch to someone else instead." Despair knits his
brow as he gazes out towards the horizon. A golden sun dances ahead of them, burnishing his
hair and the sharp lines of his face. His voice drops to little more than a whisper, and
Hermione realises she isn't breathing. "One task turned to two. And then another. And
another... and another."
He lets the sentiment drop off, the memories haunting his eyes.

"You did what you had to do," Hermione murmurs, trying to recall the boy he had been in
sixth year. "And you're still alive. Your parents are still alive."

Raking a hand through his hair, he drops it to the ground at his side—and she isn't certain
whether she saw a tremble in his fingers.

"It only got worse and worse," he adds, a cold bitterness in his voice. "The missions... the
threats. And I figured, what was one more life when my hands were already coated in so
much blood. A dozen more? What was my soul shattering when it meant I would survive
another day? When I was gaining his trust—fighting for it. Maybe if he trusted me, I told
myself, I wouldn't get dealt the worst of it any more. Fuck, I—" He draws a gasping breath,
staring hard at the ground. "I was so bloody naive."

Several moments pass before Hermione realises silent tears slide down her cheeks. He's never
spoken of this. Not once has he talked about his rise through the Death Eaters—and it occurs
to her she never allowed herself to think of what horrors he must have faced. Been forced to
submit to.

Hermione doesn't even know where to begin; what she can possibly say.

But he carries on, as though allowing the words to be wrenched from the pit in his soul. As if
it's cathartic. "I knew better," he mutters. "I think I knew where it was all leading. But so long
as he didn't want me dead... I don't know, Hermione. I don't know how I ended up here."

His eyes finally slide to her, grey and deadened and desolate, and she can see the fatigue
more plainly than ever.

So many useless platitudes hang on the tip of her tongue. Empty words—words she can't
force herself to speak.

So she stares at him for a long moment, not bothering to quell the tears as they trace paths
down her cheeks, and she breathes, "You are worth saving." She swipes a tear. "This isn't
where your story ends, Draco Malfoy. There is more than this. I promise."

"That isn't a promise you can make," he says hoarsely.

Lifting a hand to his face, she shakes her head. "I don't care. I'm making it anyway."

His lips part, eyes glossy and bloodshot, and he grips her hand like a vise. Like he's lost at sea
and she's the only thing connecting him to solid ground.

Holding her gaze, he whispers, "I love you."

She sucks in a sharp intake of breath. "What?"

He assesses her for a moment, eyes tightening. "I never expected any of this to happen
months ago when all of this started. For the two of us to... grow close like we have."
The words spin around her mind, not quite settling into place, and she's intensely aware of
her heart beating. Adrenaline courses a thudding rhythm behind her ears.

Draco brings the back of her hand to his mouth, resting his lips for a moment against her
knuckles. Then a wry smirk curls his lips and he drawls, "Trust me, I didn't think I was even
capable."

A watery laugh bursts forth from deep within her. "You prat," she whispers, a smile tugging
at her mouth. "You are the last person I ever thought I would fall for. But… I'm in love with
you, too."

The golden sun glints in his irises, warming the usual cool grey, and for a long moment, he
only smiles at her while her heart beats and beats.

"It takes a lot for me to trust someone," he says quietly, "and I trust you with everything I am.
Everything I've ever been... and Merlin willing, everything I might one day become."

Tears spill from her eyes again. Tears of sadness, of despair, of a tingling, desperate sort of
hope.

The moment is so far from any plane of existence she's known for most of her life, and no
part of her can comprehend the series of events that have led to this point. She gives his hand
a tight squeeze.

"Then I need you to know," she breathes, "that you've given me reason to fight again. To
survive all of this. Because maybe one day this war won't be our reality anymore." She gazes
out upon the early hints of sunset, settles into that part of herself that has longed for the peace
of the past few days. "And I want to explore a life with you where we aren't fighting for our
lives every damn day."

"I want that too," he says quietly, and Hermione wonders if it's the first time he's admitted to
himself that he truly wants to survive this war. A furrow knits the skin between his brows, as
if the thought has finally taken root. As if it's profound. "And if this is it... if this is the only
way our paths ever would have crossed—the only way we end up together... I need you to
know I would do it all over again. Would endure all of it, sacrifice every shred of my soul, if
it means I find you in the end."

Drawing a careful breath, she meets his gaze. His face is open and vulnerable in a way she's
never seen, as though he has no intention to guard himself from her. As if he means
everything he's saying, and it's only in this place, with the two of them together and alone,
that he feels comfortable to say it.

It strengthens every facet of her resolve that's waned.

"We're going to make it through this," she says, bringing their joined hands close to her heart.
"I don't care what it takes, or what we have to do. We're going to survive whatever stands in
our way together."

Draco clenches his jaw. "Yes we are."

 She wants to cry; to break down into the sum of her shattered parts, to give in to the tumult of
emotions building within her.

"Together," she repeats in a whisper. "Because I refuse to face what comes next alone."

"Witch," he huffs, and it sounds like affection. It sounds like a promise. He cups a hand to the
back of her neck, drawing their mouths together. "I'll be right here."

His lips are salty with her tears, and when they draw apart, a teasing smile spreads across his
face.

And a bright laugh breaks from her lips, from her soul.

It's something she never saw coming—but it's beautiful.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for reading. This was one of my favourite chapters to write, and I
hope you enjoyed it too. See you next week xo

Alpha and beta love to kyonomiko and sweetestsorrows.

 Chapter 37
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Returning to England feels different than he expected. For three days, Draco's been allowed
to ignore the immediacy of the war in favour of spending time with Hermione and his mother
in relative peace.

Going home now feels especially stark.

But he's buoyed by the time spent away, by the admissions and the realisations, and the
thought that not only does he want to make it through all of this, but he needs to.

Because he won't leave Hermione to face the rest of this alone again.

In light of what he needs to do next, the thought is especially unnerving.

While they were away, the rest of their small team were quiet on the coins, and Draco doesn’t
know whether it's because nothing of note happened, or because the rest of them decided to
give him and Hermione some time.

He isn't certain he wants to know.

But he draws his coin all the same when they return to Malfoy Manor, watching Hermione
retreat into her room. Unbidden, a smile draws itself on his face, and he forces himself to
focus.

He bared his soul to her in a way he hadn't even anticipated in Spain, and he doesn't regret it
—but he can't allow a distraction. Not now—not when everything hangs on the edge of a
knife.

And so much of what happens next depends on them.

Within an hour, he finds himself in the London house with a full war room ahead of him, and
steels himself for the reports as Theo, Potter, and Longbottom settle into their seats at the
table. On his right, Hermione takes his hand beneath the table.

Propping his elbow on the table, he rests his face on his palm and drawls, "Spill."

Longbottom flashes him a grin. "Welcome home, you two. Spain seems to have agreed with
you."

Surprised, Draco glances at Granger; she offers him a soft smile in return.

"This," Potter says, waving between them, "is strange to witness."

Draco cocks a brow.

"What they aren't saying," Theo interrupts with a snicker, "is that things have been... quiet.
Too quiet. If anything major happened, we would have informed you. But, nothing."

He dislikes this more than if they'd reported a major attack. He's learned little from the Death
Eaters either, and a frisson of unease crawls along his spine. The only reason for things to be
subdued is that one or both sides are planning something major.

Theo's still acting as a double agent through Foray, and Potter and Longbottom are straddling
both lines.

If anything is in the works, one of them ought to know about it.

"It's minor," Longbottom says, as though as an afterthought, "but they've been shuffling some
of the resistance safehouses. I was originally relocated to the same house where Harry lives—
where Hermione used to live—after you lot released me from your torture cell."

If Draco feels a spasm of guilt, he suppresses it just as quickly. "All of that was on the Dark
Lord's orders."

Longbottom rolls his eyes. "Whatever you say."

"Technically," Theo drawls, "it was. And Draco didn't know of any connection between us at
the time."

"Okay, but—"

"Who's moved in instead?" Hermione asks, breaking up the imminent argument. "Into
Warrington's house?"

Potter's face is a little too innocent-looking as he says, "Luna's come over."

When she barely refrains from smiling—and shoots Draco a covert glance—he smirks. "Ah,"
she says, "that must be nice for you."

Her voice contains entirely too much enthusiasm for what Draco suspects is a mild change at
best, and he watches colour flush into Potter's cheeks as he offers a flippant shrug.

"It's alright, yeah."

"Lovegood," Draco huffs. "Really?"

Scowling at him, Potter folds his arms. "It's not like, a thing. Or something."

Theo and Longbottom exchange a glance; Hermione presses her lips together to withhold a
smile. All of it leaves Draco feeling as though he's on the edge of something he isn't meant to
understand—and he's perfectly fine without knowing the details of this particular
arrangement.

"Anyway," Potter says, in an obvious bid to change the subject, "it always means something
when they shuffle everyone around."
"Right," Longbottom agrees. "When they were assembling my team on that mission from
Hell that you intercepted, they moved us all into the same safehouse for preparations."

Hermione hums, her expression shifting as she shoots him a look. "Sometimes," she begins,
measuring her thoughts carefully, "I got the impression they were moving us around so no
one ever really had a full picture of how the resistance forces truly looked. Like they didn't
want anyone to know what was actually going on at the highest levels."

"That is absolutely a thing Cassius does," Longbottom adds. "It keeps the leaders with all the
power—and keeps all the rest of us guessing."

Draco listens to the rest of them, mulling over the information in the back of his mind. With a
grimace, he says, "Warrington really is a piece of shit, isn't he?"

"Rich, given who your leader is," Potter snickers.

"Which is why," Draco says with a pointed look, "we're getting rid of both of them. Isn't it?"

Longbottom drifts from his seat, pacing the short length of the room as though he can't quite
contain his energy. "Thing is," he says, "no one even knows exactly what Warrington's up to.
Each safehouse has its own leadership, but they all ultimately report to Warrington. And he's
shady as anyone I've ever known."

"How exactly did this prat end up in charge?" Draco drawls. The more they speak about the
inner workings of the resistance, the more his skin crawls. "As far as I recall, he was an
arsehole at Hogwarts."

"And he's still one now," Theo says. "All of my interactions with him have been suspect at
best."

"He took charge," Potter says, and they all fall silent at the tone of his voice. "After the Battle
of Hogwarts—when everything went shit up for the Order and those who survived the Battle
of Hogwarts scattered on the wind—there was no one holding things together." He glances
away, clenching his jaw together, and Draco reads the sentiment on his face. That he might
have continued to act as a leader of sorts.

That if Harry Potter had stepped up, again, for the hundredth time, the Order of the Phoenix
may have pulled itself back together.

"Instead," Hermione says quietly with an idle glance at Harry, "a lot of people left. The
resistance formed of those who remained—many of whom lacked the original integrity of the
Order. But we learned early on that there was nothing for it. There was no way to fight fire
with wind. Not when the gusts kept blowing right back at us."

"I remember," Draco murmurs. Those early days feel like a dream now—a nightmare. He
hadn't been in a high ranking role, and didn't possess half as much of the Dark Lord's trust.
He'd been simply another Death Eater, another disposable pair of boots on the ground.

Without as much stake in the game, he hadn't paid as much attention.

"Hierarchies formed," Longbottom says as the group falls into a stilted tension, as though all
of them are reflecting on what happened all those years ago. What could have happened, had
things gone differently. "I think a lot of it ended up as a matter of who didn't want to take
responsibility for everything that was going wrong."

Hermione releases a sigh, and four sets of eyes swivel to land on her. "As far as I remember,
Warrington more or less took control. He kept us focused even though it wasn't the same
target any of us had been looking at before. He kept us functional—and for a while, it was
good. It was better. Fighters started to rise, and we started to train properly. It was enough for
us to hold our own against the Death Eaters."

"It was enough," Potter adds, "until it wasn't."

Draco sifts through every detail, teasing the edges until they meld into a coherent narrative.
It's an easier place to operate from—logic and strategy and the part of him that knows how to
dissect the bigger picture.

"So what you're saying," he murmurs at last, eyes skimming the group and landing on
Hermione, "is that we need to figure out what the resistance is planning."

"Yeah," she breathes. "I think that's what we need to do."

In the days that follow, Hermione's life falls into delineations across a line.

And the line, arbitrary though she tells herself it is, follows their trip to Spain.

She hasn't had room for sentimentality or emotion in years—and she's always told herself it
follows in her duty to the cause. Growing up, her cause was Harry. And now, since she was
eighteen, her cause has been the resistance. Fighting the war—playing her role. Doing as
she's told.

Exhaustion encompasses every move she makes now.

That part she's kept concealed, buried, entrapped within herself longs to break free. To feel.

All she can think of is Draco and what he shared with her in Spain. That he trusts her with his
past—his future.

That he loves her.

It's enough to bring her to tears even now as she allows herself the indulgence of recollection.
It isn't something she ever imagined. Not love. Not him.

She’s never been in love before, and some trivial part of her wants to explore the depths of
everything she's tried to ignore. The same part that longs for a deeper connection with Harry
and Neville. To know Theo better. To dream that she might one day find her parents again.

For so long she's operated from a place of desperation and immediacy that she hasn't known
how to think of anything else.
The floodwaters caught up to her in Spain, and she's drowning.

"What are you doing?"

Draco sinks into the sofa beside her, jarring her from her thoughts, and a prickle of shame
crawls up her spine. She's released so many of the instincts that have kept her alive, and she
knows better than to let herself be caught off her guard.

"I don't know," she admits, staring hard at the opposite wall, adorned with a painting they
picked up on one of their rare outings into Muggle London together. It's a somewhat abstract
take on two people silhouetted against a night sky, and it spoke to something within her when
she saw it—and in the several minutes that passed before she could tear herself away from it,
Draco purchased it. "I think I'm struggling."

The words slide from her lips before she can reign them in.

Draco's brows lift in surprise. "Struggling with what?"

She can't look at him; can't force herself to meet his gaze. Not without knowing if she'll find
judgement, understanding, or confusion.

Hermione shakes her head, and the sofa shifts when he moves closer. His thigh presses
against her own.

"I struggle too, sometimes," he says softly. "And I get it."

All at once, an urge to cry swells within her, and her eyes burn hot. "It's so much," she
whispers. It's too broad and too fine a point all at once, and she shakes her head. "Trying to
survive. Trying to live."

"Never knowing what tomorrow will bring or if you'll even see it," Draco murmurs, "but
feeling a bone-deep longing to find out."

"Yes," she whispers, "exactly like that."

And all at once she's eclipsed, flooded by emotions that she's fought so hard to repress. And
she reaches for his hand, clinging to him like he's her only chance at salvation, at a chance at
something else. And Hermione, all at once, can't stand it.

She hates this life, but it's the only one she knows.

"It's too much," she says, shaking her head. Tears spike at the corners of her eyes, and she
doesn't know how to stop them when they begin to spill down her cheeks. "I've tried so hard
for so long."

"I know you have," Draco murmurs, and he doesn't let go of her hand. Doesn't speak over
her.

"I've tried to be strong," she breathes.

"I know."

But in the end, all it comes down to is the truth laid bare before her. That for all she's done,
for as hard as she's fought, there's nothing more to it. She's caught in a war she can't get out
of, and her chances of survival are slim.

She will never see that other life she longs for with such a visceral desperation that she can't
stand it.

"I don't know what to do anymore," she murmurs, tightening her grip on his hand.

And for a long moment, Draco doesn't speak. He only offers a quiet, consistent comfort in the
small sitting room of the house they've assembled together. The only hint that some other life
might possibly exist.

And she longs for it so badly, but all the while she knows it will never happen.

"Here's what I think," Draco says at last, the words soft and patient. His thumb strokes the
back of her knuckles, and his voice is enough to soothe her tears. "I think we're doing the best
we can. We're fighting—even when the fight grows to be too much. And we're trapped in a
situation that was always too much for us. Always, Hermione. This should never have been
our fight to begin with, and not for so damn long."

She doesn't speak, his words hanging over her in a way she can't quite comprehend, and she
doesn't know what she might say even if she could manage it.

"I think we're going to continue doing our best," he says, "because we have no other options.
We have to see this through—and the only way to do that is to keep fighting, keep pushing,
even when we can't, even when we have no strength and no energy and we don't know where
to go or which way is up."

He releases a long breath, his grip on her hand never wavering.

"Yeah," she whispers, swiping at her tears with her free hand.

"You," Draco says, and his tone is soft, reverent, "are amazing. And I have admired you for
longer than I could even admit to myself. You've been so strong and so brave, and it eats me
alive to see you struggling with this."

Before she can even open her mouth to speak—before she can turn the sentiment on him—he
continues.

"And I think," he says, then adds, "I know this isn't going to be the end for us. No matter what
the future holds. It may not look as we intend it to look—but this is what we have in front of
us right now."

He lets the words hang between them, his grey eyes finally locking on hers.

"And maybe there are some parts of this that aren't so terrible," he says at last. "For instance,
we never would have come to know each other had not all of this transpired."
She clasps his hand as tight as she can manage, bringing his knuckles to her lips.

He goes on. "And we would never have discovered the truth about ourselves. That we're
stronger than we think. That even when we think there's nothing left and we can't keep going
—we do. Because it's all we know. And it's just survival. And maybe it's shit that this is the
hand we've been dealt, but it's what we have."

He stares hard at her, and she can scarcely see him through the blur of her tears.

"I wish we could get through this," she breathes at last. "I want to live an actual life with
you."

"We can." He stares at the painting on the opposite wall, a rueful twist to his mouth.
"Remember that day when we purchased this painting?"

"Yes," she gasps, slumping a little into her seat, into him. "I remember. Of course I
remember."

"And all that mattered was what we were doing. Just us." He fixes her with a hard stare, his
eyes beseeching. "We can build a life where we can do things like that—things that shouldn't
matter, but they do all the same. This house is the home we built together. And our friends—"

She chokes on a sob at the word—at the thought of their friends. Because even if it wasn't
always the case at the start, they have friends together. Maybe he sees Harry and Neville as
friends of a sort now—comrades and confidants if nothing else. And Theo of course—who,
against all odds, is still with them in this fight.

"Those are the friends we've chosen," he says softly. "Not the people that were forced on us
by some arbitrary mechanism in this war. People we actually want to be around—people we
can talk to. People we can trust."

When she looks closer, his eyes are a little glassy too, and she doesn't know what to make of
that. Doesn't know how to deal with this version of Draco Malfoy who sees her—who looks
straight into all of her flaws and still wants her all the same.

She doesn't know how to deal with any of this.

But this, maybe just this if nothing else, is something they have together.

Maybe that's enough just for now.

Maybe, if she lets herself, she can borrow his faith—his patience—the fragile shards of his
hope that there might be something else for them one day. His belief that even now, their life
is worth something.

She doesn't know what to say, and even when he releases his grip on her hand, she can't find
it in herself to move. But he rises, standing over her, peering into her eyes. He smooths a curl
out of her face, tucking it behind her ear.
Hermione wants to smile, and she almost does, but some part of her can't quite manage it.
"Thank you," she whispers, holding his stare, searching for everything she might discover in
the depths of his eyes.

"Start gathering that magic," he murmurs, ducking in to press a kiss to her mouth. "Because
we've got some changes to make soon."

Melting into him, she laces her fingers into his pale hair, the kiss intensifying as she draws
him closer. "You need to get out," she says, drawing back to meet his gaze again. "I don't
want to see you continue to struggle."

"We've already agreed I'll get out when the time is right," he says, wrapping a hand around
her wrist and tugging her to her feet. "And there are still things I need to do while I have
access to everything."

"No." She shakes her head, twisting her wrist to catch his hand again. "Fuck the inner circle.
If you're ready to get out, get out."

For a long moment, he stares at her—as though he's debating the idea. And it only serves to
strengthen her resolve.

A sudden burst of fear darts through her. The longer he resists, the longer he stays embroiled
within the Death Eater network—never mind squarely atop it—his life is at risk. They're all
at risk, but Draco's the one who actively puts himself on the line day in and day out.

She's never hated it more.

"Please," she murmurs, lacing their fingers, "don't stay on my account. We can figure things
out from outside. It's not worth it, Draco."

Her words drop to a whisper, and his expression falters enough for her to see how badly he
wants it. How he wants to walk away, to burn that blasted Mark from his arm, and never
again act as though he's loyal to a sociopath.

"Collect your magic," he only says again, as though the words are physically painful to speak
aloud. "We're going to need every scrap of it we can get."

Hermione can still remember the way the magic tore through her when he used only a sliver
of it on Yaxley. How much magic still danced in the marital bonds between them before
dissipating into the air. A shudder crawls along her spine at the thought of what he intends to
do.

Of how many Death Eaters he plans to take out with him.

Despite herself, amusement draws at one corner of her mouth, and she kisses him again,
deeper, drawing him tight against her.

"I'll support you whatever you decide," she breathes against his lips, "as long as you're as safe
as you can manage. Because I can't do this without you."
"I know." He draws back, brushing his thumbs along her cheekbones. "But I have to do what
I can to bring it all down around him."

Hermione nods, drawing a deep breath of strength and fortification from deep within her. She
allows her face to tilt into his palm, her eyelids fluttering in his quiet comfort.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

He doesn't respond for several breaths, and when she slides her eyes open, she finds him
staring at her, his expression unreadable. "You don't have to be strong all the time," he says
softly. "I know it's the world we live in, and we haven't had a choice but to learn to carry
everything in order to survive. But if you can't carry it all—if you have to let down the load
sometimes—I'm here."

Planting a hand against his and coiling her fingers around his larger ones, she nods again.
"Okay."

Amusement sparkles in his eyes. "Okay." He glances down at his forearm with a sigh, his
eyes tightening at the corners. "I have a summons. Do you want to come back with me?"

"Yeah. Okay."

"We're going to figure this out."

"Yeah." She forces a bland smile but it's all she can muster when exhaustion has seized every
part of her in her despair. She physically shrugs it out, rolling the strain from her neck and
straightening her shoulders. Draco's lips curl with a smirk as she pulls herself together. "I'll
come along."

They've been spending too much time away from the manor, and they can't draw attention to
their prolonged absence—especially Draco, when he still commands the Dark Lord's forces.

"I have to arrange an ambush," he adds, glancing at his watch. "So I'll likely be tied up into
the evening."

The way he speaks as though he's arranging a meeting at the office spurs a dark, delirious
burst of humour, and she claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

Draco smirks, heat in his eyes, and he tugs her hand into his. "Keep yourself busy for a while
and we'll have dinner together?"

Without waiting for a response, he pulls them both into Apparition, landing in their private
quarters in the manor. He stares at her a moment longer before unclasping their hands. He
strides for his room and a moment later emerges, shrugging on his robes.

"Okay," she murmurs, peering through the window at the grounds. "Maybe I'll go for a walk."

"Perfect." Swooping in, he plants a kiss to her mouth. "Keep your coin on you—I'll update
you as I can."
"Always." She watches as he affixes his mask into place with a roll of his eyes, and moments
later, he sweeps from the room, leaving her alone in the sudden silence.

Hermione releases a long, ragged breath. Scrubs at her eyes.

For as much as she sometimes longs to indulge the despair in her soul, she can't succumb to
it. Not when they've come so far—when they're getting closer by the day. Taking Draco's
suggestion, she begins spooling a narrow coil of power, winding it tightly within herself in
preparation of the coming days and weeks when she may need it.

Draco's amusement shines through his power when it prods briefly against hers, detecting it,
before he vanishes again from the connection.

She grabs a cloak and makes for the grounds.

When Draco arrives at the hall where the Dark Lord keeps court, a strange energy hangs in
the room. Close to a dozen Death Eaters loiter in conversation, and every set of eyes swivels
to land on him when he arrives.

His skin prickles with a perceived threat—and he knows better than to ignore his instincts.

"My Lord," he muses, bowing his head as he approaches the dais. "What can I do for you?
The final details for tomorrow's ambush aren't yet prepared."

"Indeed." Voldemort rests his elbow on the armrest and props his chin in his palm. "That is
not why I have called you here."

Draco swallows, never more grateful for his mask. Enforcing his Occlumency shields, he
keeps his face carefully blank even beneath the metal.

Moments later, he can feel the prod of the Dark Lord's Legilimency and he bristles. His
master knows better than to think he can break into Draco's mind for any purpose—but this
doesn't bode well.

He keeps a careful catalogue in the back of his mind of the Death Eaters along the periphery
of the room.

Years of fighting and narrow misses have taught him to always be prepared—and almost
absently, he finds himself reaching for the thread of magic between him and Hermione. The
pool of magic is nearly empty after their time spent without concern in Spain.

"We have a leak," Voldemort purrs, though his red eyes flash with fury. "Someone from
within the Death Eaters—within the inner circle. Do you know anything about that?"

The words sound more accusatory than he cares for, and Draco straightens on the spot. His
brain whirs and spins, flying over shreds of information for the best course of action.

If anyone's been leaking information, of course, it's Theo. Though he knows everything Theo
has provided to Longbottom as a Foray operative, and they've been very cautious to straddle
a precarious line.

Flint.

"I have caught wind of such a thing," Draco drawls, his voice carefully level. As though he
can't imagine anything less droll. "And though my investigation is incomplete, I do believe
someone is passing information to the resistance."

Voldemort's face tightens with anger, his fingers curling around the armrest. "And? Who is
it?"

Draco shrugs. "I can't say for certain. But prior to his death, I noticed Flint engaged in
suspicious activity more than once."

"Flint," the Dark Lord repeats. "Marcus Flint."

With a nod, Draco folds his hands across his front. "I can certainly look further into it. But as
he's dead now, I imagine that issue is resolved."

Unless the Dark Lord learns he isn't dead—unless Flint is still somehow involved with the
resistance. Draco's active mind sorts through each possibility—and though he allowed Flint
to go to the continent and live with his family, Draco isn't above throwing him to the wolves
if it means Theo survives instead.

Voldemort's eyes narrow. "Flint died weeks ago. This is more recent."

"Then perhaps," Draco murmurs, "the ship has another leak."

When the room falls still around him, he resists the urge to look around—to move at all. His
intuition prickles in a way that leaves him with a chill.

Instinctively, he tightens his focus on his side of the bonds, yanking the thread connecting
him to Hermione tight. Distantly, he can feel her recognition on the other side, but he doesn't
let go. The magic stretches between them, so taut it's almost painful on his consciousness, but
he doesn't dare let go.

He has no other way to communicate with her without reaching for his coin.

Voldemort stares at him, unblinking—and a sudden torrent of unadulterated fear shoots

through him.

Fear for Hermione; for his mother. For Theo.

"Indeed," Voldemort says, the word cold and crisp. "Though some would have me believe
this leak is, in fact, you."

Draco lifts his chin. "That's preposterous, My Lord."

If Voldemort had concrete proof, Draco would already be dead. It's the mantra cycling
through his head over and over, a menial loop that's drowned out by the force of adrenaline
racing beneath his skin.

He tightens his hold on the bonds, reaching for the small amount of magic Hermione has
spooled together. He can feel her alarm, her concern, and he conveys only as much as he can
manage.

When Voldemort cocks a brow, Draco slides a gaze towards the group of Death Eaters, none
of whom makes any attempt to pretend as though they aren't listening in.

"I don't know who has been making these unfounded accusations," Draco drawls, "but I can
assure you, it's nothing but lies. Perhaps the real traitor is spreading misinformation to
conceal their own wrongdoings."

When Voldemort falters, head tilting with consideration, Draco meets him with a hard stare.

He's been the Dark Lord's most faithful for years—the only one he trusts with all of his plans.
Somehow the thought offers little solace in the face of this surprise.

Draco hates surprises.

His mind sorts over everything, every bit of information, every step they've taken, and he
can't determine where something might have slipped. How someone could have guessed at
something.

He would already be dead if the Dark Lord has proof.

"It has come to my attention," the Dark Lord says after a long, drawn out pause, "that you
may have been keeping information from me. My very best lieutenant—or are you?"

"I am." Draco bows his head. "Of course I am, My Lord." Beneath his mask, his upper lip
curls with disdain. "Have I not carried out your wishes for years?"

"For the most part, yes, you have." The Dark Lord assesses him, remarkably lucid. "Although
there have been certain... instances where you have not."

He has to be referring to Hermione. Draco wouldn't be surprised—it's the only time he's even
slightly bent the Dark Lord's wishes in as long as he can remember. Still, he lowers his head.
"I am not sure what you mean."

If Voldemort has already made up his mind—if he's chosen to follow some tip rather than
trust Draco himself, there's nothing to be done for it. Because when he makes up his mind,
only blood and pain follow.

And Draco isn't willing to stick around for that.

"As it turns out," the Dark Lord purrs, "I think you do. There are more than a few here who
do not think that Miss Granger is as attuned to your will as you may have them believe. That
she may have motives of her own for being here. That she is the leak."
Draco tenses, his shoulders tightening, and his grip on the magical tether between himself
and Hermione grows painful. He scours the wards on his quarters, enforcing them with the
magic afforded him as the present leader of the household. Although he can sense Hermione's
presence in the manor, she's alone. Not even the elves can reach her now.

He can sense, in this moment, that this is it. That the Dark Lord won’t hear anything more.

Draco has been on the other side of too many conversations like this.

And if he falls, they'll go after Hermione next.

Instinctively, he thinks to reach for his wand despite that the magic coiling within his core is
so much more powerful.

Hermione is frantic on the other end, pushing her magic into him as though she anticipates he
might need it, and despite himself, a resigned smile tugs at his mouth.

"It's unfortunate that you think so," he says, the words deadened and dark from his own lips.
He stares down the Dark Lord through his mask, unblinking.

He twists the power with a thrum within him, magic coursing through his veins and pushing
to escape.

He's always said, when he goes, he's taking them out first.

And if this is it, he's taking his chance.

Tossing his mask to the floor, he allows a smirk to curl his lips. "Perhaps you've
underestimated me for too long."

All he registers in the sudden tension that surrounds him is the look on Voldemort's face.

Draco reaches into the magic, yanks a mental fistful of it to the surface, and screams into the
bond with every ounce of himself.

GET OUT.

He opens his hand, the magic gathering across his palm and at his fingertips. He's highly
aware of the mere handful of seconds he has before the spells start to fly—and it's only by the
surprise of this moment that he's on his feet.

So attuned to the bonding magic, he feels a flicker on Hermione's end as the wards flutter.
She's left the manor.

And as the room brightens with magic, a blinding and aggressive neon green, he releases.

Magic roars through the room, incinerating each of the death spells on track for his heart. It
obliterates every one of the Death Eaters in one breath.

Draco doesn't have to look as they slump to the ground, dead.

 He can feel the raw, unhindered power as it courses through him, a rush in his veins. Magic
surges like fire, limited in quantity though it is, and he fixates only on Hermione at the other
end.

She's safe—she's alive.

He knows better than to hope the magic penetrated through the many layers of magical
warding the Dark Lord keeps on his presence at all times.

Knows better than to think he will have the time to burn through them.

As the smoke clears and every remaining Death Eater in the room is dead, the scream of
wrath from Voldemort's lips is chilling.

For only an instant, Draco looks at his former master. He allows hatred to burn in his eyes,
knowing the magic alights him from within.

And before Voldemort can fire a spell, he's gone.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for sticking out this journey with me. It means more than I can
say xo
 Chapter 38
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

When Draco lands in the London house, adrenaline quakes in his veins.

"Thank Merlin," Hermione huffs, rushing towards him. She inspects him with wide eyes,
running her hands along his arms. "What happened?"

Draco meets her dire expression with a grimace. "It was... it didn't go well."

"No shit," she says, humourless, shaking her head. She wraps her arms across her front, and
Draco can see the way her hands shake. "Did you… are you out?"

Although raw magic still races through him—the visual of his fallen Death Eaters in a heap
near the wall—he hasn't sorted through any of it.

"I guess I am," he says, feeling a little dumbfounded as the words settle in. "I wasn't ready to
—" Pressing his eyes shut, he draws a long breath. "We weren't prepared."

"What we are is alive," she breathes, clasping his hands in both of hers. "And the rest doesn't
matter right now. What happened?"

Draco massages his temple, already feeling the strain of the magic burn through him.
Recalling how exhausted he was after Yaxley, he doesn't know how long he'll have before the
magic takes his energy in exchange.

"I had to get out," he drawls with a wince as his head begins to pound. "I had to use the
magic."

"How many?"

Her level head right now is the only reason Draco hasn't collapsed.

"Ten, I think," he says, rubbing his head. "He said there was a leak—that they suspected we
were up to something—that you were giving information to the resistance and—"

"And so we have another issue," Hermione said with a dark look. "Voldemort?"

"Too many layers of protection," Draco says. "He's so heavily shielded. I would have needed
time I didn't have—even with the power of the bonds."

"It wasn't enough."

The quiet devastation in her words is nearly enough to undo him.

"Not this time," Draco says quietly, "but if we'd been more prepared... we'll be more prepared
next time."

Drawing a breath, she nods, taking a look around the house. "At least we have this house."

In this aspect, at least, they were appropriately prepared. For weeks, they've been bringing in
food, clothes, and other necessities. Some from the manor, and others from elsewhere so as
not to draw too much attention.

He supposes it's all for naught now.

So long as the house stays protected.

"Did you reach out to Theo?" he asks, yanking a hand through his hair. The magic, though
dissipated from his system, is beginning to darken the edges of his vision.

"I sent messages to all three of them as soon as I felt your warning through the bonds," she
murmurs. "Before, even. It wasn't difficult to notice that something was wrong. Harry said he
and Neville will come by as soon as they can escape. I haven't received a response from Theo
yet."

Draco's heart still throbs a dull rhythm in his chest. In a matter of minutes, everything he
worked towards for five years shattered at his feet.

And all he knows is relief.

As though reading his thoughts, Hermione gives a bit of a wry smile. "I would have liked to
see the look on his face when you took out ten Death Eaters in one hit."

"They were the only ones in the room," Draco grumbles. "I would have taken more out if I
could."

Face sobering, she takes a step closer. "You're out. That's all I care about."

But he can't allow himself the privilege. "I've ruined our best connection with the Death
Eaters."

"You're alive."

As he takes in her relief, the sheen to her eyes—the way her body sinks without the strain she
carries so often—he feels himself deflate a little, too. The last of the magic subsides, taking
with it his adrenaline.

There was so much he still had to do. He's abandoned his family's manor to the wiles of a
madman—but his mother is safe. His wife is safe.

He's out.

Every element of the life he's known for the past five years has been yanked from beneath
him in one swift, surprising moment. And it occurs to him he doesn't know what to do next.
"Okay," he says, managing a tight nod. His vision swims, his entire body weakening in the
wake of such a massive expulsion of magic. They've known from the beginning that the ritual
magic has a cost—and it's one he's more than willing to pay. "I think I'm—"

As he sways on the spot, Hermione steps forward to reach for him. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm—"

His brain slides into darkness.

Hermione paces the house's small sitting room, keeping one eye firmly on Draco's prone
form—passed out on the sofa where she levitated him when he blacked out—and the other on
her coin.

According to Harry's latest message, he and Neville are tied up in meetings—and after three
notes sent to Theo's coin she's starting to worry. None of them ever go anywhere without
their coins readily accessible, and she hasn't heard from Neville whether he's been in contact
with Theo.

So she's left to wait.

Her head spins with everything Draco shared. With the fact that he escaped with his life—and
took out several Death Eaters before he went.

Nerves skitter across her skin, and she can't stand still for the endless whir in her brain. The
quake in her hands.

She tries not to think of everything they left behind at the manor. Of the house elves, left
alone in a house with a wrathful Dark Lord. And all she thinks of instead is Draco.

Although they had more plans before he was set to abscond the Death Eaters, she can't bring
herself to regret that they're out now. She can only imagine the relief Draco will feel when
he's had time to process the fact that he's truly free from the master who's made his life a
living hell for so long.

Everything else, they'll have to figure out on their own. They've made it this far, and for now,
she'll have to try and borrow faith from someone else. That they can keep going without an
inside link to the Death Eaters.

It's only a matter of time before Voldemort will try to track Draco using the Dark Mark—she
wouldn't be surprised if he's already somehow using it to harm him through the dark magic in
his bloodstream, and for the moment, she's grateful Draco's unconscious.

But she doesn't know how to remove it herself. The only ones who know are Draco and
Neville—the idea offers little comfort when Neville hasn't responded to her last two
messages.

At length, Draco stirs on the sofa with a quiet groan, and she's shocked to see over an hour
has passed since he Apparated into the house, robes bedraggled and eyes wild.
Hermione perches on the cushion, reaching for his hand. "We need to get that Mark out of
your skin."

"Damn right we do," he grumbles, scrubbing at his eyes. "It's burning."

"Summons?"

He sits up, squeezing his eyes shut, but more lucid than he was in the moments before falling
unconscious. "Fury." Then he releases a low laugh. "He won't summon me. Not after that.
The next time I see him, it'll be with a wand to my face."

"If he bothers to leave the manor," she murmurs idly, pressing her palm flat to his forehead.
"You're very warm."

"I feel okay." He pats his pockets for his coin, frowning when he sees the blank face of it.
Then his eyes snap up to her. "You seem fine. Are you feeling alright?"

"Fine." She offers a nod, gnawing on her lower lip. "I wasn't impacted by the magic nearly as
much as you were. Maybe because I was already in London when you used it. Or because
you took my side of the bonds over to you."

Draco grimaces at that, but turns back to his coin.

Hermione draws a breath, steeling herself for the words that hang heaviest on her heart.
"Harry and Neville are coming by shortly. I still haven't heard from Theo."

"You haven't," he echoes, freezing on the sofa. "Not once?"

She shakes her head. Her heart is trapped in a sickly vise at the thought that something might
have happened to Theo—after all he's done to straddle the line between both sides. And she
can't imagine how Draco might take it.

Grappling for his wand, Draco sends a string of messages into his coin, the words fading in
such rapid succession she couldn't read them even if she tried.

Her heart sinks as she takes in the furrow of his brows, the slump in his shoulders while he
stares at the continuously blank face. An awkward silence falls over the sitting room, and
Hermione finds herself staring once more at the painting across from the sofa.

So much has changed since that morning—it feels like days have passed rather than hours.

"He's okay," she hears herself saying, though her voice sounds disconnected. "He's going to
be okay."

"If he was picked up before he managed to get out," Draco says, his voice a dull deadpan,
"he's already dead."

"Theo's clever."

"Everyone knows he and I are friends."

It's the dismay in his voice—the utter defeat—that causes her soul to sink. Draco knows the
inner workings of the Death Eaters better than anyone, and the resignation radiating from
every part of him twists her stomach into knots.

When he drops his face into his palm, burying it from her view, Hermione can't find the
words she longs desperately to speak. She sinks into the sofa cushion next to him, her
shoulder pressing against his, and finds mild solace when he rests his other hand on her knee
with a gentle squeeze.

She's lost friends before—they all have. But this part—waiting, hoping, wondering if they'll
ever hear from him—doesn't get easier even though she's done it before. And maybe for
Draco, who's been in a position of power on the winning side for so long, this feeling isn't
familiar.

Melancholy creeps into the space between them, and she gives herself to the thought that he
doesn't want to speak—he doesn't need her empty platitudes because they both know nothing
will change the situation. Either Theo is alive or he isn't. If he's been captured, he's as good as
dead, and Draco knows that as well as anyone.

If he isn't dead, he might wish for it sooner than later.

Hermione can sense this is exactly why Draco has taken the news so hard. Because for so
long, he was the one to put captives through their paces—to watch the light fade from their
eyes.

"After what I did," he says hoarsely, "I'll wish for death for him."

"I know." The words are callous and honest, and she knows Draco doesn't need coddling.
Even so, her heart breaks for him, deflated at her side.

"Okay." Straightening, he scrubs at his eyes, shakes his head, rolls out his shoulders. The
strain is barely concealed below the surface, but his expression falls stoic once more—she
recognises the effort well. "Okay. We need to figure this out. The most urgent matters first."

"The Dark Mark," Hermione says, reaching for his forearm. "Otherwise you'll be tracked,
right?"

"The wards on this house are strong enough to misdirect—but eventually, they might try to
brute force their way through. The tracking spell won't be any more specific than London.
But if I ever want to leave this house..."

"Right." She nods once, reaching for her wand, and forces a thick swallow. "How do we
remove it?"

Draco's eyes land on her. "It's not pretty. About four times less so than receiving it."

She doesn't even want to know what that means—what that procedure must be like. "Fine.
Just tell me how."

"Longbottom can do it. He has before."

"Draco," Hermione says, thinning her lips. "Tell me how."

Yanking a hand through his hair, Draco looks away from the blackened form on his arm. "It's
a matter of drawing the magic from the skin, whilst simultaneously burning it."

She keeps her face carefully blank despite the graphic mental images swimming through her
mind. "Fine. What's the incantation?" Then she hesitates, frowning. "Do you want a pain
suppressing potion or something?"

His eyelids flutter shut. "Probably for the best if you want me functional at any point in the
next day."

A shudder crawls along her spine. "Noted." Rising from the sofa, she rummages through the
cupboard and withdraws a small vial. She's more thankful than ever for Draco's foresight in
not only purchasing this house, but for the way they've slowly furnished and prepared it to
live in.

She plants the vial into his palm, startling when he curls their fingers together around it.
"Thank you," he says in a quiet voice.

Uncertain whether he's referring to the potion, she hesitates. "For?"

"For this," he says quietly. "For supporting me. For your trust in me when I needed you to get
out of the manor."

She blinks at him, touched. "To be fair, your grip on the magic was so tight I almost couldn't
stand it. You were practically screaming at me that something was wrong."

"And," he says, closing his eyes, "I appreciate that you didn't try to come after me."

For a moment, she doesn't answer. Doesn't know how to answer—when her first instinct was
exactly that. It took everything within her to leave him alone in the manor, and she shoved as
much of her magic through the bonds as she could in hopes that he could utilise it. Since she
felt his initial prod against the magic—and then the sharp tug that followed—she was on high
alert.

"Well," she says, glancing away. "I suppose I couldn't very well make you worry about
anything else."

His eyes settle on her. "That's why I'm thanking you. Because I would have wanted to keep
you safe."

She can read between the lines—that he would have put her safety ahead of his own. She
gives his hand a squeeze and reaches again for his forearm. "I'm going to need you to talk me
through this."

With a grimace, he reaches for the stopper on the vial just as a crack of Apparition sounds in
the kitchen. They both jump at the sound, their nerves on edge, and Hermione feels a surge of
relief when she sees Harry and Neville—and a wash of disappointment that it isn't Theo.
Draco rises from his seat, intercepting them as he says, "Have you heard from Theo?"

Neville's jaw is tight. "No. I thought you would have."

Hermione's heart sinks like a rock into the pit of her stomach. "None of us have. I sent a
message to all three of you as soon as I received Draco's warning."

"So he just hasn't checked in," Neville grits through his teeth. His hazel eyes flash in a way
she hasn't seen.

"I mean," Draco snaps, "he would have fucking checked in."

The sentiment sits between the group, ugly and out of place, and Hermione tugs at her hair.
"So Draco's out—Theo's not. That's where we're at."

"Properly out?" Harry asks, while Draco and Neville sneer at each other. "Like, for good?"

Waving a flippant hand, Draco drawls, "I certainly won't be invited back for holiday dinner, if
that's what you're asking."

Instantly she detects the irreverence he wears as a cloak—as a means of protecting himself.
The snide remarks—the coldness in his eyes. When she reaches for his mind, his
Occlumency shields are as tight as she's ever found them, and he doesn't oblige her gentle
nudge.

"He killed a number of Death Eaters on his way out," Hermione elaborates. "But the Dark
Lord suspects he's behind the leaks to the resistance—or more specifically, he seems to
suspect me."

The awkward tension only grows, and neither Draco nor Neville says anything.

Harry shoots Hermione a look. She nudges his toe with her own.

The air feels like an impending implosion.

"So he's just fucking caged up in your fucking dungeons or something?" Neville roars at
once, as angry as she's ever seen him.

Draco scowls, the skin around his eyes tight, and Hermione sees his fingers twitch towards
his wand. "I don't know where he is, Longbottom."

"He's either there or dead!" Neville throws up his hands, pacing on the spot for a moment.
"Don't act like you don't know exactly where he is."

As much as Hermione wants to intercede, to offer some sort of placation, she knows it's true.
Everyone in the room is viscerally aware of the circumstances. Either the Death Eaters
captured him—likely for information or bait—or they were angry enough to kill him for his
association with Draco. And her.
Draco's saying something in return, but she can't wrap her head around the words. Everything
turns into a dull buzz.

A cold lump of guilt curdles in her stomach.

"This is my fault." The words slide from her lips, little more than a whisper, but both Draco
and Neville cease in their argument. She manages a swallow, though her tongue tastes like
sandpaper in her mouth. "If Theo's been captured or killed over this—to punish Draco or… I
don't know. It's because of me. Because I wasn't convincing enough."

"No one is blaming you for anything." Harry offers the gentle words, but they glance off her
skin and fade into nothing. "And to be honest, Hermione, I don't think anyone doubts your
devotion to Malfoy."

The words strike her in a different place entirely, and she can't quite bring herself to meet
Draco's eyes.

Draco rakes a hand through his hair and sighs. "It's my fault. If anyone's at fault here, we all
know it's me. Longbottom's right."

The admission does little to stay Neville's frustration, though some of the fight seeps from
them both. Neville, who knows the pain of being locked in the Malfoy Manor dungeons for
weeks on end. Who knows the despair and the never ending misery found at the end of a
Death Eater's wand.

And this will be so much more personal.

She thinks again of Theo. And again, with a prickle of shame, she hopes he's dead.

"Theo doesn't have the fortitude," Draco says, apologetic, like the words are wrenched
unwillingly from him. He winces, squeezing his eyes shut. "If he's tortured... if they try to get
information from him."

"He'll break," Neville adds.

The two of them share a look, and Hermione can only imagine what passes between them in
the moment. Draco purses his lips and says, "No one holds out like you did. I've never seen it
before."

If she isn't making things up, she might detect a note of apology in his voice. Of regret—
something akin to a twisted form of admiration.

"To be fair," Neville replies, "no one throws a Cruciatus like you do."

"Can't tell if that's meant to be a compliment or not," Harry quips.

It's enough to lighten the atmosphere, but only to a point of stability. Jamming his hands in
his pockets, Draco sinks back against the wall.

"If this were any mission under my command," he says, "I know what I would say."
They all know exactly what protocol should suggest. That they count Theo as missing in
action at best—a total loss at worst. But that they proceed according to plan regardless.

"Bullshit," Hermione huffs, folding her arms. "We're not leaving Theo behind."

"And if he's dead?" Draco drawls, but the words don't contain derision—merely a questioning
of fact. "How much are we willing to invest? Days? More lives?"

"I'm going after him," Neville snaps. "I don't care what the fuck you all do. Theo was there
for me when I didn't have anyone else. I'm not letting him go through the same damn thing
alone."

"That's if he's alive," Harry adds quietly.

It's a big if, and Hermione doesn't know how much they'll be willing to hinge on the hope that
Theo is still alive. Hours have passed, and she no longer has any doubt that he's been caught.
That some Death Eaters must have found him in the moments after Draco's summons—or
maybe it was even before.

Maybe the summons was a ruse altogether, and they didn't foresee any way Draco could
escape the manor.

Her stomach curdles at the knowledge that Draco used the bonds in front of the Dark Lord.
That their element of surprise is gone.

"So we go after Theo, then," Draco says, and she can sense the cogs whirring in his mind.
"Meaning we have to break into a Death Eater stronghold. The wards will still be attuned to
me unless the Dark Lord has brought in my father to alter them. A possibility, but unlikely at
this point. And that's if my father decides he wants me dead." When he hesitates, no one
speaks, each of them prepared to listen. "Once we're in the manor, we have to avoid detection
—easier said than done, but not impossible. We get to the dungeons—disarm or kill the
guards—break Theo out."

Hermione sucks in a breath.

"Keep in mind," Draco goes on, "it's almost a guarantee we'll be tracked from the moment we
cross the wards. He may not have control to alter them, but he can find ways to tie into
them."

"Into blood wards?" Neville asks.

Draco grimaces. "It's possible but unpleasant. Regardless—all of this ignores the thought
that, if Theo is being held down there, it is absolutely a trap. So even if we get to him and
manage to free him from whatever sort of spells are undoubtedly keeping him there, we'll be
walking into some sort of disaster we likely won't escape from."

The four of them share an uneasy look, and Hermione's heart clenches at the realisation that
they're missing a vital member of the small group.
"So," Draco concludes, "we have no idea what we'd be walking into, or if we'll make it out,
or if Theo is even still alive. Shall we decide if this is a course of action we want to pursue?"

The tension that falls over the small room is enough to suffocate, and Hermione knows
they're all thinking the same thing. They've all fought in this war long enough to know the
simple truth of the matter—but they've all thrown caution to the wind enough times to know
that they still have to think it over.

Logically, it doesn't make any sense.

The situation Draco has laid before them is bleak at best, and they all know they'll be running
a great number of risks by even attempting a recovery.

"I'm not leaving him alone," Neville says at last, quiet and resigned. "And I don't care if
anyone comes with me. I don't care if I don't make it out."

Hermione bites her tongue on a retort, her eyes stinging. He's always been one of the bravest
and most loyal people she knows—and she doesn't have it in her to try and convince him
otherwise. Not when she knows how torn up she is about it.

Harry shifts on the spot, folding his arms as his eyes slide between Neville and Hermione,
and then land on Draco. "On a scale of one to ten—how difficult will this be?"

Draco purses his lips and offers a soft, "Nine."

"So it isn't a certainty we'll all die," Harry said dryly. "That's reassuring."

"There's a very good chance we'll be walking into our deaths," Draco replies, and his tone is
entirely too offhand for such a dire statement.

One of the things Hermione hates the most about war is deciding who lives and who dies.
Ending lives—and sparing them. She's never wanted the pressure, the responsibility, but for
years she's been forced into it. Kill or be killed. If she wants to live, it means others must die.

She's so tired of making the decisions that aren't hers.

This isn't one she knows how to make. Releasing a long breath, she toes the floor, and every
part of her wishes they didn't need to have this conversation.

"How did they catch Theo anyway?" she asks. "I sent a message to his coin the instant I knew
something was wrong. They just—how could they have had time?"

She knows the answer—she's already turned it over in her mind. That it was all a setup, and
Voldemort never had any intentions of hearing out his highest lieutenant. Maybe they'd been
too obvious after all.

She doesn't know if she'll ever forgive her role in this if Theo dies.

But for all they know, he's already dead.

"Is he dead?" she asks when no one else speaks, though she knows none of them can give her
the answer.

"Without being attuned to the manor wards," Draco says, "I have no way of detecting his
magical signature. And if he's in the dungeons, it's irrelevant because the wards down there
dampen any magical signatures."

"Is there a chance he's still alive?" she asks instead, and it feels like a wholly different
question.

"Yes."

Pressing her eyes shut, she draws in a deep breath.

They have so many plans—so many hopes for a future where the wizarding world isn't torn
apart by war. So many things that they'll never accomplish if they make this attempt and fail.

But within her heart, she doesn't want to be the soldier the resistance trained her to be. She
longs for something different—for a different person she might one day become.

"Theo would come for any one of us." The words slip from her tongue before she can stop
them, and she can feel both Harry and Draco's eyes land on her at once. She swallows,
straightening her shoulders. "And you all know it."

Despite everything Theo's done, she knows it to be true.

"If Neville and Hermione are going, I'm going," Harry says with a mild shrug. As though
that's all the consideration such a decision merits. Hermione wants to draw him into a hug but
she's nauseated with worry.

Draco shoots her a sidelong glance, his mouth curved into wry amusement. "There are two
people in this world I would die for," he says with a sigh. "And if one of them is set on dying
in an attempt to save the other, who am I to say otherwise?"

Hermione reaches for his hand, giving his fingers a tight squeeze.

"You're the master lieutenant and head of the house in question." Harry turns to Draco with a
cocked brow. "Why don't you devise a plan for us where that doesn't happen?"

Lips twitching, Draco lowers his chin. "I will do my best."

A strange combination of grief and anticipation gnaws at her insides, but Hermione refuses to
surrender to the former. By allowing her grief and indulging in it, she accepts the fact that
they may never see Theo again. And no part of her is ready to deal with that.

For Draco, and for his oldest friend, she's willing to do this.

"Fine," Neville says gruffly, though his jaw is rigid as though he's attempting to stow his
emotions. "You're the one who knows all of this shit the best. Let's get started."
 Releasing a breath, Hermione watches as Draco and Neville make towards the war room,
already falling into talk of strategy and espionage, and it's a lot better than watching them
fight.

"If it's not one thing," Harry says at her side, "it's another."

Hermione shoots him a grateful smile. "Thanks, Harry. I know you have the least stake in
Theo's life out of any of us."

"But you don't," Harry says, nodding, "and Neville doesn't. And maybe... I don't know.
Maybe I'm tired of being the arsehole they wanted me to be and it's time to just be Harry
again."

This time, she does draw him into an embrace, and tears prickle at her eyes. "I always liked
Harry best."

When they separate, a crooked grin spreads across his face. "We've survived some pretty low
odds before. Surely we can pull it off once more for a friend."

When the tears slide down her cheeks, she doesn't stop them. Because for the first time in
years, he really is the Harry she grew up with again.

"I think maybe we can," she murmurs. "And if we don't, at least we'll die doing the right
thing for once."

He snickers, green eyes bright. "Cheers to that."

Chapter End Notes

Here we go - I hope you're all enjoying the ride! Thank you for reading xo
 Chapter 39
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The situation is, as far as Draco can tell, an absolute fuck-up.

With the primary task at hand altered from the wider course of action—taking apart the
resistance piece by piece—to the urgent necessity of rescuing Theodore Nott, Draco's mind
no longer knows which way is up.

He's desperate for something he doesn't think he will achieve, fuelled by Longbottom's
desperation in the face of something he definitely won't achieve on his own.

Draco hates it.

In his heart, he knows he's responsible for this—knows he'll never forgive himself if he
doesn't at least try to save Theo. But if he's truly honest, he knows he won't forgive himself if
he fails, either. Even knowing it's the most likely outcome.

He's the only reason Theo's still been involved with the Death Eaters, despite the fact that
they discovered him as an informant months ago.

In the days that follow, as they piece together a half-hearted plot for rescuing his friend,
Draco grows more nauseous, more chilled on a soul-deep level, more emphatic about the fact
that this isn't going to go well. No matter his knowledge of the manor, or how much time and
effort they put into a plan—time Theo doesn't have—there's no making up for the fact that
they'll be storming a mansion that is, at any given point, filled with dozens of Death Eaters.

Not to mention the Dark Lord himself.

And they're walking into a trap. He's positive of it.

It's what he would do, were he presented with a traitor's best friend on a platter.

The whole situation doesn't sit well with him, even after long hours laid awake in the night
thinking. There was no reason Theo shouldn't have had time to get out as soon as Hermione
sent him a message unless they'd planned all of it from the start.

Someone reported him—and Hermione—for something, and he may never know the truth.
May never know whose head he's owed.

But it's the fact that the Dark Lord believed them over him that doesn't sit well. Certainly,
Draco hasn't been inwardly loyal for a long time—longer than he'd even been willing to
admit to himself initially when he decided he wanted out—but outwardly, he's been the ideal
servant.

He's perfected the art of absorbing his master's anger.

Realistically, he shouldn't care. He's escaped, and he never has to force himself back into the
cage of servitude again.

Once they'd laid the groundwork for a rescue plan, Longbottom finally agreed to perform the
spell that would sear the Dark Mark from Draco's flesh—and it was as excruciating as he
imagined, even with several concoctions to douse the pain.

It isn't that he didn't think Hermione capable of performing the spell, of watching the agony
tear him apart—but simply that he didn't want her to witness it.

It took hours, as the dark magic worked its way from his skin, the black ink of the spell
gradually fading to a light grey, before enough of the misery subsided for Draco to regain any
shred of coherency.

Hermione had been waiting for him with tea and a warm bed—and at the end of the day,
that's all he could have asked for.

Even now, days later, she's scarcely left his side, leaving only twice on supply runs with
Potter. He and Longbottom have been by as often as possible with news and updates, and
Draco's mind can hardly manage it all at once.

Hermione's in the sitting room as he pores over the plans in the war room, isolating himself
as though it may possibly atone for what he's done—for how he's dragged Theo into the
crossfire.

He runs the pad of his thumb along his forearm, gazing upon the now pale and unmarked
skin. Scar tissue lines his arm, a residual effect of the spell, but if that's the cost of his
freedom, he'll take it any day.

It isn't as if he isn't already riddled with scars.

The plan isn't sound, and it isn't thorough. It's cobbled together and rushed by hands that will
be clumsy in their execution.

Because this is entirely too personal for all of them—even for Potter, who has little interest in
Theo's life, only in the lives of the people going after him. Raking a hand through his hair,
Draco pores over the details again.

Again.

Makes a tweak.

Adjusts the timing.

Turns the wards over in his brain.

The only benefit he can determine that they possess is that he still has the means to access
and alter the wards. He can get them onto the grounds without triggering them—but it doesn't
mean the Dark Lord hasn't installed other means of detection by now. In fact, Draco would be
surprised if he hasn't.
The other benefit is, of course, that he's been commanding the man's forces for years. But
right now that doesn't feel like much, when none of them are allies any longer.

They have to operate on the assumption that their presence will be known from the moment
they arrive—which is Draco's very least favourite way to coordinate a mission.

It means they may need to brute force their way through—a plan that will most certainly end
up with all of them dead.

He and Hermione have been carefully collecting magic for days, since they escaped the
manor and he used all they'd accumulated in taking out ten Death Eaters at once. He can feel
the tug on her side of the magic almost persistently, sudden swells of power coursing through
him that ring foreign in his own core. It's grown almost uncomfortable, but still it continues
to amass.

He knows better than to think the Dark Lord didn't notice the magic he used—and the fact
that he used it on his own comrades without consequence.

Knows better than to think Lord Voldemort hasn't fixated on his bonded magic this entire
time. That he hasn’t already begun to strengthen the magical protections he wears like a
cloak.

In his need to get out of the manor alive, Draco gave up their best weapon.

Because in the moment he was outnumbered, and if he'd given any of them time to react he
would be dead. Without the Black lineage magic, he would be dead.

If they need to use it again, to collect Theo and escape alive, he'll use every damn drop.

If it means he has to level the manor to ash.

"You're running yourself ragged, you know." Hermione's soft voice breaks through his fog,
and he glances up to find her watching him. He's been so focused, so exhausted in his grief,
he didn't even notice her approach.

Had it been months ago, she would have thrown a spell at him—and probably hit.

"I don't have a choice," he says, his own voice hollow to his ears. "We need to figure this
out."

"And have you?"

She walks into the room, perching on the seat next to him, but he can read the reticence in her
face. The caution. The fear.

He grimaces, waving an absent hand over the mess of papers before him. Blueprints of the
manor, lists of the spells he's imbued it with personally—and other protections they may be
walking into. Failed iterations of the plan on torn, folded sheets of parchment.

He releases a sigh. "No. Not yet."

And every minute he lets slip past is another minute where Theo could be dying alone.
Where he could be breaking under the force of the torture he's surely being subjected to.

The thought makes him want to toss the absent contents of his stomach—because he hasn't
found it in himself to eat properly in days.

He knows exactly how hard he would go on a prisoner like Theo, if he wanted to break him
for information about himself. And he knows Voldemort will be desperate for any shred of
information on him.

If they haven't already broken Theo.

If his body hasn't already been disposed of.

He forces a thick swallow, blinking the images from his mind, each one more gruesome than
the last.

"Can I get you some tea?" Hermione rests a hand on his knee with gentle strokes. "Some
breakfast? Some sleep?"

Draco shakes his head, scrubbing at his eyes as though he might possibly banish the bone-
deep weariness he feels. His brain floats in a haze, every muscle still aching from the
aftermath of the spell Longbottom used.

"I don't need anything," he clips. "Thank you."

"You do," she says pointedly. "We all want to rescue Theo, Draco. But you're no use to
anyone like this—least of all him. We need you operating at peak efficiency if we want to
survive this mission."

It's the hard, unyielding words—coupled with her soft, tentative tone—that stir him to reality.
She knows him better than to offer sympathy.

He's been holed up in the war room for days, barely sleeping, barely eating—and her words
click in the back of his mind.

Leaning back in his seat, he releases a sigh. "You're right."

Hermione's hand shifts to take his own, their fingers lacing instinctively, and his gaze drifts
down to stare at their locked hands. "Come on," she breathes. "Get out of this room for a
while. You'll feel better when you come back to it fresh."

He allows her to tug him to his feet.

Sips a cup of tea while she sets a plate in front of him, a muffin and some chunks of fruit.

Picks at the food while she sits with him at the kitchen table.

And when she drags him to bed and pulls him flush against her, he fully looks at her for the
first time. Her eyes are glassy and bloodshot, as if she's been crying—as if she hasn't been
sleeping well either. He can read the exhaustion in her face.

Brushing a curl out of her face, he presses a kiss to her mouth.

His mind has been racing for days, torn between one element of the situation and another, and
he can't help the way he just wants to shut it all out. To focus on something other than pain
and death and misery.

They make slow, meandering work of the clothes between them, intentional touches and
gasping kisses. His body responds, instincts flaring to life, when she moves atop him,
capturing his lips in a kiss as she sinks down onto him. She rides him slow, indolent, cheeks
damp, a gentle furrow on her brow as though she needs this as much as he does.

Breathy cries slide from her lips as she takes him deeper, harder, rolling her hips against his,
and he loses himself in her, desperate for something else other than this.

And when she spills over the edge he follows her—he'll always follow her—and she leans in,
her tears wet on his own cheeks. "I love you," she whispers into his skin. "We're going to
figure this out," she kisses into his eyelids. "We'll get him back," she murmurs into his neck
as he draws her as close as he can manage.

Draco doesn't have any words, his heart a jumbled mass of muscle and function in his chest,
but as he finally drifts into a restless sleep, he knows he's at once both broken and whole.

As the days progress, they run thin on time to spend theorising and planning. They don't even
know if Theo's still alive, and if he is, Hermione can only imagine his condition. Draco
insists he can hold out—but they all grow increasingly on edge.

Between Draco and Neville alternately getting along to stategise and clawing at each other's
throats over the ordeal, she's ready for a definitive answer. One way or the other.

The plan isn't as sound as it could be, but there's little more within their control. The
unmitigated risks won't be resolved even if they wait three months—and Theo will definitely
be dead by then.

Neville and Harry have been by as often as they can get away, though they frequently report
unsettling news from within the resistance. And without their information direct from the
Death Eaters, they have to guess at the rest of it.

A few things seem apparent.

The Death Eaters have grown even more aggressive—likely a form of fallout from Draco's
betrayal. There's even been talk of spotting Voldemort at a recent confrontation, though no
one can guess as to how certain that is.

The resistance have responded in kind—leading to a dangerous escalation of a war that's been
more than dangerous for years already.
Neville stalks into the London house one afternoon, a deep scowl on his face as his eyes track
Draco.

"I have an idea," he says, though he sounds miserable over it. "It's neither safe nor a
guarantee, but it might help us to know what we're facing at the Manor."

Draco lifts both brows and nods. "What is it?"

Reaching into his pocket, Neville draws out a thick, ancient-looking tome, shrunken to fit in
his palm. He hands the book to Draco as though he doesn't want to touch it longer than
necessary, and Hermione might be tempted to laugh if not for the look on each of their faces.

With a wandless wave, Draco expands the book to its full size. It's a book of dark magic
spells as far as she can tell, and he skims the Latin on the cover.

"Mental Manipulations," he murmurs, eyes flicking back up to Neville's. "What do you

intend to do with this?"

Neville jams aggressive hands into his pockets. "Page one hundred-eighty-three."

The entire book is in Latin, and though Hermione's certain Neville must have used a
translation spell, Draco reads the page without any trouble. He releases a long breath, the
bridge of his nose wrinkling in disapproval. "This is idiotic—"

"Will it work?" Neville grits out.

Draco turns back to the page, pursing his lips, and Hermione shifts on the spot, debating
whether she ought to nudge her way into his brain to learn what the page says. It shouldn't be
any wonder that he's fluent in ancient Latin, but even so her stomach flops a little when he
turns the page to continue reading.

"It's insane," Draco says at last, setting the book on the table. "Where did you even come
across this?"

Neville's gaze slants to Hermione. "You aren't the only one with a crusty old library." He
means Grimmauld Place, she's certain of it—but she can't blame him for wanting to keep
certain things private. "I knew spells like this one existed, of course, but there was a better
chance you would agree if I had a concrete incantation."

With a sigh, Draco turns to Hermione. "It's a mental invasion spell. A means to view
someone's mind without their consent and from a distance—but it's unstable and unsafe. If
done improperly, both the invader and the target could be permanently damaged."

"Like scrying?" she asks, gnawing her lower lip.

"Yes and no," Draco says. "It's... more direct. The spell would throw someone from their
body into Theo's. And without proper understanding of the magic, they might never make it
back."

That same, unpleasant look takes over Neville's face. "I'll do it."
"As if you will," Draco snarls.

"We need to know if he's still alive and in one piece."

A tense silence slides over the three of them, and Hermione can sense both Neville's
determination and Draco's hesitation. Her own head spins with the implications—of what
they might find on the other side of the spell if something has already happened to Theo.

Draco grits his teeth. "And if he's not? If you fling yourself into a dead man?"

Neville only straightens on the spot, and Hermione braces herself for another of the
increasingly frequent arguments between the two. "Then at least we'll know."

"We'll know," Draco agrees, his tone harsh, "but you'll be stuck suspended in between. You
can't occupy a non-functioning brain."

Hermione sucks in a breath.

The risks are higher than she initially imagined.

"The spell doesn't say that," Neville says.

"I'm saying that," Draco snaps back. "If you want to run the risk of killing yourself over this
—which, I promise you, Theo would not want—then fine. But I sure hope you've considered
what you're doing."

"Surely there's another way," Hermione cuts in, gaze skirting between them. The last thing
she wants is for them to lose Neville, too. And Draco's right—it isn't what Theo would want.
"Another way to determine if Theo is still alive? Someone else we could view?"

"Not without breaking into the manor," Neville huffs.

“It would be like threading a needle,” Draco says with a wave of one hand, “to view anyone
else. One slip and they would detect our presence, giving up everything.”

Another of those awkward silence characterises the room, and Hermione glances at her coin.
She hasn't heard from Harry all day, and while the plan to rescue Theo has mostly lain
between Draco and Neville, she can't help but wonder what he thinks of the plan.

Whether he helped Neville find the spell.

Draco presses his eyes shut, scrubbing at his brow, then shakes his head. "Obviously, we
want to know if Theo's alive. But we need you alive, Longbottom."

"And if he's dead," Neville says evenly, his tone carrying none of the emotion that drove him
in the immediate aftermath of Theo's capture, "then we'll know and we don't have to go
through with this plan at all. If it works and we reach Theo, we'll learn where he's being held,
what state he's in, the behaviour of his captors—"
"I know." Draco scrunches up his face, then glances at Hermione. He reaches for her hand,
and she quickly entwines their fingers. "What do you think?"

Hermione sifts through the options, feeling his magic play against hers.

Neville's spell, so long as they perform it properly, could give them concrete information
about Theo. Unless he's dead.

"So we risk now to mitigate the risk during a rescue attempt," she says quietly. "But if this
goes wrong, we could lose Neville."

Neville nods, his gaze locking on hers. "I just need an anchor."

"Fuck," Draco huffs, drawing the syllable long. "You're going to do this with or without me."

"Yes." Neville doesn't hesitate, nor does his stance falter. "Face it, Malfoy—our current plan
has zero room for error, and even then there's a good chance something will go wrong. At
least this way, we'll know if it's all for nothing."

Hermione glances at the fine, Latin script on yellowed parchment. "If you don't have an
anchor?"

"Without an anchor, he's less likely to make it back to his own mind," Draco breaks in, a
sneer curling his lip. "Though it seems Longbottom doesn't care about that. Bloody
Gryffindor to the end."

Neville stiffens. "That's right."

The air simmers with tension, with barely controlled magic, and Hermione can sense that
Neville isn't going to back down. That for all that he's posed it as a suggestion, he's going
ahead with this plan regardless.

And Draco, whose breadth of dark magic is more extensive than any of them, will make a
better anchor than if Neville were to turn to Harry next.

She can tell the moment when Draco reaches the same conclusion. When his magic curls
against her own with a quiet resignation.

"Fine," he clips with a lingering hint of aggression. "I'll anchor you. But I'm not dealing with
Theo's anger if you don't make it back and we manage to rescue him anyway. And I really
fucking need your help getting him back, so I swear to Merlin if you die—"

"If I die I won't have to worry about whatever you're about to threaten me with."

Neville's mouth twitches.

Hermione blows out a breath, shaking her head. "You're both mad over this, but it really
would benefit us to know if Theo's alright."
Draco shoots her a wry look, drawing his wand. He refocuses his attention on the book,
skimming the spell with a low whistle. "This spell really is a piece of fucking work. Magic
like this hasn't been practised in centuries."

"Says the man who enacted an ancient marriage ritual that hasn't been used in ages," Neville
says under his breath.

Snapping his gaze up, Draco eyes Neville with derision. Then he cocks a brow and drawls,
"Fair point. Regardless, this will take some setup." He reaches for a sheet of parchment,
scrawling a list of items. "We have some of the basic materials here in the potions station, but
you're going to need to track down the rest."

Hermione catches a glimpse of some obscure ingredients as he hands Neville the list, but
Neville only skims the list and pockets the parchment. "Fine. I'll be back soon."

Without another word, he vanishes.

And the look Draco offers her—part derision, part annoyance—brings a nervous laugh forth
from that part of her that's opted for humour over despair.

Less than two hours later, Longbottom strides back into the room, jaw clenched and a box of
miscellaneous items in one arm. As Draco skims the box's contents, he has to admit he's
impressed, when he didn't even know where he would have found one or two of the rare
items.

But even as the thought crosses his mind, Draco isn't surprised.

Not when Longbottom's eyes blaze with retribution.

There isn't anything he can do or say to talk the man out of this ill-advised plan—Draco can
see as much on his face. But though he's loath to admit it when Longbottom's become a
valuable teammate of sorts, the dangers this plan presents are almost worth the risk.

If they can determine Theo's status or whereabouts. If they can somehow use what they might
learn to improve their plan.

And if Theo's already dead—and Longbottom attempts to visit an empty vessel—Draco will
regret the endeavour on multiple counts.

Without any delay, Longbottom begins unloading the box of items into the small kitchen
table while Hermione watches from a safe distance away, gnawing at her lower lip.

"I'm going to need your Latin knowledge," he says gruffly, shooting Draco a glance.
"Because I need to be sure this is exactly right and I can't trust a translator spell."

Raking a hand through his hair, Draco steps towards the table, idly aligning a series of
candles. An Asp Encircle, a rare magical orb, sits near his fingers. Though Draco wants to
reach for it—feels an implicit longing to touch it—he quashes the urge. Such an object is as
dangerous as it is mysterious, and he knows better than to mess with things when he doesn't
fully understand them.

He can still remember his grandfather Abraxas' stories about the orbs.

"Where the fuck did you get that?" Draco asks, withdrawing his hand as he peers at the deep
purple swirls shifting across its surface.

"Don't worry about it," Longbottom says brusquely, and if it were anything else Draco might
take affront at his tone. But he knows if it were him and he'd acquired such a thing on short
notice, he likely wouldn't want to talk about it either.

Shifting closer, Hermione reaches a hand towards it without concern, and Draco catches her
wrist on instinct.

He shoots her a look, grip tightening, and her eyes flutter several times in rapid succession as
she sucks in a breath. "Don't touch that," Draco says under his breath, heart leaping into his
throat, and she turns wide eyes on him.

Carefully withdrawing her hand from his, she clasps them together and rests them across her
middle.

"At any rate," Draco says, drawing the tome closer towards him, "you need the Asp Encircle
at the centre, the candles along the perimeter equidistant from one another, and..." He trails
off, flipping the page and skimming the Latin. Some of it is too faded or disjointed to
understand, and it takes several times through. "Bezoar?"

Longbottom brandishes the item, placing it in the configuration where Draco directs, along
with the rest of the items from the box. He hesitates as he draws out a knitted jumper that
Draco recognises as Theo's, and frowns as he trails his fingers along the soft knit. Finally he
draws his wand, carefully levitating the Asp into the middle without making contact.

Draco sucks in a breath when a wave of ancient dark magic washes over him. Hermione
shifts on the spot next to him, lips pursed and eyes fixed on the array. For a long moment,
then three of them stare at the Asp Encircle.

"Are we sure this is a good idea?" she asks quietly.

"No," Draco returns instantly. "In fact, we know it isn't."

"And yet," Longbottom says, rolling up his sleeves, "we're doing it anyway. If you're backing
out, tell me now and I'll wait until Harry is available to anchor me."

Draco rolls his eyes. "I'm not backing out. We could use the information."

A part of him doesn't want to see the look on Hermione's face—at the massive number of
ways this could go wrong. Dark magic is never for trifling, and something ancient like this
sets even him on edge. But it's Longbottom's decision to put himself at risk like this.

"Okay," Hermione says, as if steeling herself with the same knowledge.

They're all adults here. They've all fought in a war long enough to understand the
consequences of their actions.

The dangers involved in pursuing obscure magic.

Draco can feel Hermione nudge against the bonds between them—a stark reminder of their
own explorations—and he accepts the thread she offers. Longbottom will be the one
engaging in the highest risk here, but as the anchor, Draco will need to keep his guard up the
entire time. He won’t object to the magical boost.

"Fine," Draco says with a huff, turning back to the spell. He observes the display of items
before them, double checking everything is exactly as it should be. "When you're ready, cast
the spell and place your palm on the Asp."

Hermione sucks in a breath, and Draco can't blame her. The orb exudes discomfort and
unease, the unctuous energy of it settling against his own magical core like an oily coating.

When Longbottom steps closer to the array, wand clenched tightly in one hand, Draco
channels into his own power. He twines the thread of Hermione's power around his own,
strengthening the magical rope he'll provide as Longbottom's anchor.

A means for him to find the path back to his own body and mind once the spell is through.

None of them have anything more to say. No additional words of caution, when they all know
exactly how wrong this could go. That this could cost Longbottom his life—that things could
go wrong in other ways.

But without dwelling, the man looks each of them in the eye, growls a low, "Fuck it," and
casts the spell.

The instant his hand meets the Asp Encircle, Draco feels a wrench at his magical core like a
hook beneath his navel. As though he's been drawn into Apparition but only made it halfway.
It's more unpleasant than painful, but the magic twists around his own like a parasite drawing
at every shred of his strength.

Draco's grateful for Hermione's power bolstering his own—and his gaze slides to
Longbottom.

His eyes are gently closed, his hand plastered to the Asp, shoulders slumped.

Slow, measured breaths fall from his lips, chest rising and falling with each breath, and it's
the only way Draco can tell he's alive. He extends his magic towards the Asp, against every
nerve and every instinct, and reaches for Longbottom's presence with the guiding rope of
magic.

At the edges of his conscience, he finds Longbottom's soul, and the sensation is as
disorienting as it is disturbing.

As the anchor, he has no power if things go wrong. But he has enough control over the matter
to slow them down.
Tracking Longbottom's vague, blurry presence, he focuses all of his intent on one sharp point.
He can still feel Hermione at his side, her arm brushing his as though it's as much contact as
she's willing to give.

Because none of them knows exactly how this magic will react.

He can't reach for her—doesn't dare. His vision begins to spin as his eyes land again on the
Asp, on Longbottom's hand seared to the smooth surface of it. Of the smoky purple wisps
swirling within.

A sharp jolt draws on the anchor between them, and he stutters a step towards the Asp.

"What's happening?" Hermione asks, a whispered breath, the first words spoken since
Longbottom cast the spell and vanished into himself.

"He's searching," Draco returns, unspooling more magical rope and reaching into Hermione's
side of the bonds to anchor himself even deeper. "Reaching for Theo."

A tense silence hangs between them. "Is this a good sign?"

Draco releases a breath. "He hasn't collapsed yet."

Seconds spread into minutes, his entire body wracked with tension. At length, he reaches for
Hermione's hand at his side, clenching it tight within his own. He knows her silence well—
borne of disapproval and fear—but they all know that this is the best way to determine
whether Theo's still alive.

Another tug pulls on the far end of the anchor, hitching Draco's body another unwitting step
forward. Hermione's hand tightens around his.

"There," he hisses, simultaneous waves of despair and relief washing over him. "He's made
contact."

Because within himself, on the other end of the rope, he can sense Theo's magical signature.
But it's disrupted, corrupted, a shell of his friend. Anger and frustration threaten, and he can
sense Longbottom's fury.

"Theo?" Hermione breathes.

Draco nods once. "He's alive. But it isn't good."

He clings tighter to the anchor, knowing now that Longbottom can make it safely back if
they're careful. The first hurdle was finding Theo's conscious mind—but they aren't out of the
water just yet. He will still need to navigate the apparent mess of Theo's soul—as well as the
treacherous journey back to the Asp.

As though sensing the same—sensing he may still fail to return—Longbottom sends wisps of
knowledge to Draco, and he repeats them out loud for Hermione.
"He's at the manor," he says, his own voice sounding dull and disjointed. "Held captive as we
suspected. Tortured." He swallows thickly, attempting to parse the most important shreds
from the rampant chaos of Longbottom's consciousness. "He hasn't... I don't think he's
broken. Not with anything significant enough. But he isn't well—fuck. He's not well."

A soft whimper slides from Hermione's lips as her hand tightens once more.

"We need to get Longbottom back out," Draco says, as the mental rope connecting them
begins to tremble and fray. He draws for more magic, reaching deeper into himself, into the
bond, but the spell itself is unstable.

He hasn't survived a war as long as he has by panicking every time something goes wrong.
All he can do now is to hold the anchor strong, to hope Longbottom can extract himself from
Theo's damaged, semi-conscious mind and escape back the way he went.

Draco doesn't want to see the look on Hermione's face if he doesn't make it back out.

Neither does he care to face Theo if Longbottom doesn't survive.

The magic gives another great, heaving quake, and Draco releases a low breath. Drums his
fingers on the edge of the table, fixing all of his focus into the anchor. Hermione's magic
nudges against his again, an accumulated mass, and he accepts it silently, wrapping it around
the magical tether he's constructed.

As though sensing his determination—the narrow tightrope on which all of this rests—she
remains quiet at his side.

Draco gives her hand a squeeze, though he has no reassurances to offer. Not until
Longbottom makes it back, and Draco can scarcely detect him on the other end.

The magic disintegrates beneath his intent as quickly as he layers more in its place.

His heart begins to race.

The rope he's so carefully constructed and reinforced begins to fracture, splinters of magic
breaking and vanishing in the back of his mind. "Come on," he hisses under his breath,
gritting his jaw under the onslaught. "Hurry the fuck up."

Hermione sucks in a breath, but her magic isn't enough to bolster his own anymore as it
shatters and fades, a chasm forming between himself and Theo's mind—and Longbottom
somewhere in between.

He can no longer sense the man at all, lost in the tumult of disintegration. Draco shoots a hard
glance towards the Asp Encircle, the swirling magic within it roiling with chaos. It rattles on
the table, and implicitly, he knows if the orb falls from its position in the arrangement the
spell will break.

But he doesn't dare touch it.

 "Come on, Neville," Hermione whispers, fingers twitching towards her wand as though she
might do anything at all to rescue her friend.

They both know well enough how dark magic works. It's unstable at best, and this spell is as
dangerous as it is arcane.

Suddenly, a force snaps hard on the waning threads of magic he's managed to hold together,
and every nerve in his body tenses as he fights to keep hold. It takes everything he has, the
spell straining at every part of him, and as Draco's certain he can't hang on, he finds some
part of himself that isn't ready to give up.

For years, he hasn't been ready to give up.

He sucks in a great gasp of air when the spell recoils, slamming into him as though it carries
physical force, and he stumbles back against the wall.

Across the table, Longbottom's eyes slide open. He yanks his palm from the Asp.

His face is vacant, hazel eyes devoid of any of the relief Draco feels. "Tell me you caught
that," he says in a quiet voice, "because I don't care to repeat what I saw."

Draco isn't certain he wants to know exactly what Longbottom saw, but he nods all the same.
"Yeah. Well enough."

For a long moment, the three of them stand in a stunned, melancholic silence.

"You're alright?" Hermione asks at last, taking a tentative step towards Longbottom.

He casts a glance towards the Asp Encircle, wincing as he clenches his palm into a fist.
"Yeah," he says, and when he opens his palm, deep purple swirls of magic linger beneath the
surface of his skin.

Draco isn't familiar enough with the magic of the Asp Encircle to know what that means, but
he can only imagine it isn't any good. His heart thuds dully in his chest as he stares at the ebb
and flow of it.

Longbottom flexes the hand, a downwards curl to his mouth, but he doesn't say anything
about it. Instead, he squares his jaw, looks Draco in the eye, and says, "Tomorrow. We're
getting him out tomorrow."

And he strides from the room.

Hermione shoots him a look, her expression wary. "Tomorrow it is."

Draco eyes the doorway where Longbottom vanished. "Yeah. Here's hoping we make it in
and back out alive."

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for the support on this fic - it honestly means more than I can put
into words. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Cheers to nine months of AGOHS Tuesdays
<3
 Chapter 40
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco isn't certain whether Theo being alive makes things better or worse. As far as
Longbottom was able to discern, his mind hasn't been extensively breached—though what
exactly that means, he isn't certain.

He knows better than anyone the methods Death Eaters employ for extracting information.

And the thought that Theo has been subjected to such a thing—because of him—makes his
stomach churn. Makes him rage. Makes him want to obliterate the whole lousy lot of them.

He doesn’t sleep at all after Longbottom does the spell, and Draco can't tell whether it's
because of nerves or the lingering dark magic.

Draco is familiar with dark magic. Has been utilising it on a regular basis for years.

But the mental image of the Asp Encircle lingers in the back of his mind, leaving him restless
and tossing through the night. It took Hermione enclosing herself tight in his arms for him to
find any rest at all.

For all the good it did him.

He feels now like a wraith, like some part of him has been left behind in sleep, like he's
underwater and doesn't know which way to the surface.

Hermione presses a muffin into his hand, closing his fingers around the confection as he sits
at the table in the war room, poring an endless track over the plans with blurry eyes. He takes
a bite without looking, though the mouthful is dry and tasteless when all his thoughts are
occupied on the plethora of things that could—and likely will—go wrong.

Longbottom and Potter arrive in a frenzy of activity, and Draco skims his gaze across
Longbottom's palm where the dark purple magic of the Asp still roils and twists.

Like a cruel reminder of a sick game gone wrong.

He doesn't know enough about the magic to say that it might do. What it might be doing to
him even now.

If the Asp Encircle saw into Longbottom's mind, too.

Draco can't deal with more than one issue at a time, and rescuing Theo is going to take
everything all of them have. Even now, his confidence is low. Even knowing what they
learned the day before.
His mind whirs with the plans they've rehashed countless times, but all of it twists into a
jumble of thought and emotion. He knows better than to let emotion in—but in this, he can't
help it. He's the reason Theo's in this situation.

And the more he thinks on it, the more he wonders whether it wasn't all orchestrated from the
start. If Theo had no chance of escaping in time that day before everything crumbled down
around them.

Across the room, Hermione and Potter speak quietly; Longbottom paces, jaw clenched, hands
clenched, everything clenched.

Draco tugs on a hooded jumper, and his gaze snags, as it often does, on his scarred but bare
forearm. He knows he owes Theo his life many times over through the years, and if this goes
poorly, he doesn't know what he will do.

Although if it all goes wrong, that isn't a consideration he'll likely have to deal with.

If things start to go wrong, he already knows he'll funnel every shred of his own magic into
Hermione. Because Merlin knows if one of them deserves to make it out, it's her. And Draco
will take a curse to the chest if it means she has a chance to live.

She drifts to his side, eyes large and fixed on him. "I know you have the plan memorised,"
she says, "so stop overthinking it."

For a long moment, he only holds her gaze. His heart clamours a dull, miserable thud in his
chest, and he fixates on it. His fingers entwine with his, and he grips her hand hard.

"I love you," she says quietly. "We're going to be okay. We're going to get Theo back."

None of it's a guarantee, of course, and they all know it. They all know there's a good chance
they're walking into their deaths today. But maybe it's better than so many other ways Draco
could go. It's better to go out believing in something than not at all.

And he would die for a friend. For someone he cares about.

Better than at the end of a wand fighting for a madman he doesn't respect.

Draco draws her into a brief, fierce kiss. "I love you," he murmurs against her mouth as he
draws away, the feel of her lips on his singing a memory into his veins. Clasping her hand
still tighter, he lifts his chin.

"We're ready?" The rest offer fortifying nods, and Draco returns with one of his own. He
channels deep within himself to locate the Malfoy Manor wards, and holds tight to the
magical thrum. "We all know the plans. Let's go."

Draco Apparates to the perimeter where the manor wards begin, and Hermione's pulse beats
dully behind her ears as he untangles their hands and draws his wand.
"We're four," he says quietly, and though Hermione can't see or sense them, she knows
Neville and Harry are some distance away. Hermione glances down at her watch, and counts
the seconds as a series of spells fall from his lips, knocking down the wards one by one.

"Sixty seconds," she says quietly, and he nods without breaking stride. It takes all of two
minutes for him to work through all of the wards that might catch them up—precisely as they
rehearsed.

Mercifully, the wards haven't been altered, and when they cross the invisible delineation,
nothing happens. No magic shimmers across her skin. Nothing slices her in two.

Draco swallows audibly and gives her a look. They proceed in silence, keeping to the
shadows along one of the manor's carriage houses. They're early enough that, according to
Draco, most of the Death Eaters won't yet be milling about. And the ones who have taken up
residence in the manor won't be awake.

It'll be a skeleton crew of guards—and whoever else might have been installed in anticipation
of a rescue attempt.

The only benefit they have on their side is that the spell Neville performed the day before was
untraceable. No Death Eaters would be able to tell they'd accessed Theo's mind; even if they
suspect a rescue effort, they won't know until it's upon them.

Or so they're hoping.

The forests on this part of the grounds are thick—precisely why Draco selected this side—
and in the distance Hermione hears the light crackling of sticks in the underbrush.

She takes a small measure of comfort in Harry and Neville's presence, even as she
instinctively cringes at the noise.

Draco casts a muffling spell on their steps as they near the edge of the woods.

To enter the manor, even with four of them and the advantage of surprise, would be folly. The
guards posted at the dungeons will be the most vigilant—and the manor itself has a different
set of wards than the grounds.

According to Draco, their best shot at entering unnoticed was an old, unused passage that
connects one of the carriage houses into the underbelly of the manor. Installed centuries ago
as a network for servants, the practise fell out of favour and the passage was boarded up.

Until today.

They meet up with Harry and Neville as Draco's dismantling the last of the locking spells on
the carriage house, and he glances around as he leads the small group into the house.

Hermione releases a breath. Although they've only accomplished the easiest part—getting
onto the grounds undetected—it's one step down. She casts a series of silencing and
disillusioning spells on the house as Draco makes for the sealed passage.
If they're fortunate, it'll lead them to an unmonitored part of the manor's basement. Far
enough from the dungeons that they'll still have to traverse a significant distance, but they
stand a better chance of remaining undetected than walking in through any of the central
entrances.

Walking up to her side, Harry takes her hand into his with a gentle squeeze. Unable to speak,
Hermione squeezes back.

Neville's pale, as though he might throw up, but his stance is that of a soldier prepared for
battle.

And she knows, deep within herself, that he would fight to the death to rescue Theo.

Merlin willing, it won't come to that.

Glancing up at the rest of them, Draco nods once, illuminating his wand tip as he begins into
a darkened passageway. Hermione keeps pace at his side, Neville and Harry flanking just
behind them. As the passageway creeps lower into the earth, a damp chill permeates the air.

Darkness stretches beyond them, obliterating the weak light from their wands, and she can't
help but feel as though she's being watched.

Draco looks unperturbed, and she takes it to mean they've yet to be detected. But his fingers
nudge against hers, as though in reassurance.

A quiet drip sounds in the distance, and the tunnel narrows enough that they have to fall into
a single-file line. And still, they trek on. The carriage house is out of range of the manor
proper, and the pathway feels as if it's twisting unnecessarily—but in the dark, she has little
by way of orientation, and she knows if the paths were to diverge she would end up lost.

Draco presses forward, whether on faith or an intrinsic connection with the core magic of the
grounds, she can't say.

But he doesn't miss a step, doesn't falter, and they walk on and on.

At last he stops, staring down a fork in the road that she can just make out in the dim light.
His eyes narrow, and he casts a series of murmured spells down first one path, then the other.

When the silence stretches on, the four of them at a standstill, Hermione forces herself to
draw a deep breath.

"Should we split up?" Harry asks, and though his words are hushed they sound loud in the
long corridor.

For a long moment, Draco doesn't respond, his jaw a hard line. "No," he says finally. "We
should stick together. One of these leads towards the cellar, and the other... I don't know."

"The other could lead closer to the dungeons," Hermione offers softly.
Neville releases an aggravated sigh, yanking a hand through his hair. Hermione is jarred to
notice his palm glows faintly with a purple sheen, and her stomach twists up at the sight of it.
A cruel reminder of the Asp Encircle, and how it had drawn her in more than she cares to
admit.

"We don't have time to stand here and deliberate," he says gruffly. "I'll go this way, and we'll
stay in contact with the coins."

Harry swallows and nods. "I'll stick with Neville."

Although she hates the idea of splitting up, Neville's right—they're wasting time. And if they
all go down the wrong path, they could end up in the wrong place with nothing to show for it.
Every minute they spend on the manor grounds is a risk.

"Fine," Draco says at last, little more than a whisper. "Keep your coin in hand and check in if
you find anything. Worst case scenario, we'll reconvene when we reach the house. If the path
starts climbing back to the surface, turn back."

Neville nods once, sharply. "Deal."

Before she can say anything—before she can dig an alternative plan to the surface, Neville
and Harry are gone down the left passage, and Hermione's forced to watch the distant light
fade as they vanish into the darkness.

With a great sigh, Draco turns to the right. "Let's go."

They venture on once again, Hermione clutching her wand in one hand and her coin in the
other, and though they trek forward, everything remains silent.

"Have you sensed anything in the wards?" she asks eventually, when the silence grows
unbearable.

"No," Draco says, shaking his head. "He doesn't have the power to alter Malfoy blood wards
—only my father could have done that."

The thought instils little confidence, when she knows he doesn't trust his father. They knew
Narcissa wouldn't report on anything—but Lucius is another story altogether. It wouldn't be
the first time he threw his family to the wolves for his own survival, and if Voldemort got to
him in the wake of Draco's defection—

Hermione doesn't want to know what might have happened.

She nods, her breathing shaky, and steels herself with another fortifying exhale. "Nothing
from Harry or Neville," she says, checking her coin even though it remains cold in the damp
air.

"Check in," he breathes, "please."

She taps a quick message into her coin, a sharp breath snagging in her throat as she waits on a
response. They carry on forward, and every second where the coin doesn't warm in her palm
feels like an eternity.

She frowns, lifting the coin to send another message. "No response yet," she says. "Should
we turn back?"

Draco glances down at his watch. The plan is timed to the minute, and she can't imagine the
lost time if their efforts simply in getting to Theo go so wrong.

Another minute ticks past.

She taps another message into the coin.

Still, it remains cold.

The damp begins to seep through the toes of her boots, shooting a chill through her.

Draco clenches his jaw, the light from his wand flickering. "Nothing?"

"Nothing," she confirms, heart a tight lump in her chest.

"We're going back."

She doesn't know what this will cost them—what it costs the mission as a whole—but she
refuses to lose three friends today. So she nods, turning on the spot and lifting her wand
higher in their retreat.

Several steps on, her coins warms, and relief courses through her as it stays warm for long
moments. Draco stills at her side when she sucks in a sharp breath, and he peers close as a
rapid fire series of messages cross the face of it.

Found a door.

Heavily warded—scanning spells show nothing. Going to dismantle.

No humans in the room beyond. Might be a cellar.

Proceed?

Draco grimaces in the low, yellow light. "If they've reached the cellar, where are we going?"

Hermione has no response, when he knows the property so much better than she does. But
Malfoy Manor has stood for nearly a thousand years, and its many secrets are unnumbered
and untold.

"We're still underground," she says in return, the air between them growing more tense by the
second. "Surely we'll meet up with them inside."

Another long moment passes before he nods, and grasps his own coin in hand. She watches
him tap in a simple message: Proceed with caution.
Realistically, she knows Harry and Neville know how to operate with stealth. They've all
survived this long in the war—and that means a lot. Furthermore, they've all memorised the
manor blueprints. But there's something about the pair of them being stuck in Malfoy Manor
—in the Death Eater headquarters itself—that makes her wish she could protect them.

But they don't have the time or the ability. She can only rely on them to protect themselves
and each other.

It's with that thought plastered to the forefront of her mind, and a deep, steeling breath, that
they turn and proceed once more down the corridor. Her own magic, rich and overflowing in
her veins, recoils against the situation.

Draco doesn't say anything more as the path slopes downward, the air moist and cold, and she
wonders whether ancient magic has warped this tunnel from its original state. Surely, the
manor's original servants didn't have to make such a trek on a regular basis.

Magic can corrupt, and dark magic even more so. She can only hope they're not heading into
an impossible situation.

A sudden draft sweeps through the corridor, and Draco stills as her coin warms.

Cellar unoccupied. Heading towards the dungeons.

She shows Draco the message, and his gaze flicks distractedly to the coin only for an instant
before turning back to the sudden stretch of wall before them. When he presses one palm flat
against the earth, she flinches.

"Fuck," he hisses under his breath, recoiling as if burnt. "Don't touch that."

That sentiment makes sense well enough—that the wall is warded in some way that will
harm her. That it isn't a wall at all, and maybe only illusioned as such.

Draco draws the dagger holstered at his hip—they're all thoroughly equipped for the battle
they'll likely find—and jams it into the wall. The darkened, dampened earth flickers for a
moment, and she isn't certain what she sees briefly on the other side before it re-solidifies.

They share a grim look.

"Blood wards," he murmurs, though the words are unnecessary when he withdraws the
dagger and brings it instead to the tip of his own finger. A bead of blood bursts from the cut,
and after letting it accumulate for a moment, he drags it along the wall's surface.

A deep rumble comes, as if from the earth itself, and Hermione holds a breath as the ground
tremours beneath them. Draco's hand wraps around her elbow, the act instinctive, and she
casts him a wry smile.

Slowly, so slow she almost doesn't notice the sliver on one side at first, the earthen wall shifts
away from one side, and what was once a wall crumbles into dust at their feet.
A dark, dusty passageway carries on before them—but now she recognises the cobbled
flooring and austere, utilitarian walls as part of the manor itself. An ancient, unused part of
the manor.

They're still underground, and she tries to orient herself based on where they began, but the
corridor twisted frequently enough that she can't quite manage it. Lifting his wand, Draco
takes a step through the doorway, casting a series of revealing spells before he turns back to
her and nods.

She learned well enough, during her time spent as a manor resident, that many ancient spells
imbue the corridors. And many of them are not friendly to someone with her blood.

A part of her longs to burn the whole building down one day. To start fresh from the ground
up.

That's if they survive the trials ahead.

Her coin has been quiet for long minutes, and she taps a quick update into her coin to Harry
before following Draco into the basement. A quick revealing spell shows no other humans in
their vicinity, and she wonders how far apart they are from the other two. They trekked on for
a long time after Harry and Neville found the cellar—and they could have travelled in
opposite directions.

With a grimace, Draco feels along the nearest wall, and her heart jolts when he casts a spell to
suddenly reveal a door.

"Servants quarters of some sort," he says softly, peering through the doorway. A ragged,
rotted cot sits in one corner, a small chest at the foot of it. "Clearly long disused."

It strikes her as odd, only for a moment, that so many secrets still remain hidden in the manor
itself. But generations of Malfoys have lived here over the centuries, and she can only
imagine how many things have been stowed away.

"Strange that someone went to the care of hiding it all, though," she muses as she reveals
another door opposite it on the other side of the hallway.

"Illness, maybe," he says. "If something contagious was down here they might have cordoned
the whole place off. Or a spell gone wrong."

Neither of those options do anything to bolster her weakened courage, but she can only hope
if something was down here that it's long gone.

They carry on in silence, and Hermione glances down at another update on her coin. "They've
reached the dungeons, but haven't been detected," she breathes.

Draco curses under his breath. "Tell them to standby until we get there. Theo's cell is sure to
be heavily guarded."

She nods, already tapping in a response, and turns her attention back to the situation before
them. They trek on, and the hallway expands into a labyrinth of passageways, many with
hidden doors and small, nondescript rooms.

The whole thing only serves to shoot shivers along her spine.

In all her time at Malfoy Manor, she never ventured into the underground. And now, she's
glad of it—especially now that she sees even Draco didn't know of all this.

"I'll be glad to reach the dungeons and get away from all this," he says, mimicking her own
thoughts, then gives a derisive snort at the sentiment.

Because surely the dungeons are infinitely more unpleasant—but he's familiar with that.

They trek on, the gloom encompassing her from every angle, and Hermione's mind spins into
everything that may lurk and linger in the darkness surrounding them. The curses they could
reveal around any corner, through any doorway, and their progress is slow in their caution.

At last they enter another dingy hallway, and Draco releases a sigh of relief. "Dungeons," he
breathes, drawing his coin from his pocket. "Let's find Potter and Longbottom."

She longs to feel some sliver of relief that they've made it to their destination. That the four
of them will soon be reunited, and with no small amount of luck, they'll find Theo only one
wall away.

But something about it feels too easy. For them to have gone so far, spent so much time in the
manor, and not run into a single soul. She reminds herself they walked through a passage
that's been sealed for centuries—but her intuition hasn't led her astray in the long years at
war.

"Draco," she hisses, reaching for his arm. "Something doesn't feel right."

He freezes, a message vanishing from his coin, eyes narrowing.

For days, she's been harbouring a supply of magic, carefully accumulating every drop of it
she can find within herself. Now, Draco's magic nudges against her own and she tightens,
every part of her coiling on instinct.

It takes everything she has to keep the reservoir of power from bursting.

Glancing around the darkened space, he scans the area as he lowers his voice. "I'm still
attuned to the wards. It will give us a split second of warning if anyone else approaches."
Hesitating, he takes several steps forward.

Hermione's fingers tingle with raw magic as she follows.

"I would cast a bearing spell," he says, "for Longbottom to find us easier, but it could reach
the wrong person and broadcast our location instead."

Nodding, she draws her wand if for no reason other than to occupy her hands, when the
magic roiling through her is so much more powerful than anything she can conjure with a
wand.
On high alert, the abundance of magic presses against her core, an uncomfortable strain that
she knows Draco feels as well.

But he was caught without a full supply when he left the Death Eaters; she refuses to allow
the same to happen to either of them today. She suspects the magic pent up between them is
enough to level half of the manor if they need to.

The thought isn't as reassuring as she would hope, when this mission is not about destruction
but delicacy.

Quiet steps sound in the distance, as though suddenly unmuffled, and Hermione presses
herself tight to the wall around the corner. Her heart thuds in her throat as she slips back into
the part of herself that has had to fight for survival for years. She catches Draco's eye as he
peers around the corner across from her, his chest still with shallow breaths.

The steps draw nearer, louder, clothes rustling, and magic dances across her skin as she
prepares to engage.

"It's us," Harry hisses from just down the corridor, and she sinks with a sigh of relief. "We
weren't sure if it was you."

"It was," Draco drawls, rolling out his shoulders. "What have you found?"

Magic still burns in her fingertips, and Hermione releases a careful stream of it to envelop the
four of them with disillusionment and shielding spells. Draco casts her a glance, brows
flickering when she layers a muffling spell on top.

It's taken some finesse to channel the raw ritual magic into recognisable spells, but it's useful.

A small bit of magic she's been practising—a means to expel some of the extra raw power
they've been collecting while preparing for this mission.

"We came in here," Neville says quietly, tapping a spot on the wall, then dragging his finger
along the stone. "We're approximately here now."

"Fine," Draco returns. "And the dungeons are through there."

Harry observes the rough map, frowning. "Anyone find it strange that we haven't run into any
Death Eaters yet?"

"Yes," Hermione offers. "Not in the old tunnels, because the one we came through had been
sealed off for who knows how long. But here… so close to the dungeons."

The four of them share a grim look.

This is the part of the plan where anything could happen—and anything could go wrong.
Most likely, she imagines, it will. If Theo's imprisonment is a trap to draw out Draco—which
they're all in agreement it is—then from this moment on, anyone could be expecting them.
Their plans will only succeed as long as they remain undetected. They've managed to get this
far—a benefit from entering via the tunnel network—but now a sudden swell of
apprehension darts through her.

For a moment, the four of them stare at the door at the opposite end of the corridor. An
infrequently used back door leading into the far end of the dungeons. From there, it's simply a
navigation of aisles to where Theo is likely kept under heavy guard presence.

"He will sense if something happens to the Death Eaters down here," Draco says on a breath,
rapidly casting a series of spells to unlock and unward the dungeon door. "If I know him at
all, he'll have tightened the leashes since I left."

"Fine," Neville says. "Then we'll have to be quick."

Hermione nods, releasing a measured breath as she prepares herself for an imminent fight.
Since she moved into the manor, she hasn't fought a real battle. Blood thrums in her veins and
focus slides across her vision as she slips into that side of herself.

Her fingers graze Draco's, and a frisson of energy darts through her at the contact. At the way
her raw unhindered magic brushes against his.

And it stirs her waning courage back to the surface as a reminder of the power that surges
between them. The deep, near-endless pit they can access—the reason they did all of this in
the first place.

"Ready?" she whispers, meeting three sets of eyes in turn.

Draco blows out a breath, his power coiling and twining around hers. Strengthening.
Fortifying. "Let's go get him back."

When Neville reaches for the door, pushing it open, chaos erupts.

Death Eaters patrol the corridor, guarding every inch of the dungeons, watching the doors,
robes and masks in place and wands in hand. Death Eaters as far as she can see.

It doesn't take anything at all—the magic slides from her fingers, from her palms, from her
soul, and collides with the nearest masked figure. He collapses to the ground in a heap, dead
before he can make a sound.

It takes only weeks and months and years of pent-up rage, of injustice and pain and the
despair that took hold of her for so long.

And now, she fights.The magic spills from deep within her, intrinsic and entwined with
Draco's at her side.

Through the pounding of blood and adrenaline in her ears, the searing intensity of her focus,
she's only distantly aware of him fighting, of Death Eaters dropping, of spells whizzing past.
Of Harry and Neville at her back, at her flank, neon green lighting up the darkness of the
dungeons around them.
Rage pulses through her. Magic pours from her.

And still the vast chasm pushes forth, strong enough that with one wave of her arm she erects
a shield across them all. Death Eaters crumple, spells flying and deflecting from every angle,
from every corner.

Draco's magic curls around her, his presence reassuring at her side.

Tears break from her eyes, and when she swipes them away, her fingers come away black.

Still, she pushes forward, fighting for the lives of the only people she still cares for. Death
surrounds them, and even as she casts down another Death Eater, a crumpled pile of robes at
her feet, she watches the cells. They press on, and as surely as Death Eaters flow, they fall.

A surge of strength mingles with the sheer helplessness she's felt for so long. It's heady and
it's terrifying at once.

Magic sings in her veins, a great, terrible song.

And now, in the face of more power than she knows what to do with, she wants only to make
it out alive. For each of them to make it out.

Protected by her shield, Draco presses on past the empty cells, Neville at his side, slashing
vicious arcs through the chests of two Death Eaters who step into his way. And Harry falls
into step with her, guarding the ground they've gained.

Harry's eyes when they meet hers are alight with adrenaline and fear, with something akin to
the fight they once bore. Before the war became too much. Before they slipped into
something dark and depleted.

She turns back to the fight, dark magic sliding insistent, insidious tracks down her cheeks,
and a spark of magic jolts through her at the contact. He keeps pace at her side, firing another
spell ahead.

They shoot spell after spell, and magic pours from her hands as her pulse roars in her ears.
Flashes of green spark and fizzle on her shield.

Seconds and minutes slip past, and all she knows is destruction.

She will pay for this later. They all will.

None of them know the toll this magic will take, used in such unfathomable measure.
Already, she feels the clenching agony embedded in her chest. The slight blurring around the
edges of her vision.

But she resists the magic, taking down one robed figure after another, and she clings to
Draco's power as he reaches for her own. They'll get each other through this, and if they
don't, they'll die in the attempt.

Dozens of Death Eaters lie collapsed on the damp stone floor, robes rumpled, masks askew.
The sight might have stirred something within her once. Now it only offers relief. A cruel,
horrific sense of justice—of satisfaction in the basest part of her.

Hermione draws her wand as the magic froths a convoluted storm within her, and stalks
towards Draco and Neville. With such a great expulsion of magic, a massive fight below the
manor, there's no way their entrance remains unnoticed any longer.

And the ritual magic isn't endless. They've been accumulating it for days while piecing
together the plan, but neither of them knows exactly how deep the well goes.

The silence that follows is eerie, incomplete, as though they're simply waiting for the next
wave to arrive.

They are, she reminds herself.

Because Voldemort knew they would come. He probably kept Theo alive for this very reason
—to draw Draco Malfoy back to the manor. But even he never knew of the depths of power
roiling between them.

"Have you got him?" she hisses, bracing for what they might find.

Draco is outside one of the farthest cells, Neville on guard at his side.

"Yes," Draco says, heavy breaths falling from his lips. He drags the back of his hand across a
sweat-dampened brow. His fingers fumble a little with the magic as he casts unlocking
charms on the cell. The shadows beneath his eyes are darkened with black smudges.

And Hermione feels it, too. The bone-deep fatigue settling into the space where magic
overflowed before. A clenching pain in her very core.

She reaches for him, wrapping his failing power with her own like a blanket. And he
straightens a little, his magic coming easier, even as Hermione feels the added strain on her
own. She sinks one shoulder against the wall, fingers trembling as she grasps her wand.

"Almost there," Draco breathes without looking up, and she doesn't know if it's for her
benefit or his own. The dungeons swim in her vision, and Draco swipes away more dark
magic leaking from his eyes, charting black paths down his cheeks. He looks up and says,
"Hang in there. We're so close."

The body that must be Theo Nott is a dark heap on the floor, unmoving, concealed by
darkness and robes.

Neville keeps his gaze on Theo, wand aloft but attention elsewhere. At her side, Harry's arm
nudges her own. The two of them don't know the details of the ritual magic they were bonded
under, but she knows they've pieced together enough elements of the situation. Neither of
them question her sudden decline, nor Draco's.

"There," Draco breathes, blinking several times rapidly.

Without waiting for another word, Neville reaches for the door and swings it open,
shouldering past Draco and crouching down. He reaches for Theo's pulse, and the rest of
them stand in silent apprehension as long moments pass.

"He's alive," Neville huffs softly. In the week since Theo's capture, he's taken a severe
downwards spiral, because Neville lifts him easily though a simple levitating charm would
work easier. None of them say anything, and Neville strides from the cell, jaw hard and eyes
cold with rage. "Can we Disapparate from in here?"

Draco shakes his head, swallowing audibly. He reaches for Hermione's hand, and his fingers
are clammy. "Can't lower the Disapparition wards in here. We need to get him back to the
cellar."

It's close, but at the moment, it feels altogether too far. It's only a matter of time before more
Death Eaters arrive, and they're hardly in any shape for another fight now. Not with Harry the
only able fighter.

Oblivion beckons, and she clings to Draco's hand with all her remaining energy. Reaches into
herself for strength she doesn't know if she still possesses.

With a grimace, he straightens, as though bolstering himself with a wave of pure willpower.

Harry ventures back down the aisle, leading them towards the cellar as Neville allows Theo's
prone form to hover behind him, lifting his wand into a fighting stance once more.

Some of the darkness threatening her visions clears as she fixes every ounce of strength on
getting the hell out. Her movements are clumsier, and several times she trips over the body-
ridden floor as she follows her friends.

She can feel herself fading. Feel Draco fading at her side.

Hermione isn’t certain how much she can trust the failing magic, so she clenches her wand
tighter.

They need to get back to the house before the darkness can slide in—it's the only thought in
her mind.

So when a door clangs open across the dungeons, she doesn't immediately register the
severity of it. Heavy footfalls approach, running fast, too fast. She blinks the shade from her
eyes as she lifts her wand, casting indiscriminately at every form in dark robes. She slips in
something on the floor—something slick and damp—and her spell goes awry, clanging off
the wall instead as a neon flash nearly misses her.

With a roar, Draco fires, a series of death knells sliding from his wand one after another, and
the Death Eaters drop before him. Draco sinks against the wall, and she can feel the physical
effort of him pulling himself together.

"Go!" Neville shouts, shoving him out of the way as he steps into the line of fire.
Without missing a beat, Harry takes control of Theo's immobile form, directing him towards
the back door through which they entered. Hermione reaches for Draco's arm, tugging him
through the chaos of bodies.

"Neville!" Hermione screams, firing spells around him though her hand shakes so badly she's
afraid she might miss. That she might hit her friend instead. It's enough for her next spell to
falter, for the incantation to snag on her lips. She jumps forward, reaching for the back of his
collar and tugging him towards the exit.

"I'm coming," he growls, deflecting another spell. "Just get Theo out of here."

"Potter's got him," Draco huffs, erecting a feeble shield charm around the three of them just
in time for a curse to glance off. "Don't be a fucking martyr, Longbottom, because I'm not
going to the be the one to tell Theo."

It's almost enough to bring a grin to Neville's face.

Hermione's heart thuds a dull, uneven rhythm in her ears, and it feels like forever for the
three of them to make their way to the far exit. Her vision swims with the expulsion of power,
the last of her strength tossed out in a weak effort to keep them alive from this new, angry
wave of aggressors.

Finally, she stumbles back over the threshold, every part of her ready to collapse, and it's by
little more than fumes that she's still standing upright. Draco doesn't look any better, his
eyelids half closed, shoulders slumped as he sags against the wall.

Neville follows them through, spells thrown haphazardly through the doorway.

"Get out of the doorway," Draco hisses, squeezing his eyes shut hard before he takes a step
towards it. Raw power shimmers through the flesh of his palms, and Hermione can feel him
drawing every last shred of her own power into him.

She gives it freely, the sharp edge of conscious thought drifting into something else—
something soft and weak—something like rest.

And several things happen all at once in the fleeting moments between awake and less so.

Harry stands with Theo's prone form, shifting just so as Longbottom moves to cover him. A
spell, solo and searing in its aim, strikes Harry in the side. A sharp bark of pain escapes him
as he sinks against the wall.

A choked scream slides from Hermione’s lips, funnelling into a sob as Draco slams the door
shut.

"Get out of here," Draco huffs, chest heaving with exertion as magic seeps free of his hands.
"Get them all out."

And then he reaches for the last scraps of magic both of them possess, and he releases every
single drop into the dungeons. A loud, deafening quake shakes the house, sweeping through
the dungeon and everyone in it.
 Dust and debris fill the air, a low, ominous rumble overhead as the ceiling begins to collapse
with a cacophonous roar.

It's the last thing she knows—death and destruction and darkness coating her eyes—before
everything else slides away.

Chapter End Notes

200k day!! Thank you all so much for reading. I am so grateful to every one of you for
sticking it out on this journey with me. I hope you liked today's chapter!

Many thanks to my wonderful team <3

 Chapter 41
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

A searing ache swells in his brain, every muscle screaming with agony.

Draco feels as though he might sleep for decades, and it takes long minutes for him to gain
clarity as he stares dully at the world around him. His mind is discordant, disconnected, like
it's been wrapped in gauze. When his stomach twists into a tight knot, he suspects he might
toss.

But his stomach is empty.

He hasn't eaten.

He can't determine why, can't force his brain to work in any way that makes sense. He yawns
widely, stifling the motion behind his hand, and doesn't understand why he's awake, when
sleep is so much more preferable.

When it is so much easier to block out the world.

"Wake the fuck up!" a voice snaps, anger and panic and frustration.

Draco frowns, dragging a hand through his hair and scrubbing at his burning eyes. When he
blinks them open, he finds a hazel set on his own, wild and frantic. Scruffy brown hair.

Longbottom.

"Fuck's sake," he growls, grabbing Draco hard by the shoulders. "Snap out of it!"

Draco feels depleted, drained of even the shrapnel that composes his soul, and it takes several
long moments for anything to sink in.

All at once, he remembers—and he wishes he could forget again.

"Shit," Draco breathes, making to stand as he attempts to make sense of his surroundings.
The last thing he can remember is Malfoy Manor—the dungeons—running his magic dry.

An explosion.

"Where's Hermione?" he snaps. Longbottom waves a flippant, aggravated hand across the
room, where Draco can see Hermione's curly head buried in her shoulder on the chair—and
it's only then that Draco realises they're in the sitting room of his London house. His head
throbs, and he presses two fingers two his temple. "What happened?"

"You blacked out, is what happened!" Longbottom exclaims loudly, "and you took Hermione
with you."
Draco grimaces, eyes landing on her again. "Theo?"

Releasing an aggravated sigh, Longbottom gestures vaguely to a cot on the floor that Draco
doesn't recognise.

"He’s alive. I ran some tests on his magical core and everything seems alright. But you all
fucking passed out, and Harry's bloody injured and—"

"What?" Draco wrenches himself sharply from the sofa, every nerve and muscle protesting
the sudden action. He feels as though he might simply pass out again—and he realises in a
sobering moment of clarity that he cares more about Potter's safety for Hermione's sake than
anything else. "What happened?"

"Hit by some curse," Longbottom snaps. "I don't bloody know."

It's then that he notices the other immobile form in the sitting room. Potter's pale, face tight
with pain, but otherwise unmoving in rest. One side of his shirt is slashed and soaked through
with blood, though a gauzy bandage appears to have staunched the flow for now.

"Shit," Draco breathes, reaching for the man's wrist and allowing several moments to pass
while he counts the beats. "His pulse is racing. What was he hit with?"

Longbottom fixes him with a hard look. "Not the Avada. That's all I can tell you. With any
luck, it was little more than a slashing spell—but none of us have been particularly lucky of
late."

"Fuck." He gazes around the room once more, lifting his brows. "How did we all get back
here?"

"Well," Longbottom begins, cursing under his breath as he initiates a series of diagnostic
spells on Potter's still form. Draco watches, his own heart stuttering a beat. "After you
obliterated the dungeons into dust and the manor sounded like it was going to collapse down
on top of us, I took a massive fucking leap of faith, yeah? I was the only one of the five of us
bloody coherent enough to Apparate."

The words take a long moment to sink in with their utter absurdity. "You side-along
Apparated four people."

"Yeah, well." Raking a hand through his hair, Longbottom tosses his wand aside in
frustration. "Easier to fix you lot splinched than piece you back together if you were crushed
by rubble." He shoots Draco another glance, and something at last softens. "You and
Hermione were fine—just knocked out both your cores. Theo is... I don't know. But he's not
the urgent case here. He’ll need time and rest in order to recover."

Draco's gaze skims back to Potter. A sheen of sweat shines on his pale brow, glasses askew,
and idly, Draco reaches to straighten them. Considering the man was his enemy for so many
years, he's come to feel like a friend of sorts. A comrade in arms, if nothing else.
And he can't dismiss the fact that Potter went along with all of their plans to recover Theo,
even though he had no personal stake in the matter beyond wanting to help his friends. Even
though there was a chance they would all end up dead.

It's a version of Potter he remembers from Hogwarts. A version that has, somehow, survived
through the years of war and chaos.

"I'm not the best healer," Draco says softly. "And without knowing what he was hit with, I'm
afraid to make things worse."

"Not much for it either," Longbottom admits. "Basic things, sure. Battlefield wounds. Not
dark magic curses. It could be worse than it looks on the surface."

Draco glances again to Hermione, willing her to stir awake. But when he reaches for the
magic between them, he finds only a gaping void. The discovery is as startling as it is
unsettling, and he has to hope it's only because he burnt through every last shred of magic in
the reservoir between them in taking out the dungeons.

He doesn't want to know how the manor looks.

All he can hope is that he took out even more Death Eaters in the collapse.

But when he reaches for his own personal magic, it feels weak and nearly nonexistent, too. A
shiver of panic trawls through him.

In the wake of what they just did—the invasion and narrow escape from the manor. The sheer
number of Death Eaters they took out with the ritual magic. He isn't surprised that his magic
is overwhelmed—but he won't be surprised either if the Death Eaters who remain seek
immediate retribution. They won't be safe to leave this house unprotected.

"Hermione knows healing magic better than I do," he offers, turning his wand over in his
hand. "But if her magic is as spent as mine is, she won't be much help right now, either."

"You know Theo's useless with healing spells," Longbottom intones softly, but there's a hint
of fondness in his words. "He's alive, but... we won't know what sort of damage they did to
him until he wakes up. And I don't want to force that."

"Fuck," Draco breathes. "Yeah. That's for the best. What do we do about Potter?"

With a grimace, Longbottom sits back on the floor next to Potter, folding his legs beneath
himself. "I know of one person who might be able to help. She doesn't have formal healer
training, but she's been acting as one with the resistance for years. We don't know what
exactly Harry was hit with, or how we can undo it if at all—but she might be the best shot
we've got."

They exchange a long, hard look. "Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like who she is?"

It doesn't slip his notice that they won't be able to easily move Potter. Now without knowing
what's wrong and how he might react. He can't think of a single soul he would trust with
knowledge of this house outside of his own mother. And something tells him Longbottom
isn't talking about Narcissa Malfoy.

"You probably won't," Longbottom says after a tense moment. "But she's our best hope. And
she won't turn on Harry—or Hermione."

Draco thins his lips with aggravation. "It's Lovegood, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck."

"You might be surprised," Longbottom says quietly, "she's quite proficient. Smart and loyal. I
don't think she'll give any of us up—and to be honest, she's really our only option."

Raking a hand through his hair, Draco releases a long, shallow breath. He recalls the day he
and Hermione ran into Lovegood in Diagon Alley—the day they retrieved their rings from
the Malfoy vaults. Remembers the way Hermione wanted Lovegood on her safe list. He
wishes she were awake—but if he can allow her a little more rest, he would rather do so.

"Fine," he says at last. "But maybe we can move Potter into the garden so she doesn't have
full access to the house and its wards."

He half expects Longbottom to argue—he remembers the two of them being friends during
their later Hogwarts years—but he only offers a nod instead. "Fine. Harry appears to be
stable for now. Patched up the injury the best I could, and he hasn’t moved since we got back.
Maybe we can ask her to look at Theo as well."

Sometimes Draco wonders how his life came to be as it is. This is one of those times.

"Send her a message," he says. "As soon as she can come. You'll need to meet her at the
nearest Apparition point to get her through the wards."

Longbottom nods, rising to his feet and stowing his wand. He offers a wry grimace and says,
"That'll give me time to explain... some of this."

"Yeah." Draco frowns, staring once more between Potter and Theo, then to Hermione. "I'll
keep watch over this lot for now and rouse Hermione."

"Deal."

Without another word, Longbottom draws his coin from his pocket and strides from the
room.

A quarter hour passes and bleeds towards a half. Draco sits at Hermione's side in the sitting
room after making her more comfortable on the sofa; from here he can keep an eye on both
Theo and Potter.
He longs to wake her, to see the light in her chocolate eyes—to know he didn't cause some
irreparable damage when he burnt out both of their cores.

But he doesn't want to do any more damage than he's already done.

The great expulsion of magic took such a toll on them both—and it's a sobering reminder that
no power exists without its limits. The ritual magic between them comes from the earth, from
its own source beyond them, and all natural magic requires balance and repayment. For so
many years, they've all bled magic dry of its strength without regard for what it was doing to
their souls.

Draco especially. Dark magic has flown from his wand every day for over five years, and he
doesn't even know how many lives he's ended.

The chasm within him, that was brimming and overfull just that morning, is bleak and empty.

Even levitating Hermione's unconscious form took more from him than it should have.

He slouches forward, resting his face in his palm, tugging at his hair. If she doesn't wake—if
she's somehow incapacitated—he doesn't know whether he'll ever forgive himself. So many
of his sins have been in the name of war. Of survival.

But any harm he does to her is on a plateau of its own.

Long minutes tick past, and Draco doesn't move. Doesn't know how to move. Doesn't dare
try.

He's so exhausted, and that morning's mission took everything he had. They made it out and
alive—as far as he can tell—but none of them unscathed.

Theo hasn't moved since Draco awoke, and maybe some part of his brain is still trapped in
the manor, still reliving the torture he took on Draco's behalf. He can only hope his magic and
Hermione's magic are restored well enough that they can begin to rebuild their stores.

He hasn't even allowed himself to think of the Manor and what sort of damage he might have
done by caving in the dungeons.

Good riddance, anyway.

He doesn't know what happened to Potter—whether he'll survive or if the curse that hit him is
as insidious as Draco fears. He can’t allow himself to hope it was something less complex
until they know more. And Longbottom still bears the mark of the Asp Encircle—an object
so dark most artefact dealers won't even go near it.

The weight of too many responsibilities sits on him, and though a part of him wants to draw
strength from the fact that this, at last, is a way forward of his own making—of his own
desires—he's so damn tired.

Hermione shifts on the sofa next to him, and when he casts her a sidelong glance, he sees her
sleepy eyes blink open.
"Thank Merlin," he huffs, reaching for her hand. "How are you feeling?"

She winces, attempting to sit up. "Like my insides have been turned out and picked bare by
carrion." Her voice is hoarse, like she's been screaming.

"Graphic," he drawls, "but that sounds about right."

Her brows lift with a deep well of sadness. "What happened? Did we get Theo out?"

The sitting room around them is quiet, subdued by a preternatural stillness despite that four of
them are present. Longbottom still hasn't returned with Lovegood, and Draco suspects he
needs a moment alone as much as any of them.

"We tore through our magic," he says, purposefully making the words as dull as he can
manage in an effort to quell the sting. "We got Theo back, but he's still unconscious." And
since he knows better than to try and protect her, he adds after a moment, "Potter was hit by
some sort of damaging curse; we don't know what it was, but Longbottom is collecting
Lovegood to look at him."

"What?" The word comes out at once emphatic and broken, and her gaze darts rapidly across
the room before settling on Potter's anguished form. He's settled in sleep, but his face is still
twisted up with pain. Hermione simply stares at him, brows high with disbelief, eyes glassy.
"He's going to be okay."

"Yeah..." Draco trails off, giving her hand a squeeze. "I'm just glad you're alright."

She turns back to him with a heavy swallow. "You destroyed the dungeons. I'm not imagining
that, right?"

"No," he murmurs, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. "But I took you out with me,
unfortunately. The downside to a linked pool of magic, I suppose."

"We were both already so weak," she muses, as though the consideration is far more
academic than what they've just done with it merits. "We used so much of it. There were so
many Death Eaters down there."

"Right," he drawls, "and they're dead now."

He doesn't need to say what he knows they're both thinking. That it was less a trap and more
of an ambush—that none of them were meant to make it through the door, let alone all the
way to Theo’s cell and back.

It proves even Voldemort underestimated the strength of their magic, thinking they would be
overpowered by sheer numbers. But now he'll know the dirty, ragged truth.

In the moment, Draco didn't even allow himself to think of the former brothers he was
knocking down with strike after strike of raw magic. As each of them fell dead before they
hit the ground.
"We're alive," he says, grasping her hand tighter again. Like he needs her presence to ground
himself from the horrific events of that morning. "And with no small amount of luck, Theo
and Potter will pull through as well. We'll restore our magic—"

"Hopefully," she whispers, cutting him off short. "What if it was never meant to run empty?
What if we simply used it all up?"

He can't dwell on that same fear that grips his own heart. So he offers her a wry smirk and
says, "Then it isn't a very good bit of dark magic if it can't break the laws of the earth."

Hermione blows out a breath, her fingers clenched tight around his. "I can't just sit here."

"Unless you know Muggle healing," he offers quietly, "you'd best not try anything with either
of them. Longbottom said Lovegood knows what she’s doing."

Although she deflates on the sofa, sinking a little closer towards him, Hermione’s expression
shifts. She doesn't need him to tell her this—but he knows a part of her wants to try anyway.
Wants to deny her own limits for the sake of her friends.

"I don't," she allows. "Not in any way that can help." Still, she rises from the sofa and paces
towards the kitchen. Despite himself, Draco follows after her, curiosity spiking within him.

"What are you doing?"

She releases another long breath, pulling open the refrigerator door and drawing food from
within. "My dad used to say the best way to keep your mind under control is to keep your
hands busy." She piles a stack of raw carrots onto the counter. "And if I can't do anything to
help right now, I can help when they wake."

Draco leans a hip against the counter, watching as she draws a cutting board and a large knife
towards her. She slices an onion in two, peeling the skin.

"Okay," he says. "What's the recipe?"

"Soup. My dad always used to make it when he needed to keep his hands busy because he
said everyone always likes a bowl of soup." She sets the onion down, looking for a moment
as though she might cry. As if everything has finally caught up with her.

It's the most she's spoken in any detail about either of her parents. The only information he
has to compose them into real people who exist across the world.

Draco reaches for the carrots, ordering them in a flat row on the counter. "What can I do to
help?"

She eyes him for a moment, scepticism bleeding into gratefulness. Rummaging through a
drawer, she hands him a Muggle device he can't identify. He's never been very good at
cooking, but he's proficient enough at Potions that this shouldn't be too difficult.

Hermione sets a cutting board and knife in front of him. "Peel and chop?" she asks softly.
"Please."
It takes him a few moments before he determines the easiest way to peel the outer layer from
the carrots, and they fall into a silence that isn't quite comfortable and isn't quite easy—but
it's as close as it might come under the circumstances.

"I'm not much of a cook," he says, comparing two uneven carrots. "So you're going to have to
direct me."

"It's basically edible potions," she replies, chopping the ends off several stalks of celery. "I
think you'll be fine."

The silence stretches across the room again, and Draco slides into an easy rhythm, one task
into the next, slicing the peeled carrots into even lengths.

"Do you ever wonder how things might be different," she breathes at last. "Had things gone
otherwise. If the war wasn't still going."

"I try not to," he admits. Her smile is consolatory. As if she understands exactly why he can't
bear to think of such things. "What do you mean? When would it have ended?"

"I don't know." She sets her knife down, expression tightening. "Sometimes I think—if the
Battle of Hogwarts had played out differently. We had finally figured out the last of his
Horcruxes and destroyed them—that could have been it if the spell had worked out. But
everything went wrong instead."

"That was..." He thinks about it for a moment, stomach churning at the thought. "More than
five years ago."

"Yeah. It was really the dissolution of things—the beginning of the Order crumbling. We lost
a lot of good fighters that day, and the rest of us had to go into hiding."

Despite the flippant tone with which she speaks, Draco can hear so much more. The way
she's thought of this before—the deep-seated longing. It's difficult to hear, when he knows he
can't give her what she wants most.

"If the war ended that day I would be in Azkaban," he muses. "Absolutely."

A small smile tugs at her lips. "Probably. If Harry had won the duel with Voldemort."

"You'd be..." He waves a hand. "I don't know. Working."

"A job," she snickers. "I can't even wrap my head around the thought of having a job right
now. Something so simple, so ordinary."

And that longing is back in her voice in full force. The amusement drops off abruptly, all at
once, and she reaches again for her knife. For a moment, Draco wishes he hadn't said
anything about it. But she commences chopping vegetables once more, head tilted to one
side.

"I suppose I always wanted to work in the Ministry when I was younger," she says. "As an
Unspeakable or with magical creatures or something... or maybe healing at St Mungo's."
There's a sort of soothing repetition in the work, slicing, peeling, and soon he has a bowl full
of diced carrots. Without a word, Hermione hands him the trimmed celery and he carries on.

"And now? Is that still what you'd want to do?"

"No," she says softly, and in an instant, settles in on herself like she's run out of energy. "I
can't imagine wanting to do anything like that now. All I've wanted to do for so long at this
point is to survive. If, hypothetically, I were one day in a situation where this wasn't our
reality anymore and I actually had a choice—I don't think I would have any desire to be
ambitious."

"Okay," Draco murmurs, measuring her for a moment. The fatigue in her stance. The
exhaustion in her eyes. "I'll get you a little bookshop on the coast."

At that, she offers him a smile. "I think I'd like that."

"You can sell books—"

"Rare books."

"You can sell rare books, and I'll keep things in working order. Maybe set up a little potions
lab in the back."

Her smile widens with a small huff of laughter. "Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater
lieutenant, brewing healing potions."

"Don't forget building maintenance and upkeep," he adds, chopping the celery in even pieces.
"Salt gets everywhere."

"Right," she breathes, "of course. And we'll have a cat."

"Three cats."

"Why not four?"

"Fine," he says with a grin. "As many fucking cats as you want. They can lounge in all the
windows and disrupt the customers."

"A cafe," she says suddenly, after a moment of silence. "We can run a little cafe in the
bookshop. Make it a destination spot. Books and beverages and snacks."

Draco shrugs. "Okay. I'll brew coffee instead of potions, then."

At that, a bright laugh bursts from her lips. "I can envision that even less than you selling
healing potions."

"I was an excellent potioneer in school," he retorts, bristling. "And I'm proficient enough
now. But fine—maybe this cooking lesson will catch on. I'll bake pastries and make soups
and sandwiches and we'll pick somewhere far enough away that no one will know who we
are or even anything about this war, and they'll think we're just some everyday couple and..."
He trails off, blowing out a long breath.

It hurts more than he expects, to speak with her like this. To imagine an alternative that isn't
so stark, so dreary. So final. As if there's any possible existence for them where they have a
say in what their life might look like one day.

As if feeling the same, Hermione doesn't respond. She opens the drawer, digging for a can
opener, and begins carefully peeling the top from a tin of tomatoes.

"How do you know what to put in it?" he asks, after the silence stretches on longer than he
can bear.

"Sometimes you just make do with what you have," she says quietly. "I don't have everything
here we might like as far as herbs and fresh produce—but it will still work out, I think. And
we'll have lots for everyone."

He watches her use the tool, eyes tightening. Watches as she withdraws a large pot from the
cupboard and begins piling it full of ingredients. To his combined surprise and dismay, he
finds the process fascinating, and thinks of ways he might make something halfway decent.

"You know," she says at last, dipping a long wooden spoon into the pot and giving the
contents a stir. A thin sheen of steam begins to rise from the surface and she covers it with a
lid. "If the war had ended back then—back before all of this. And if you were in Azkaban and
I was working a job somewhere... we never would have met. Not like this."

For a moment, Draco doesn't know what to say to that. He can't entirely tell whether she
thinks it would be a good thing or a bad one had they never fallen into this marriage together.

But she reaches for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I guess, if nothing else, we have
that."

Still, words evade him. He brings her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss to her knuckles.

And wishes that he could give her anything at all.

The soup is nearly done by the time Theo finally stirs, and Hermione tries not to think of the
way Harry is still unconscious.

Luna hasn't arrived and Neville hasn't returned, and all Hermione can think of is the way
they're all hanging on by a thread.

"What the fuck happened," Theo says, rubbing at one temple. "I feel like I've been trampled
by thestrals."

"Better you were," Draco says, rising to his feet and drawing his wand. He begins casting a
few basic diagnostic spells on him, but Hermione can feel the strain on his magic through
their bond. "You're alive at least."
"Right," Theo drawls. "And why is that? You should have left me to rot in that dungeon."

Hermione shoots Draco a glance. "You couldn't do that, either. The dungeons are gone."

"You didn't."

Draco sighs. "I did."

Dropping a head into his palm, Theo scrubs at his eyes. "I feel like I'm crusted over in a layer
of grime. Where's Nev?"

"Went to track down a healer, apparently," Draco says. "Potter was hit by some curse that we
can't identify. And hopefully she can take a look at you, too."

"I'll be fine," Theo says. "I think, anyway. No permanent damage as far as I can tell."

Draco shakes his head, the blood draining from his face and a downturn to his mouth. "What
happened, Theo? You should have had time to get out—should have..."

When he drops off mid-sentence, Hermione's chest tightens. Draco's carried the weight of
Theo's capture day and night, and a part of her is awash in relief that they have him back.

"Naw," Theo says darkly. "Whatever they had planned, it was in advance. Whatever you did
—or they thought you did—they already had me that morning."

"Fuck," Draco huffs, tugging at his hair. "We need to get that mark off you as soon as you're
well enough to handle it. Hermione and I burnt out our magic trying to get through that
fucking dungeon, but Longbottom knows how to do it."

For a moment, Theo's gaze drifts across Draco's bare forearm with something akin to
disbelief. Then it shifts into longing. "So you did leave."

"Didn't have a choice," Draco says with a grimace. "I took some of them out before I went
though."

"And we took out more when we went back for you," Hermione adds quietly. "It was an
ambush."

"You should have left me there," Theo says. "You all knew better. But I can't say I'm glad you
didn't." He rises from his seat with difficulty, clapping Draco on the shoulder. "Going to
attempt to have a shower."

Hermione has so many more things she wants to say—questions she needs to ask. Answers
they all need from Theo.

But Draco simply watches him go, expression unreadable. And maybe Theo needs time alone
more than anyone else right now—needs a chance to cleanse his body and mind of the ordeal
he's been through at the hands of people he once fought and lived with.
So Hermione settles back down at Draco’s side, reaching for his hand and entwining their
fingers.

Again, her gaze drifts across the room to Harry, his face furrowed as though he's
experiencing a bad dream. Hermione can only hope that's all it is, but none of them are able
to identify an unknown and otherwise innocuous curse. She can only hope the spell is
reversible.

Because knowing as many Death Eaters as she has, she fears the escalation more than the
initial impact. By Draco's response, and the way his attention drifts every so often in Harry's
direction, she suspects he fears the same.

"Do you trust Luna to come here?" she asks, speaking her next thought aloud.

"I don't think we have a choice," he replies flatly. "But no, I don't. She isn't coming into the
house."

Hermione knows the wards on the house itself are far more extensive than those on the
garden and grounds, and she nods. "We'll arrange a sterile chamber for Harry outside."

"Longbottom will arrange it." Draco falls silent, expression pensive. Hermione doesn’t
acknowledge it, but she suspects their magic is too weak for much of anything. "And then he
can wrench that fucking mark from Theo's arm, too. We're done with it for good now."

Blowing out a breath, she sinks deeper into the sofa at his side. "You don't sound as pleased
as I might have thought."

"I'm not pleased," he returns. "But I will be when this is through. When all the rest of them
are buried in the ground."

The words are cool and clinical, a hint of that old deadened tone she remembers from before
she knew him at all. The lieutenant with no room for emotion or fear or struggle. And maybe
that's who he'll need to become again before the end if they have any hopes at survival.

Who they'll all need to become.

Hermione has let some other part of herself back out, after years spent shoved away. She has
friends to care about—a husband to protect. People who matter.

And hopes of a future.

"We'll do what needs to be done," she says, releasing a slow, even breath.

Draco nods once, slowly. "We will."

Theo emerges from the direction of the loo, some of the brightness restored to his eyes as he
rakes a threadbare towel through his hair. Just as Neville pokes his head through the door.

For a moment, their gazes lock, and Hermione wishes they'd been alone—because the way
Neville's expression softens threatens to undo her entirely.
 "Thank Merlin you're awake," he says softly. "You prick. Never get yourself captured again,
alright?"

Theo smirks at the room. "Only repaying how you made me feel when you were captured."

"No one's getting captured," Draco clips. He turns back to the door, brows high and
expectant. "Anything?"

Neville hooks a thumb over his shoulder. "Luna's outside. Let's see about getting Harry on the
mend as well."

Relief skitters, prematurely, across her skin, but Hermione can't help it. She needs Harry to be
alright—can't entertain a thought otherwise. She nods, rising to her feet and drawing her
wand though she barely has the magic to levitate him outside.

After another moment, Neville's expression shifts. "It smells amazing in here."

"Hermione made soup," Draco offers to the group as a whole, to an assortment of odd
expressions. He grimaces and adds, "Eat. And don't any of you dare complain."

"We made soup," she corrects.

And as Theo leaps into the kitchen, ladling two bowls for him and Neville as the latter
transports Harry out to the gardens, Hermione's struck with a plethora of emotions she can't
dissect. Can't parse from each other into anything that makes sense.

These are her people. Her friends.

And she knows she would kill for any one of them. Die for them, if it means they have a hope
at something after this. Something more.

"Come on," she breathes, tugging Draco's hand as she rises to her feet. "We need to get
everyone back on their feet—and then we have more work to do."

Chapter End Notes

Sometimes you guys all have theories about things I didn't even think of LOL. Only ten
chapters left to go - which feels absolutely crazy to me. I hope you liked this one, and
see you all next week! So much love xo

I'll be spending April onwards drafting my new novel. Eep. Wish me luck!
 Chapter 42
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

To Hermione’s great relief, Luna’s initial visit is enough to restore Harry’s consciousness. He
isn’t fully himself, drifting in and out of sleep, but his wounds have been patched up and the
mental haze with which he awoke has begun to dissipate slowly.

According to Luna, her diagnostic spells detected a tricky and arcane spell that would have
left Harry in a dream-like state, suspended somewhere beneath consciousness. A spell that
would have worsened had they left it for too long.

Now, she's been by a few times to check in. Neville’s made Harry’s excuses with the
safehouse, though they all know it’s only a matter of time before he’ll need to return.

Although Hermione knew Luna at Hogwarts, and knew her disposition well enough, the war
has sharpened all of their edges. Luna lives in the safehouse where Hermione resided before
marrying Draco, but they haven't seen each other with any frequency in years.

The only faith she has in any part of the scenario is the belief that Harry and Luna care for
each other.

That, no matter what Luna might think of the rest of them—of the way they've been working
together in secret—Hermione has to trust the girl won't give them up. The Fidelius charm on
the house will protect them as long as none of them reveals it to her—but the existence of the
property has already been compromised.

If the Dark Lord learns of the fact that they're still in London, still living under his nose in the
city he's sought to take over, they're all fully aware he won't rest until he finds them.

As of now, they've been largely isolated since the rescue effort at Malfoy Manor.

Neville and Luna have come and gone, but any possible retaliation from the Death Eater
camp has been strangely quiet.

Which leaves Hermione all the more convinced that a storm is brewing in Wiltshire.

Hermione slips into the garden where they've erected a temporary shelter for Harry’s magical
care, relieved to see the brightness in his eyes.

"Hi, Hermione," Luna says, offering a smile as Hermione slips into the shelter. "You're just in
time. Harry’s just woken up."

The words fill her with relief—he’s slept an inordinate amount since being struck with the
curse, and something within her relaxes to find him so alert. She sinks into the empty seat
next to his cot, a breath tight and cumbersome in her chest as she reaches for Harry's hand.
"Have you discovered anything else about the curse we need to know?”
"Not specifically," Luna says softly, brushing her hand through Harry's hair. As she watches
them, Hermione feels an intense surge of gratitude that he's at least had Luna since Hermione
left the resistance. "But I think we’re past the worst of it. I haven’t seen any relapse to that
state of unconsciousness, even when he sleeps.”

"He'll need to get back," Hermione said, clasping Harry's hand a little tighter. "Before people
ask too many questions."

"He will," Luna agrees. "Neville and I have covered for him with Cassius for now." She looks
up, meeting Hermione's gaze. "I don't know what you've been doing all this time, and even
now I can only guess—but I know it isn't my place to share. I care about Harry, and I care
about you too, Hermione. I can tell you've all been nervous with my presence here."

The words fall from Hermione's lips as a dry whisper. "There's just a lot at stake."

"Of course there is," Luna agrees, and offers a hint of that old whimsical smile Hermione
remembers from their time at Hogwarts together. But the girl has grown up, hardened under
the forge of war like the rest of them. "But I want you to know that I'm not going to reveal
anything to Cassius. He's far from perfect, as we all are, and whatever issues you had with
him before leaving, I don't know about any of that. Whatever reasons you had for marrying
Draco Malfoy, I'm sure they were valid."

"Thank you, Luna," Hermione replies softly. "I appreciate that. And... I did have my reasons,
though a lot of my leaving was a mess to begin with."

"As is the truth of war," Luna muses. She turns back to Harry, casting several spells as he
stifles a yawn. "Anyway—I'll need to continue to keep an eye on him, but I'll have an easier
time of it once we're both back at the safehouse. I'm concerned the magic may still flare up
again, but all evidence suggests he avoided the worst of it."

Not for the first time, Hermione winces at the thought. At the idea that Harry might have
slipped deeper into a dream state if Luna hadn’t been able to determine the problem soon
enough.

But he straightens again, an easy grin spreading across his face. “I’m lucky to have such a
skilled nurse.”

A faint flush colours Luna’s cheeks. “It was nothing.”

Harry doesn't respond for a moment, but then he glances down at his hand, still clasped in
Hermione's, and nods. "I don’t think I’ve said so, but thanks for getting me out of there."

"I passed out," Hermione admits, hesitant to say too much about their mission in front of
Luna. "Neville got all of us back."

Harry releases a breath, flinching when he tries to sit up. Luna assists him, then slips an arm
around his waist as she helps him to his feet. "Let’s see if you can stay up for a while this
time. Cassius isn't asking too many questions yet, but we should get you back soon."
"Let's keep it that way," he intones, then adds a soft, "Thanks, Loons. I know we’ve kept a lot
of this secretive but—"

"The rest isn’t my place." She offers Hermione another of those bright smiles, blue eyes
sparkling. "Though I must say, it's been a nice break from the more troublesome sides of the
war to know that there are other forces at play."

Hermione's gratitude for the girl as she looks at the two of them together only grows. "Please
keep me posted as well as you're able."

"Will do," Harry says, leaning some of his weight on Luna's shoulder, but he takes a few
tentative steps into the yard. "You as well, please." He glances up, as though the thought has
only just occurred to him. "How is Nott doing?"

"Theo is recovering well," Draco cuts in, striding into the yard. "And I am glad to see you
doing better."

Harry claps him on the shoulder. "And you."

Hermione allows herself a moment, observing the pair of them as Luna updates Draco on
Harry’s condition. She slides into that small, fragile part of herself that longs for so much
more. For a world where her husband and her best friend get along.

A world where they can smile and breathe and not spend every waking moment planning and
strategising and hoping with a cold desperation that they'll survive to see the next day.

Her eyes burn as she watches Luna lead Harry beyond the wards.

And she doesn't move when, the two of them left alone, Draco pulls her into his arms. He
doesn't immediately let her go, his grip tightening, and she draws deep breaths from the
fabric of his jumper.

"What's this for?" she asks, the words muffled against his chest.

"You looked like you were about to fall apart," he says, releasing her at last and offering a sly
smirk, "and I wanted to keep you together."

She beams at him, her chest tightening. "I was getting close. Thank you." She scans him—the
casual clothes, the concealed weapons. "Are we going somewhere?"

"Theo lost his wand when he was captured," Draco says as a response. After Theo gained
some of his strength back, Neville performed the spell to draw the Dark Mark from his skin.
He's been mostly sleeping in the extra bedroom since. "And I volunteered to get him
another."

Immediately, the warmth drains from within her. "It isn't safe—"

"I'll be careful." He meets her eye, and she knows there's no dissuading him from this. Maybe
this is his way of holding himself together after everything that’s happened recently.
Their magic is recovering, but slowly, and the feeble shreds of it aren't enough to withstand
any sort of altercation. Although he might once have had the power to walk London without
fear, that's no longer the case.

"I'll use a glamour," he adds. "And I know how to defend myself. Remember?"

"I remember," she says, a deprecating smile tugging at her lips as she feels herself relent.
"Reach out if you need backup, please."

"It'll be fine. Quick in and out."

After Ollivander's closed years ago, another small wandmaker moved into a seedy corner at
the edge of Diagon Alley. Pressing back the sharp edge of her instinct, she nods. "Okay."

Draco's mouth finds hers, brief and light, before he's gone.

It takes a little finesse and a few well-timed and innocuous threats to get Theo a new wand.
Draco doesn't know this new wandmaker, and if he's honest, he doesn't trust him. Anyone
who seeks to come into a city actively at war to peddle wares strikes him as off for a variety
of reasons.

Again, he has to remind himself that not everyone is as deeply entrenched in the fighting—
but it's hard to miss. Especially when every shop front demonstrates signs of damage and
spellfire.

When battalions of Death Eaters routinely travel the high street, and civilians skitter from one
door to the next.

It took three attempts to get a proper glamour to stick before going out in public, and Draco
doesn't trust it to stay much longer. He's armed with more knives than he has hands—a small
comfort he picked up from Hermione—and he watches from a safe distance as three Death
Eaters make an ambling path towards Gringotts.

The game is stealth—and he's already got what he came for.

For good measure, he obliviated the shopkeeper before leaving with Theo's new wand. He
selected one with similar specifications to Theo's old wand, hoping it's close enough that it
will accept him as its new owner.

Still, he can't help the inclination to observe. For days they've been cooped up in the London
house together—Potter unconscious, Theo sleeping, Longbottom brooding.

He needs the fresh air—the distance from it all. Since his defection from the Death Eaters,
they've been embroiled in rescue efforts or remedial healing, and Draco has scarcely had a
chance to come to terms with the life he left behind.

The scraps of one he's now forced to piece together.

All that matters is that he has Hermione and Theo—and that he knows his mother is well-
protected by the blood wards in Spain.

He sent her a note after they retrieved Theo that she is, under no circumstances, to leave the
safety of the property.

But the alterations to the fabric of his life are both stark and sudden. From one of the highest
ranked Death Eaters to a fugitive, forced to hide out from those who operate out of his own
home.

Posters of his face are stamped to billboards and lampposts throughout Diagon, and he
grimaces as he catches sight of another. DRACO MALFOY: WANTED ALIVE.

And a reward. A grossly excessive reward.

It's almost comical, and if he were in the right mood for it, he would laugh. That the Dark
Lord would deign to air his dirty laundry for the rest of London to see. It only affirms one
thing, and Draco clings to it: he's growing desperate. If he knew how to find any of them, he
wouldn't be going to such lengths in an effort to uncover him.

But it only means his concern for Hermione has deepened. If she had offered to come along
on this mission, simple as it is, he knows it would have been an argument.

It isn't that he doesn't trust her, or doesn't believe she can look after herself. Even without
magic, she's lethal, and he's seen evidence of that more than most. But he simply doesn't want
her to subject herself to anything dangerous unnecessarily. Leaving the house, even for a
short trip, is unsafe.

Even as the thought passes his mind, he tenses. He's trained himself to catch attention, to
recognise the feel of eyes on him. His mental wards tighten, eyes scanning the high street
with a casual nonchalance. His glamour is failing—he can feel it—but he's clad in Muggle
clothes with his hood up. He can only hope whoever has eyes on him doesn't immediately
recognise him.

They're behind him, and he indulges the approach.

His fingers play about the handle of one of his holstered knives, curling around the wooden
grip.

In an instant, he draws the blade and brings it to the neck of his would-be assailant as he turns
on the spot.

It takes a split second longer than it should for Draco to realise he's staring into the face of
Cassius Warrington, eyes dancing with irreverent mirth.

He doesn't flinch, doesn't release the pressure as the edge of his blade presses into the tender
skin of Warrington's throat. And for a long moment the man doesn't react, doesn't speak, his
focus fixed on Draco and not the imminent death waiting at the end of his next breath.
"What a find," Warrington says at last. He snorts low in his throat. "The ghost outside in the
sunshine and all alone."

Draco snarls at him, pressing the tip just hard enough to break skin. "The fuck do you want?"

"I didn't believe it at first," Warrington goes on, ignoring Draco. "When I heard you'd
defected from the Death Eaters. That you'd taken a handful of your own out before going."
He folds his arms, a cruel grin spreading across his face. "But here you are."

Lifting his chin, Draco drawls, "Took out more than a handful. And if you think that means I
won't kill you, you're sorely mistaken."

"You always were a dramatic shit," Warrington scoffs. "I ought to kill you for all the trouble
you've caused me. But I find my own curiosity is in the way."

"Curiosity killed the cat," Draco purrs, tightening his grip on the knife, "or haven't you
heard?"

A slow trickle of blood breaks from the puncture wound and slides down Warrington's neck.
Draco longs to jam the knife through his jugular. Wipe the humour from his face as his life
force drains.

Too soon. Not ready.

If he kills Warrington right now, too many plans will go unresolved. The resistance will
tighten defences, bolstering their waning leadership.

A thought flickers through the back of his mind. That if the resistance is focused on what
they deem to be turmoil within the Death Eaters, they aren't focused on themselves.

"I have heard that one," Warrington says. "I've also heard a few other things. Like that prick
Nott is your right hand."

Despite the cold sear of anger that flickers across his skin at just hearing the man speak of
Theo, Draco smirks. "Shouldn't put faith in every piece of shit line an informant feeds you."

"No," Warrington goes on, "I probably shouldn't. What about you getting kicked from the
Death Eaters because of your wife?"

There's enough vitriol—enough of a threat—behind the words that Draco sees red.

He barks a laugh. "You believe whatever you want. See where it gets you."

"I more than believe," Warrington says, the sentiment behind the words so idle that every
muscle in Draco's body tenses. "For instance, I know Nott was in correspondence with
someone on my side. And I know that Granger was close with Potter before she ran off with
you."

Draco snorts, his hand unwavering as he keeps his knife at Warrington's throat. "I like to
think I know a lot of things. Sometimes I'm still fucking wrong."
If Warrington had a true basis for any of this, he wouldn't be speaking of it to Draco. If he
thought Potter had betrayed the resistance in some way, he would have already acted. He was
ready to kill Hermione when she left the resistance.

He's fishing for information, and it makes Draco's upper lip curl with revulsion.

Rolling his eyes, Warrington shifts back, tilting his neck away from Draco's blade. "We both
know you only wanted to use Granger in your little games. Too bad she fell for it—always
thought she was smarter than that."

"Do we both know that," Draco sneers.

"Of course we do." Warrington folds his arms, and Draco wants to cut the smugness from his
face. "What would someone like you want with someone like her?"

The man is adrift in dangerous waters, and it's a wonder Draco's found the patience to keep
him alive. Offering as facetious a smirk as he can dredge forth, he says, "Wouldn't you like to
know? It isn't my fault you lot never saw her as the asset she is."

For a moment, Warrington's gaze measures him as though he's genuinely considering the
words. "What I would actually like to know," he says, his voice lowering. Draco suspects he's
finally reached the point of this ridiculous conversation. "Is why you left. You were his right
hand—you had everything."

"Funny you think that," Draco says, unwilling to reveal a damn thing. "And by the way, if
this is some convoluted scheme to convince me to fight for you—" He sees the slight flinch
in Warrington's facade "—taunts and hinted threats aren't the way to do it."

"Would you prefer a genuine threat then?" Warrington asks, and any note of amusement and
irreverence vanishes from his tone. "Because I know exactly who your wife associated with
when she was with the resistance, and you're crazy if you think I haven't kept a very close eye
on them. I can't imagine she'll be happy with you if you let her friends die—"

In a split second, Draco flips the blade, pressing the sharp edge hard against Warrington's
throat once more.

He feels the skin break, jaw clenching hard as fury races rampant through him. He wants to
slice deep, to feel the hot spill of blood as it sprays from the man's throat.

"If you dare to threaten my wife again," he hisses, ducking in close, basking in the real fear
that glints in Warrington's eyes. "I will kill you myself, and it won't be quick." He presses
harder, blood flowing over the surface of the blade, hot and sticky on his fingers. "I would
sooner watch you die in front of me than fight for any of you."

Blood pounds behind his ears, threatening the fragile cords of his composure as Draco tears
himself away, and he funnels his anger into fuel within himself as he Disapparates home
without looking back.
His blood courses with venom when he arrives back at the house, grateful to find the space
quiet. Longbottom has taken to visiting Theo when he's able, but to Draco's great relief, he
finds only Hermione.

He can still feel Warrington's blood on his hands.

Can still hear the prick's mocking threats.

His hands vibrate with the need to wrap them around his throat, to squeeze until the light
vanishes from his eyes—but all Draco can do is draw a deep breath, forcing himself to
remember the bigger picture.

He can't kill Warrington. Not yet.

Not until more elements of the plan lock into place. They dealt a massive blow to the Death
Eaters in recovering Theo—more than Draco had even hoped for—but it came with a cost.
No part of their operation remains undercover, as evidenced by Warrington rooting around
for information—and coming a little too close for comfort.

But the Death Eaters' struggles are the resistance's courage, and Warrington isn't the next
domino to fall.

Especially not now. Not after their conversation. Draco wants to rip everything he has from
him.

"What happened?" Hermione finds him in the loo, scrubbing at his hands and watching the
blood spiral down the drain. He takes a long, deep breath, unable to look at her. "Draco!
Whose blood is that?"

It takes him long seconds to steady his voice well enough to answer. "Warrington's."

"Shit," she breathes. "You didn't—"

"No. I didn't."

He wishes he didn't have to tell her how much he wanted to. How strongly the temptation
pulled at him. But he doesn't even need to see it—he knows she can see it in him.

"What happened?" she asks, softer this time. "What did he say to you?"

The conversation spins around Draco's head, blurred and indistinct, and he clenches the edges
of the sink with tense knuckles. "He threatened you."

To his surprise, Hermione laughs, sinking against the wall. "Why does that sound exactly like
him? He's wanted me dead since he found out I'd betrayed Foray, remember? I can't believe
of everything he could have said to you—"

"He's trying to figure out who you're still in contact with," he adds, staring hard at the sink.
"You'll want to warn Potter and Longbottom to be more careful. But if he has anything
concrete, he would have already acted."
She falls silent, and he can feel her gaze on the side of his head. "Okay," she says at last,
more a sigh than a word. "I'll send a message to their coins. What's our next step with the
resistance?"

"I don't know," Draco admits. "I don't know any of it right now."

As he speaks the words aloud, he feels the truth of it. That for all of their plans and
machinations, it's come to this. They're injured and weak, struggling under the weight of self-
imposed expectations, and Draco suddenly can't decide whether he hates it more than when
he was at the right hand of a madman.

Maybe there might be some sense in working with Warrington. With the resistance.

If not for the fact that the man is atop Draco's list for death.

Idly, he wonders whether it ought to concern him that his instinct is to kill those who oppose
him. Who disagree with him. Who threaten or attack him.

But the war drained his meagre supply of morality long ago, and he's learned the hard way
too many times what survival truly looks like. All its many costs.

His brain spins with options. With the forked paths they now face, and he doesn't know
which way to go. They've come so far, but still so much reaches ahead.

"We need to take out Warrington," he chokes, sinking back against the wall next to her. "But
how? When? What makes the most sense? I don't even—"

"We don't need to figure it out right now," she murmurs, her arm pressing against his. "I
promise. It can wait."

He doesn't want to argue, but they all know their time is limited. Enemies close in from all
sides, and their allies are scarce. He presses his brow into her hair, drawing cool comfort
from the scent of her.

"We need to make a plan," he exhales, the very words embedding agony in his soul.

"What we need," she breathes, "is rest."

Draco sighs, eyelids falling heavily shut. The thought of rest—of allowing himself such a
trivial indulgence—feels at odds with everything he's done for more than five years. But she's
right.

Potter's recovering, his loyalty in question; Theo's still weak from his capture. He and
Hermione have taken a severe hit to the strength of their magic. And Longbottom... He
doesn't even know what the Asp Encircle did to Longbottom.

Their small team is ripping at the seams, and if they aren't careful, they'll come apart entirely.

"Yeah," he mutters at last, scrubbing at his burning eyes. "I'd better get this wand to Theo.
He'll want to practise with it."
 "Draco," Hermione says, fingers curling around his wrist as he makes to slip from the room.
He hesitates on the threshold. "I love you."

A heavy breath slides from his lips. "I love you. I'll do anything in this world to keep you
safe."

Her fingers briefly tighten. "I know." And before he walks away, "There's still soup in the
fridge."

Soup only makes him think of the bookshop. The café. The future that he knows he'll never
be able to offer.

"Thanks." He nods once. He can barely stand to look at her, to withstand the turmoil in his
soul, and he walks away, wondering if he'll ever give her anything but pain.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much, as always, for reading. A bit of a slower chapter, but I hope you
liked it all the same. Have a nice week everyone!
 Chapter 43
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

A cool breeze drifts past, leaves skittering across the pavement at her feet. Hermione sucks in
a deep breath, fresh air washing over her.

Air that doesn't taste bitter and stale, stifled by an abundance of magical protections. She's
scarcely left the confined grounds of the London house in days—not since they went to the
Manor to reclaim Theo—and she's grown increasingly desperate for a break.

Concealed under as many charms as she knows, she takes a step down the road, eyelids
fluttering at the feel of something else. Anything else.

This isn't what they expected. It's not what they wanted when Draco left the Death Eaters.

For all of their plans and efforts to crumble down around them, leaving the small group of
them clinging to life and safety by a fragile thread that grows weaker by the day. Her magic is
a weak thrum in her veins, a droplet of water compared to the roaring rapids they experienced
at the manor.

It's coming back, but slowly.

Harry hasn't been able to visit since their last talk, and from what she can surmise, his
condition is stable but still a massive glaring question mark. Theo has mostly recovered from
his capture at Malfoy Manor, and as far as they can tell, his Occlumency shields held out just
long enough to keep the important details safe.

Like the location of the house. Neville and Harry's involvement.

Hermione has no doubt that every Death Eater is out to kill her and Draco—but they knew
that would be the case when the original plans to abscond fell into motion.

Beyond the wards, she indulges herself in a short walk. Her owl flaps away, a letter clutched
in its talons, charting a path for Spain. The house is too well protected for Floo access, but
with as much pressure as they've been under, she knows Draco will be more comfortable
once he knows his mother's safe.

And without knowing exactly where Lucius stands, they can't risk another trip.

Hermione kicks a stone on the pathway with the toe of her boot, knocking it to the side as she
carries on. She stumbles over another stone, and it takes her a moment to realise it's the same
one when it rattles again, nudging itself against her boot.

Casting a furtive glance down the block, she bends to scoop the smooth stone in her palm. A
strange combination of surprise, caution, and fear grips her when she eyes the surface of the
stone to see an elegantly scrawled 'G' engraved on its surface.
When she left the resistance and took up residence at Malfoy Manor instead, she lost contact
with all of her old informants. And now, with all of her regular appointments lost, they're
implicitly in the dark on too many matters of importance.

Smoothing her thumb along the rock, she presses down on the letter.

Gilbert was one of her informants that Draco knew of, even before they started seeing each
other as something more than enemies. Once she even witnessed the pair of them in
discussion. But he was also one of the ones with the most consistent and reliable intel.

Intel that they desperately need right now—something to fill the gaping void between what
they know from inside the resistance and everything else.

Hermione feels now like everything weighs so much more heavily than it did back then.
More lives hang in the balance. And for the first time in years, despite her best efforts to
quash it down, she feels a feeble sting of hope.

They've come so far, and she'll be devastated to watch it all crumble apart now.

She glances again at the stone, feeling the small manipulations within it as the G shifts and
clicks. A calling card. One she was unable to reach out to before. And within the heavy
warding of the house, he wouldn't have been able to contact her either.

Draco will be expecting her return. Her mind spins through each possibility; she shoots a
glance back towards the house, ducks between the nearest buildings, and Apparates. She slips
one hand into her pocket to wrap around her wand.

Gilbert is as she remembers him. Bushy moustache, tie askew, shoes scuffed.

And if she isn't mistaken, he looks relieved to see her.

Hermione shifts alongside him, casting several wards on the space where they used to meet
every week. It feels strange—like reverting back to a part of herself that thought only of
survival. Of making it from one day to the next.

"What do you have for me?" she asks, unwilling to linger.

To her surprise, Gilbert turns to face her, looking her up and down. "You're alive."

Hermione doesn't deign to offer a response.

"Word has it," Gilbert says sharply after a moment, "Draco Malfoy left the Death Eaters."

Releasing a sigh, Hermione glances down at her watch. "Surely you're aware I already know
as much."

It isn't any secret, even beyond the Death Eater circles, that she and Draco are married. Even
the resistance was aware of that long ago.
"I'm also told," Gilbert goes on, "that he took a number of them down on his way out. That he
returned—that he's responsible for the destruction at Malfoy Manor and the deaths of over
two dozen additional Death Eaters."

Some part of Hermione bristles, when she had a hand in that strike as well, but she doesn't
respond. Something about the meeting catches her as odd, and despite her weakened magic,
she tightens her hold on her wand in her pocket. The weight of a knife concealed in her thigh
holster is a comfort. If she needs to make a quick escape—if she needs to fight her way out—
she will.

If this informant has been compromised.

Her heart leaps into her throat at the thought.

"What do you have for me?" she asks again, teeth gritted. "None of this is useful unless
you're trying to get information from me. In which case, find someone else. You're the
informant."

Gilbert shifts on the spot, eyes sliding one way then the other.

A shudder shoots down Hermione's spine at his behaviour, and she draws her wand free.

"Wait," Gilbert hisses, lowering his voice. "Okay, listen. Obviously, it's no surprise that the
Dark Lord wants Draco Malfoy dead—word has it Cassius Warrington wants him on his side.
But you can't trust anything he says. Not a word."

Hermione blinks at him, wand clenched tight. "Of course not. He's wanted me dead for
months."

"I mean..." Gilbert makes a face. "No one even knows if Draco is alive."

The words strike deep within her, and Hermione frowns. "The Dark Lord doesn’t know if he
survived the dungeons?"

Gilbert gives a non-committal shrug. "Did he?"

"I'm not—"

"Come on, Hermione."

She freezes, tensing, at the tone. At the way Gilbert's appearance falters briefly, and when
Hermione looks closer, she sees a flash of green eyes.

It isn't a secret that most informants obscure their true appearance, but no part of this
interaction makes any sense. If she didn't know better—and she isn't certain she doesn't—she
would think this isn't even the same man.

"Please just tell me if Draco's alive," Gilbert says in a breath.

Hermione hardens her jaw, lifting her wand to the man's throat. "Who are you?"
With a great huff of annoyance, Gilbert glances around the empty clearing—and then begins
to dissolve. The moustache disappears, the ruddy colouring smoothing into pale, unblemished
skin. Green eyes. Pursed red lips. Chin-length black hair.

Hermione sucks in a breath. "Pansy."

Folding her arms across her front, Pansy Parkinson sinks back against the building. "So?"

Turning over all of their past interactions in her mind, Hermione can't quite make sense of it.
When she spent time with Daphne and Pansy in the past, she didn't have any indication that
the latter was an informant.

"Draco's alive," she clips, "and you owe me an explanation."

"Not much to explain, honestly," Pansy retorts. "Choosing a side is boring."

"So you became an informant."

"Look, I had my reasons, alright?" She huffs another irritated sigh. "My parents didn't want
me to fight, but I didn't want to sit around doing nothing."

The implications settle in, and Hermione isn't certain she cares for them. "You were
informing for me for months."

"Yes," she drawls, "I was. For Draco too, until recently. And a small handful of others, none
of whom knew who I was." Her green eyes glint, a hint of amusement curling her lips.
"Secrets are more valuable than anything else these days."

And when she puts it that way, it makes perfect sense why Pansy Parkinson would go down
such a route.

But before Hermione can speak, she sobers again. "The Dark Lord doesn't know Draco's
status after the destruction at Malfoy Manor last week. You lot took out quite a few Death
Eaters before the cave-in. And the damage was extensive enough that it took him a few days
to realise your bodies weren't among the rest."

"The cave-in was Draco," Hermione offers. "But we were there to get Theo."

"I know." Pansy shoots a glance around, as though more nervous now that she's revealed who
she truly is. "And it's a good thing you went when you did. It was all a set-up. A trap to lure
Draco back to the manor and into an ambush."

Hermione grimaces. "I reckon they expected us to die down there."

Pansy lifts a confirming finger. "And they would have killed Theo, too."

It isn't anything she hasn't pieced together on her own, but the words still embed a chill in her
veins. "What can you tell me about their plans? About Warrington's?"
Shaking her head a little, Pansy frowns. "I lost my best inside source in the Death Eaters
when Draco left. But as far as I can tell, the Dark Lord is angry. He's volatile—aggressive.
Once he discovers anything about Draco’s whereabouts, I wouldn't be surprised for him to set
upon an all-out assault." She hesitates, and they both ponder the thought as it sinks in.
"Meanwhile Warrington grows more confident. He sees Draco's defection as a win for him—
as an opportunity to pounce on a perceived weakness."

Hermione tugs at her curls, wracking her brain for anything to make sense. "You must know
some details."

"Here's what I know," Pansy says, lowering her voice and speaking quicker. "There's this
network—people who won't fight with the Death Eaters but refuse to follow the resistance for
any number of reasons. People like me. Informants. People who just want it all to end. To try
and rebuild from what remains."

"And?"

"And they're growing stronger—amassing support from outside forces. They have an in with
the new Minister for Magic."

She doesn't think she wants to know, but the words slide from her lips anyway. "Who's in
charge of this network?"

Pansy's green eyes land on her. "George Weasley."

Hermione isn't certain whether her heart doesn't fully stop for several beats. All that slides
from her lips is a weak, feeble, "Oh."

Dropping his face into his palms, Draco sighs. "None of this makes any sense."

"I know," Hermione breathes, "trust me."

"Weasley never joined the resistance?"

She sinks into the sofa next to him, head dropping back onto the cushion. "No. Fred died at
the Battle of Hogwarts—and George shut down. He refused to fight for a long time, and by
then the war was so volatile that there wasn't any room to figure it out after the fact."

"What about the rest of the Weasleys?" His tone softens when he glances up, catching the
look on her face. "Didn't they—?"

"Yes." She falls silent, scrubbing at her eyes. "Some of them did. Arthur, the patriarch, fell
about a year into the fighting. Molly took Ginny and fled to the continent—as far as we
know. No one knows if they actually made it." She draws in a deep breath. "We lost Ron a
while ago in a raid gone wrong."

Draco doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't recall such a thing, but it's obvious he's no
longer around.
It's been the way of things for altogether too long. Sometimes people simply vanish—and
more often than not, they've fallen in one of the endless fights that have carried on for so
many years. It's typically safe to assume that if someone disappears, they're dead.

"Percy is still with the resistance," she adds softly. "One of the other safehouses. George
holed himself up in a corner of England and I haven't seen him since."

"And Pansy is an informant."

When she returned from her walk, more than an hour after she was due to return, Draco had
been beside himself with worry. But no part of the story she recounted made any sense.

"Yes. Gilbert."

Draco’s met with Gilbert on more than a few occasions. His stomach twists up at the thought
that he was dealing with Pansy all along. When he asked Pansy and Daphne to help
Hermione prepare for the party after their wedding, he thought they'd been relatively safe
neutral parties.

"So why tell us now? About this network."

"Isn't it obvious?" she asks, pressing her eyes shut. "Because it's apparent now you aren't
loyal to the Death Eaters. And I'm sure there aren't any remaining doubts that we've had our
own motivations all along. Pansy wouldn't have dared tell you anything like that while you
were running the Death Eaters."

Draco can't string together a response through the shame that grows deep inside.

The longer he spends on his own, the more time distanced from the cruel master that
controlled him for so many years, the more he comes to feel as if he's breathing fresh air for
the first time since he was a teenager. And now, despite the inherent and ubiquitous danger
that surrounds them, he can't help but feel as though he should have done this sooner.

The thought burns within him. If he'd known of something like this—some extraneous
organisation seeking to end the war—he would have used the information to his own benefit.
To keep himself alive.

Putting his own survival ahead of anything else. Like he did so many times.

Bile rises in the back of his throat. "Who else did she mention?"

"She didn't," Hermione replies. "Just that they're in contact with the new Minister for Magic."

Draco glances over sharply. "Even while he was with the resistance?"

"After."

Although he held the reins for so long, adrift as he now feels, Draco doesn't always know
which way to turn. The strategic mind he prided himself on while at the right hand of the
Dark Lord doesn't function in any useful way. All he does now is question and second-guess
every decision.

Maybe the difference is that he has other lives to concern himself with.

Lives he cares about more than his own.

"And what are we meant to do with this information? Did Pansy tell you anything else?"

Her shoulders sag as she deflates into the cushion. "No. I don't know. Just that this network
exists and there's some sort of structure to it. And that we can't trust Warrington. He thinks
you leaving the Death Eaters and causing as much trouble as you did is a victory for the
resistance."

"No shit," he snickers. "We haven't trusted Warrington all along." She doesn't respond,
expression unreadable, and Draco rolls his eyes as he takes her hand into his. "Rather, you
had no choice but to do so."

"Do we reach out to Kingsley?"

She asks the question like she fears his response. Like she wishes she wasn't asking it at all.

"Your call," Draco says softly. "I have no connection to him. And to be honest, he's as likely
to try to kill me as anything else."

"He's the Minister for Magic now. He can't simply lift a wand against you."

"Wouldn't put it past him to try."

Even talking about this makes him queasy, when for so long, Kingsley Shacklebolt was one
of his highest priority targets. When he was one of the leaders of the resistance, and Draco
thought only of the master pulling his strings.

"Harry still has influence with him." She scrubs at her eyes, as though all of this is more
tiresome than she can withstand. Draco understands the sentiment implicitly. "If we can get
Kingsley to talk, we might be able to learn more about this network."

"And what about Weasley?"

At the name, Hermione shrinks in on herself, as though this is what she can't handle.
Thinking of a family she grew up with, friends she lost. "I have no idea who George is
anymore. I thought he didn't care about what happened with the war."

"Obviously he cares enough."

Resignation takes her countenance, and she shoots him a wan look. "We don't have another
route forward right now. And I can't help but think we need to follow this trail."

"Can we meet with Pansy again?" He manages a thick swallow at the thought of his old
friend. "If we can persuade her to inform exclusively for us, it'll alleviate some of this
vacuum we’re in about the Death Eaters."

It feels like dead end after dead end, and they can't stagnate.

"That's your call," she says quietly. "I imagine Pansy would do that if you asked her."

Draco's focus snaps to her, but he can't detect anything untoward beneath the statement. It's
one thing to discuss Weasley—knowing he might have had some sort of history with
Hermione—since the man is no longer alive. But Pansy was his first girlfriend, and the
thought that Hermione might take issue with that is almost comical in itself.

Not least of all because they're magically bound to each other for life.

But because he can't imagine something like that holding any importance in his present
existence.

"I'll ask her," he says. "If you still have her calling card."

Hermione presses a small stone into his hand, an elaborate G carved into its smooth surface.
Draco nods his thanks, pocketing the stone until he can decide what he wants to say to her.

"She was worried about you," Hermione muses, tucking into his side. "I could tell. After you
left the Death Eaters and collapsed the dungeons at the manor. She didn't know whether you
were still alive."

The words strike him on some level he can't comprehend. The knowledge that an old friend
still cares whether he's alive or dead, despite all the lives he's taken, despite all the harm he's
caused.

To know Pansy thought of him—wondered if he'd made it out alive—hits him squarely in the
chest.

"I'll reach out to Pansy," he says gruffly, clenching the stone in his palm. "You talk to Potter.
Find out what, if anything, he knows about this network business. And if he thinks it makes
any sense to talk to Shacklebolt."

"If we do," she murmurs, "it'll have to be in private."

"Yeah." Draco hates the chaos in his mind. Hates that he can't separate rationality from
impulse. Not like he used to. He's lowered himself to a place of espionage, of underground
and hiding and concealment. He presses his eyes shut and reminds himself this is what he
wanted. "That's fine."

Longbottom paces at his side, surprisingly nimble and quiet for his bulk. The man is all
strength and power and blind fucking courage—not what Draco might have expected from
him growing up. But as one of the resistance's toughest fighters, he isn't surprised this is how
he's become.

"How's Theo?" he asks, the words low and droll as though he isn't keen on the answer.
"Fine," Draco returns. "He's been through it—but he'll pull through just fine."

Both Longbottom and Potter have kept a low profile within the resistance for the last week
with Warrington's watchful eye on them—which makes this plan all the more absurd.

After Draco's run-in with Warrington in Diagon Alley, he's been more anxious than ever to
know what the man is planning—and especially after learning what Pansy said to Hermione
about it. That Cassius Warrington views Draco's defection —and their subsequent strike on
the Death Eaters—as a win for him.

His lip curls at the mere thought.

If nothing else, his magic has trickled back in. Not to the strength it was before the attack on
the Manor, but strong enough that he trusts to hold his own in battle. He has to remind
himself that both he and Hermione diligently collected magic before that. They can do it
again—and they will. If nothing more than to keep a reservoir on hand in case the need
arises.

They've been in the woods scouting a potential meeting for the better part of half an hour. A
not-so-anonymous tip from Pansy that Warrington would be meeting someone.

And for him to leave the safety of the resistance safehouses strikes Draco as patently
suspicious.

"Yeah," Longbottom mutters eventually. "He's tough."

Almost absent-mindedly, he massages one thumb into the opposite palm. The palm still
infused with glowing purple magic from the spell with the Asp Encircle. Draco's attention
falls to the movement, watching to see if he can discern anything from Longbottom's
expression.

The man is a closed book; Draco nods at his palm. "The fuck did you do, anyway?"

Jolting to realisation, Longbottom drops his hands. "Nothing. It's fine."

"Obviously it isn't nothing," Draco drawls, leaning against a nearby tree. The bark is rough
through his hooded jumper. "We saw the spell. The Asp left some sort of imprint on you,
didn't it?"

"Don't know." Longbottom's tone is sharp and closed off, as though he doesn't want to talk
about it. He rolls his neck with a crack. "Hasn't killed me yet, has it?"

"Reassuring."

A tense silence falls over them. Draco's interest in Longbottom's wellbeing is significantly
greater than it was months before when the man was his prisoner. Not only is he Hermione's
friend and Theo's paramour, but Draco's come to rely on him as one of their team. As
something like a friend.
At last, Longbottom sighs, squinting through the trees. "I tried to look it up but couldn't find
any answers. I don't know what it's doing to me." He only shrugs. "It doesn't change matters.
We needed to know Theo was still alive; we got him back. That's all I care about."

"Let me see it." Draco holds out a hand, drawing his wand, and as Longbottom rolls his eyes,
he yanks the man's wrist towards him. When Longbottom doesn't recoil, Draco releases his
arm and casts a series of magical detection spells.

He can sense the magic of the Asp Encircle, swirling beneath Longbottom's palm, but can't
discern the magic's purpose. He searches within himself, methodically going through each of
the spells he knows that might explain such a phenomenon. Finally, he shakes his head. "I
can't tell what it's doing. It's... dormant in some way. Like it's waiting for something."

"It's watching," Longbottom says, the words clipped and brisk as though he's made a joke.
But for a long moment, they only stare at each other.

"Watching," Draco mouths to himself, casting the magic another wary glance. "Perhaps you
ought to wear a glove."

Another painfully awkward moment passes. And then, "A glove."

A low snort escapes Draco when they lock eyes. "Yeah. It's horrifying, honestly."

"Right, because a fucking glove is going to—" Longbottom cuts himself off, eyes narrowing
as he lifts his other hand and points through the trees.

Draco erected enough of his own wards that he knows no one will ever be able to see them,
but still, adrenaline courses through him when he sees someone through the woods.
"Warrington," he murmurs.

"Yeah."

They both watch, breaths held, as Warrington approaches another figure in a hood. Draco
grimaces at the angle, unable to see who the second person is. Carefully, he slides along the
perimeter of his wards, anxious for something. Anything.

Aside from Voldemort himself, Warrington is at the top of his list—but there is too much
going on around the man for them to make a move just yet. All Draco wants now is to know
what he's up to.

He stops, catching sight of a face. "Motherfucker."

"Who?" Longbottom asks, peering through the trees.

Draco hardens his jaw. "It's Adrian Pucey."

They share a hard look.

He’s always been a loyal Death Eater, to Draco’s knowledge, and one of the ones he got
along with decently well. But Pucey was friends with Flint, and Draco knows how easily his
loyalties collapsed when something more important was on the line.

"Okay," Draco says, dragging a hand through his hair. They're too far to hear anything, but
his mind reels all the same. "Flint was working with Foray before. Maybe there was a
connection there with Pucey too. They all knew each other at Hogwarts."

"Flint’s gone," Longbottom points out. "Surely this isn’t another round of Foray—but if it is,
I don’t know anything. Warrington doesn’t tell me much anymore. "

The words wash over him as Draco eyes the pair of them. Whatever reason they have for
meeting like this, clandestine and obscure, it has to be important.

At this point, he shouldn't be surprised by anything.

But to learn how many Death Eaters have been slipping around in the shadows for their own
purposes is intriguing in a way that would have once infuriated him.

"What can Pucey offer him?" Longbottom breathes, clenching his palm into a fist.

Draco shakes his head. "I don't know. But we need to figure it out. Anything Warrington does
is for himself and that doesn’t always mean it’s for the resistance."

He expects Longbottom to disagree with him—to bring forth that old Gryffindor spirit and
argue for the sake of morality. But he only rolls his eyes and says, "We should have set up
closer."

And for a strange, unsettling moment, Draco wants to laugh. At the fact that he's working
with Neville Longbottom—that he considers the man more on his side than that of the
resistance. And that he doesn't hate it.

"Throw them both to the fucking wolves," Draco mutters under his breath. Were he still
Pucey’s lieutenant, he would care more about this betrayal. "But Pucey might be easier to
catch alone than Warrington."

He draws his wand, shooting a variety of spells across the woods between them in a meagre
attempt to listen in on their conversation. But they're too far—or the spells Warrington’s used
to muffle the conversation are too strong. They ought to have known better than to meet
anywhere, especially with their identities revealed—but it's a stroke of luck for Draco.

"I'll see if I can find anything out," Longbottom says, "though we already know Cassius
suspects me, and I don’t want to push it. He knows I was Theo's handler before, and
obviously knows you and Theo are close. I don't think he's willing to tell me much these
days."

Draco can't discount the simplicity of that logic, despite that he wants to keep Longbottom
and Potter as an inside channel to the resistance as long as possible.

"Fine," he drawls, stowing his wand. "See what you can find out, but get out of there if and
when you need to. That house of cards is coming down soon anyway."
 "Honestly," Longbottom says, folding his arms as he leans back against a tree trunk.
"Warrington's hubris is going to get him killed sooner than later. He's getting braver and
dumber."

Draco snorts. "Someone else will do the dirty work for me, you're saying."

They share a grin and Longbottom shrugs. "If you do it right, you'll take the legs out before
you lop off the head."

"Precisely." Draco peers through the trees once more, and it looks as though Pucey and
Warrington are through with their discussion. "Now we'll have to find out what those two are
up to."

Realistically, if they can dismantle the resistance before they take out Warrington, it'll be for
the best. Take the organisation apart piece by piece—force the good fighters away. The
majority of the pieces in play won't need to die.

Maybe the winds of change will reveal something new.

Glancing at his watch, Longbottom draws his wand. "I'd better get back before Cassius does."

Draco's coin warms in his pocket, and he holds up a hand as he pulls it out, reading the pair
of messages that appear on its face. "Hermione talked with Potter—they've secured a meeting
with Shacklebolt." He glances up. "Tomorrow evening."

A frisson of unease lances his spine at the thought.

"Noted." Longbottom squints into the sun for a moment. "Kingsley's fair. I'm sure he'll be
willing to hear you out. He'll know you've defected by now."

The thought does little to ease the instinctive flare within him. "Yeah," Draco mutters. "I'll
keep you posted."

Longbottom claps his good palm to Draco's shoulder, and moments later he's gone. Leaving
Draco to ponder altogether too many things.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts and theories! Have a
wonderful week everyone xo
 Chapter 44
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

All at once, too many paths reach ahead of them. Down any given path could be hope. Could
be redemption. Could be wreckage.

Hermione has always been decisive to a certain extent. But now she doesn't know what to do,
when it isn't only her life at stake.

The resistance and its leaders have to fall. The Death Eaters have to fall. She can see Draco
carrying the weight of it all, and it grows heavier by the day. All she can do is offer support.
To do her part and ease the load.

But she can't lead them into ruin.

"What do we do?" he asks, leaning on the deck railing at her side. The sky above is pitch and
starless, a barely there breeze hanging cool on the night air.

The options are too many. Too few.

They carry on alone. As they've done. With only a few friends at their sides, only raw
willpower urging them on and the cold knowledge that they simply can't stop.

They're set to meet with Kingsley Shacklebolt tomorrow, and Draco's made his reticence over
the matter known. For him, he's only ever seen Kingsley as an adversary. He doesn't know
him in the ways she's known him. As a comrade in arms. As a friend.

But now he's the Minister for Magic, leading the wizarding community through a time of
strife and destruction. And Hermione isn't certain whether she knows him as well as she
wishes. As well as she might have. Before she left the resistance. Before his shoulders bore
the weight of such a mantle.

And the more she thinks about it, the more she wonders about what Pansy said. About a
network of people who want to see an end to the war.

People carrying the same torch as them, only in different ways. But none of them know how
to trust people anymore. Most certainly not people whose motivations aren't clear.

Hermione releases a breath. "I don't know."

Draco peers up at the sky, as though attempting to divine their answers from the vague
nothingness above. Sometimes she would give anything to be able to truly read his mind,
because for as much as she's come to know him, every so often he still feels like a stranger.

Like she doesn't know his thoughts. Doesn't know what he really wants deep down.
"Whatever you want to do," he says softly. "I'm with you."

"If I wanted to leave."

The words slide from her lips as a whisper, and he doesn't look at her. Nor does he falter. "I'd
go pack."

She knows they aren't going anywhere. They've already had this discussion, and they haven't
faced so many obstacles to turn and walk away from everything now.

But a small, quiet, cowardly part of her wishes they weren't so committed. That they'd had
the option to leave all along. That they could have gone elsewhere, lived a different life. A
life without all of this pain.

Hermione releases a quiet sigh. "I ask myself every day if we're doing the right things.
Making the right decisions. If these are choices that are even within our power to make, or if
we're playing a game with pieces we ought to have left alone."

Draco turns to stare at her, face blank, eyes vacant. "Maybe they aren't. Maybe we haven't
done one thing right."

Despite that the words are far from reassuring, it only reminds her that she isn't alone. That
they're in this together. They've been at each other's side, even before they realised that was
the case. Even when they were entrapped in a murderous game of cat and mouse, she wasn't
in this alone.

"All I know," he says, trailing his fingers along her arm, "is that we're taking action. Maybe
none of this is going to work out, and maybe we'll all end up dead and no one will ever
remember us. But we didn't do nothing, and we didn't fucking run when things got bad."

Her eyes burn as the crisp air finds moisture at their corners. "I used to fancy myself
courageous. Used to think I could do anything if I really wanted it badly enough." She
hesitates, finding his eyes on her. "And now I can't help but think how naive I was.
Sometimes life imposes its own constraints on those things we're desperate for."

Draco doesn't respond, and for a long moment they slide into a silence that's just short of
comfortable. When she seeks out his gaze, amusement sparkles back at her, and she can't help
a hint of a smile.

"For what it's worth," he says eventually, "I think you're the most courageous person I know.
And that has nothing to do with the circumstances life throws at you—and everything to do
with how you respond."

The words are enough to fortify her waning spirit, and she blows out a long breath, shoulders
sinking down.

"When I was young," he says quietly. "Like, young. Stupid. I thought I could teach myself to
fly without a broom if I tried at it long enough. Threw myself from a second floor window.
Broke one of my ankles and sprained the other. I think Patroclus nearly had a heart attack."
"You didn't," she gasps, clapping a hand to her mouth.

"Mother was beside herself," he says with a snicker. "Wouldn't speak to my father for a week
because he was meant to be watching me." A smile lingers on his face for a long moment, as
though reminiscing on a different time. Finally, he shakes his head slowly and the warmth
slides away. "The difference between us is that you genuinely could do anything if you
wanted to. And I'll be here."

The simplicity beneath the words is enough to embed a tight searing of warmth in her chest.

In a matter of months, he's gone from the person she hated the most—the one literally tasked
with killing her—to the person she trusts above anyone else to watch her back. To keep her
grounded and protected. The person she most wants to see at the end of each long day.

"We'll both be here," she replies softly, leaning into his side. "No matter what happens
tomorrow—or the day after. I have to believe in that."

Because if she gives up on faith now, when they've done so much and come so far, she
doesn't know that she'll have the strength to keep going.

Whether things one day get better, or so much worse. It isn't the end yet.

Reaching within herself, Hermione nudges against the thread of magic between them. He
prods back, mischief sparkling in his eyes. The thread that holds them together, irrevocably.

No matter what else, she can't regret that.

"Let's worry about tomorrow," he says softly, "when the sun rises."

For a moment, she loses herself in his eyes. In the way moonlight glints off the grey and turns
them silver. "Deal."

He digs a hand into her hair, bringing her lips to his, and his mouth on hers is hard, urgent
and slipping into desperate as he drags her close. Presses her against the exterior of the house,
his body firm against hers as she winds her arms around his neck and loses herself in the feel
of him.

A low moan slides from her lips and he swallows it up, delving between her lips, his palm
sliding to her arse and hitching her leg around his waist. She can already feel him hard
against her hip, arousal coiling within her as all of her senses fire.

"Draco," she gasps, tilting her head as his lips blaze a trail along her jaw and down her neck.
She coils her fingers in the collar of his jumper, reaching to pull the fabric over his head.
Breaths fall, heavy and rapid, when his teeth graze her pulse point. "We should go in."

He mutters something against her skin, quiet and incomprehensible, but a teasing smirk
crosses his face when he draws back. "Okay. Let's go in."

They stumble their way through the house and towards the bedroom, stealing kisses and
sneaking around lest they wake Theo in the second room. It feels such a trivial thing, silly
and meaningless. Like something she might have concerned herself with in another life. Had
they been allowed to grow up as teenagers and not forced into war.

He presses the door shut behind them, silencing the room, and flashes her a devious curl of
the lips.

In the darkness, the room lit only by the moon, he rakes his eyes down the length of her. With
gentle reverence, at odds with the way he kissed her, he removes her shirt. Pushes her jeans
down her legs. Strips her of her underwear, touching her all the while. Slow, teasing,
methodical, like he has all the time in the world. Like he can't get enough of the feel of her
skin on his fingertips, his lips, his tongue.

Hermione pulls his shirt over his head, tracing the scar tissue along his bare chest and
abdomen. Kisses each silvery line, worshipping the imperfect parts of him that speak to a
past she can't always comprehend.

She loosens his belt, dragging his jeans from his hips, taking him into her hand.

He kisses her again, backing her into the bed and pushing her onto it. For a moment he only
stares, eyelids heavy and exhaustion plain in his expression. He shakes his head only a little.
"You mean so much to me," he says quietly, "I can't stand it."

And then he's upon her, mouth on hers, skin searing against her own. Inside her, filling her,
banishing the demons from her mind if only just for now. Drawing pleasure from her flesh, a
quiet exultation of his name from her lips. Until she slides over the edge and takes him with
her, the pair of them encompassed as one.

One magic, one soul.

And she knows she'll do anything to keep him.

The sun is beginning to dip towards the horizon, casting streaks of orange and pink and
purple through the darkening sky when they Apparate from the London house.

Draco hasn't been able to quell the churning in the pit of his stomach all day, and he isn't
certain how much of his hesitation is due to unfamiliarity and how much is his instincts
screaming.

Kingsley Shacklebolt is hard-faced when he arrives in the clearing, having abandoned his
Ministry robes in favour of something Muggle and inconspicuous. His dark eyes narrow on
Draco, but he offers a mild nod in Hermione's direction.

Deferring to her lead, Draco remains silent.

She casts him a furtive glance before straightening. "Thanks for meeting with us," she says,
then adds a hasty, "Minister."

Shacklebolt's gaze slides between her and Draco, resting for a tense moment. "I don't have
long." He folds his arms, and at the unfriendly expression on his face, Draco reaches for the
thread of magic between them. He's been collecting as much as he can in advance of what
they might face in the coming days. "Why don't you explain why I should give either of you
any of my time."

If Hermione's taken aback by his tone—by his coldness—she doesn't show it. If anything, she
looks as though she might have expected it.

She shoots Draco a look, and he can read the question in her tone. But this is her meeting, her
chance to take the lead. Her acquaintance—and if Shacklebolt is willing to listen to either of
them, it isn't him.

So he nudges against her mental walls, keeping his face carefully blank. Instantly she lets
him in, twining her magic with his own.

He infuses her with his faith, his belief in her—bolsters that courage that he knows she still
possesses.

Turning to look Shacklebolt squarely in the eye, she says, "Because we've been working for
months to put an end to this war."

For the first since they arrived, his countenance shifts. His expression drifts from hard-edged
to something like caution, like curiosity. Idly, Draco wonders whether he knows how they
worked to get him installed as Minister for Magic, but he doubts it.

Shacklebolt dips his chin in acknowledgement, then says, "In what way?"

"Maybe you didn't hear," Hermione says mildly, "but Draco defected from the Dark Lord and
took out dozens of his fighters on his way out the door." She straightens, and Draco can feel
her nervous energy as she adds, "And we got you out of the resistance before Cassius drives
it into the ground."

It's a risk—a gamble if he's ever seen her take one—to let Shacklebolt know of their
involvement in his extraction from the resistance. But Hermione holds firm, refusing to look
away, and finally the man cracks.

Amusement shines in his dark eyes as his serious expression drops off. "I wondered who was
at work behind all of that. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you've been in contact with
Harry all this time."

"Not all of it," she allows, "but most."

For the first time, Draco speaks. "We knew England would need a competent leader coming
out of this. Your skills are better utilised in the Ministry than in the resistance."

Shacklebolt turns his tight focus on Draco, and for long moments, they only stare at each
other, measuring, searching for a threat. "And you are legitimately no longer with the Dark
Lord."

Draco rolls back his sleeve, revealing the scarred but bare flesh of his forearm.
The man's brows lift, and whether surprised or impressed, Draco can't tell. Nor does he care.
So long as Shacklebolt believes their intentions.

"And so this—" Shacklebolt waves between them "—isn't real?"

"Draco and I are truly married," Hermione says, and his chest tightens at the hint of pride in
her voice. "And in fact, it's through an irreversible bond. But we've been working together to
put an end to this war since I left the resistance." Then her voice lowers into something soft
and tentative. "It's not what you think, Kings. We want the same things."

At the words, he softens infinitesimally, observing Draco once more as though he might
dissect him with his eyes. "You must understand my hesitation—and it isn't borne of mistrust
of you, Hermione. But of him. I am driven by the need to provide order and care for the
magical beings of this nation."

"I understand that," she replies smoothly, "and I don't blame you in the slightest. I didn't trust
him either, at first." Draco shoots her a smirk, and she nudges at the bond between them. "But
I don't know if anyone wants all of this to come to an end more than he does."

It might bother him to hear them speak of him as though he isn't there, but for the fact that
Shacklebolt is willing to hear them out at all.

And he knows Hermione doesn't speak for him with any sense of derision.

"Fine." Shacklebolt crosses his arms across his front. "So suppose I believe you, and it makes
sense for us to pursue any part of this together. What do you expect from me? I am greatly
restricted in what I can and cannot do—bureaucracy at its finest, even during times of war—
and I have to walk a very careful line when so many of the Sacred Twenty-Eight hold power
in the Wizengamot."

"Understood." Draco shoots Hermione a glance. At the heart of the matter, they didn't even
know if Shacklebolt would be willing to hear them out—or if they would be walking straight
into a duel. "What we need at this point is information."

"What we need," Hermione adds, "is a blind eye."

A tense silence hangs over the three of them. Draco knows, had he been the one to hint at that
particular sentiment, they would be nowhere. If it weren't a detriment altogether.

But Shacklebolt releases a sigh. "I don't want to know what you're doing, and I can't and
won't endorse it as a public figure. But if you're genuinely trying to put an end to all of this
bullshit, I can't hold that against you. Information I do have, and we can establish some sort
of exchange. But I don't have a proper in with the Death Eaters if that's what you're after."

Hermione shoots Draco a glance, and he shrugs.

She turns back to Shacklebolt with a nod. "We'll take whatever you can give us. We have a
few avenues of our own." She hesitates, and adds, "What do you know of the network run by
George Weasley?"
A surprised laugh slides from the man. "George Weasley." He shakes his head, as though the
name in itself is comical. And maybe once upon a time, it was. "I don't know a lot about the
network. But one thing I do know—if you're looking for information, George is your man."

Draco meets Shacklebolt's eye. "And how do we track him down?"

"I don't know." Shacklebolt shakes his head, the tension breaking at last. "I can't remember
the last time I actually saw or spoke to George. From everything I've heard on the matter—
which isn't much—you don't find George. He finds you."

A snicker breaks free before Draco can stop it. "So we're to simply project into the universe
that we need to meet with him?"

Shacklebolt doesn't smile. "That's how I understand it."

Draco sobers, glancing sidelong at Hermione. "Fine."

"Then we'll do that," she says evenly, an uncertainty hanging beneath the words. "Thanks,
Kingsley. We appreciate your time. I gather you have a force of Aurors at your command?"

“I do. And I can mobilise them if necessary.” He nods, pulling his hood up over his head. "I'll
be in touch. Stay safe."

And before either of them can say anything more, he turns into Disapparition, leaving the
pair of them alone in the darkness. And Draco isn't certain whether they don't have even more
questions than they did an hour ago.

Pansy Parkinson lounges on a bench, black hair loosely tousled and green eyes fixed on the
two of them. "I can't believe you never picked up on who I was," she says to Draco, then
waves a hand at Hermione. "You I can understand because we were never friends."

Draco sighs. "We need to ask you about—"

"I'm not done," Pansy snips, and her face falls stoic. She stares at Draco for long enough that
the silence grows uncomfortable. "Now that the two of you are out of the manor and away
from the Dark Lord..." She trails off with a bit of a sniff. "You were gone. For years. I
watched you turn into a monster."

The words strike Hermione squarely in the chest and she catches a furrow on Draco's brow.

But he doesn't respond, waiting for Pansy to go on.

"I didn't even recognise the Draco who was my friend growing up. Until you showed up."
Her words fall to a whisper and her attention slides to Hermione. She musters a frail smile. "I
started to catch glimpses of the Draco I knew again. And now... I'm just so relieved."

Hermione doesn't realise she's crying until a tear slides down her cheek. For so long she's
forced herself to withhold anything resembling sentiment that the feel of it catches her by
surprise and she rapidly swipes it away.
"Pans," Draco says softly, a frown pulling at his mouth. But his eyes slide away, face
unreadable. He simply drops onto the bench at Pansy's side, wrapping an arm around her
shoulders in a quick squeeze before settling back. "Thanks for sticking by me all the same."

"Of course," Pansy whispers. Then she flaps her hands, as if to dispel the emotion hanging
between them. "Anyway—that was all I wanted to say. What do you want to know about?"

Hermione perches on Pansy's other side, feeling a strange kinship with the girl all of a sudden
despite that they've spent only a handful of hours in each other's presence since Hogwarts.

Pansy wraps her hand around Hermione's knee with a squeeze, and Hermione captures the
girl's hand with her own. The emotion hovers for a moment longer before they all slide back
to business once more.

Draco rolls his head sideways to face Pansy. "We need to know about this network. We know
George Weasley is the man with any and all information."

A coy smile tugs at her lips, replacing any shred of softness that might have lingered
moments before. "I don't know about that," she says, "but he's a good place to start."

"Do you know how to reach him?" Hermione asks.

The hoops they're jumping through just to see someone she knew all through her formative
years strikes her as both odd and frustrating. But she also hasn't seen or heard from him in
years.

"I do," Pansy says after a moments' hesitation. "Although George is quite particular about
who he—"

"For Merlin's sake," Hermione huffs, frowning. "Just tell him it's me!"

Pansy falls silent, drumming her fingernails on her knee. "I'll do that, Hermione, but just so
you know—George may not be exactly how you remember him."

Hermione doesn't know how to respond to that, when none of them are how they were five
years ago. She certainly didn't have a death count beyond recollection when she was eighteen
years old.

"Fine," she says at last. "Just tell him I'd like to see him."

"How do you know how to reach him, of all people?" Draco drawls, stretching his legs out in
front of himself.

Pansy gives him a hard look. "Because you knew you were talking to me as an informant all
this time?"

Hermione fights back a smile, skimming her gaze across the remnants of what must have
once been a nice park before it was caught as a battlefield. Like so many spots across London
that were once nice. There's an odd sort of serenity in listening to the two of them banter—as
though she can almost pretend they're somewhere else, in another time.
There's a chill in the air but the sky is blue, dotted only by a few fluffy white clouds. And
despite the chaos closing in on all sides, it's a surreal moment.

She allows the smile to spread across her face, and it takes several moments to realise Draco's
watching her. A hint of self-deprecating warmth curls his lips as well, and she wonders
whether he slipped into her mind without her notice—or if it's simply written on her face.

All at once, the truth of the matter slams through her, and the smile drops off.

"How did you meet up with George?" Hermione asks, turning back to Pansy. "I haven't seen
him in so long I didn't even know whether he was still alive."

Pansy shrugs once, folding her arms across her front. "He went through it after Fred died.
Left England altogether for a few years to process things. Came back a while ago looking for
information on the rest of his family, and he found me."

Something doesn't quite add up, but Hermione can't put her finger on it. Pansy's knowledge
of his life. The familiarity when she speaks of Fred. She narrows her gaze, searching Pansy's
suddenly bright expression.

A quiet burst of laughter slips free. "You and George."

Pursing her lips, Pansy gives a vague sort of shrug. "I told you," she says softly. "He found
me."

Her gaze tracks down to Pansy's left hand—where a diamond ring rests on her fourth
knuckle.

Draco follows her focus, and he releases a disbelieving huff. "You're engaged to a Weasley."

"And?" she asks, brows high on her forehead. "You fucking married Granger."

He gives a loud laugh—the most genuine Hermione has ever heard from him—and shoots
her a grin. "That I did, Pans."

Unable to help herself, Hermione sinks into a fit of laughter, gasping out, "I married Malfoy."

"Oh for Merlin's sake," Pansy giggles, swiping at her own eye. "Look at the lot of us.
Ridiculous hypocrites."

Even Draco's chuckling, shaking his head, and for a full minute they allow themselves the
indulgence. It's the most rejuvenating thing Hermione's experienced in years, and a smile
lingers on her lips even after they all fall silent once more.

Hermione sags into the bench in the wake of her short-lived joy. "How is he doing?"

"He's okay," Pansy replies. "All things considered."

"Yeah."
"I know I don't need to tell you his family has had a rough go of things."

"No," Hermione breathes. "You don't."

She can feel Draco's eyes on her, but she can't quite bring herself to meet his gaze. Not when
the dissolution of the Weasley clan meant so much more at the time. More than death and
abandonment, but the breakdown of her own youth.

"He's alright," Pansy says, a little stronger. "He'll be happy to see you, Hermione. I was just
being an arse."

She lifts her head. "Is Daphne alright?"

"Yeah. Daph's good. We were worried when you two vanished and all of that went on," she
says, waving her hand as though all of that was a mere inconvenience. "But I let her know
you were all safe."

"As safe as safe gets these days," Hermione murmurs.

"Yeah."

Draco observes the pair of them, a thoughtful expression on his face, and Hermione reaches
for his mind. Feels his magic envelop her own, like sinking into a warm bed at the end of the
day, and she basks in the sensation of it. In the way that he isn't afraid to be himself with her.
That he isn't afraid of what she may think.

She thinks of Pansy's words earlier. That Draco isn't how he was when they first came across
each other again. When they both spent all of their waking hours tracking one another.

Even when she thinks back on that now, she doesn't recognise him either. Almost doesn't
remember the deadened cruelty haunting his grey gaze. The way he treated her, and she him.

She reaches for his magic in return, letting herself sink into the comfort he offers. She thinks
of the time they spent a few nights ago, and a smile curls her lips. Thinks of the dreams that
she has every so often. Dreams of the two of them elsewhere, away from here, away from the
pain and the war and the death that now surrounds them.

That they may one day have a future together.

"Listen, Pans," Draco says, planting his palms to his legs and leaning forward. "Tell George
to find us. Yeah?"

An indulgent smile tugs at her mouth. "Yeah. He will."

He rises from the bench, reaching for Hermione's hand and pulling her to her feet. Pansy
follows suit, folding her slender arms across herself in the cool air.

Glancing at her watch, she says, "I've got another appointment to keep." Then she hesitates,
biting down on her lower lip. "This was nice. It was nice to see you both."
 "It was," Hermione murmurs, sliding her fingers between Draco's.

"I hate this," Pansy says, squinting as a breeze buffets past. "All of this. You know? That we
can never simply enjoy ourselves."

"It'll happen," Draco says, and though Hermione knows none of them believe him, she
appreciates the effort. "We'll get through this and there might be something on the other
side."

Pansy thins her lips with an unconvincing nod. "Yeah. Of course. There has to be something,
right?"

And all the warmth that hung between them only minutes ago feels as though it's evaporated
into the aether. Like any moment of enjoyment is borrowed, and they'll need to repay their
smiles and laughs tenfold in the days to come.

Before any of them can say anything else, she nods again, offers the pair of them a brisk
smile, and vanishes.

Draco nudges her foot with his own, and as he wraps his arms around her, she deflates into
him. "The closer we get to something else," she breathes, "the more I wonder how we ended
up here."

He hums thoughtfully. "Like a fog has lifted. And the more it reveals, the worse it gets."

"Yes."

With a sigh, he rests his chin on her shoulder. "We've done what we had to do. The only
reason things feel different now is because we have hope for something else after so long."

"Maybe we shouldn't." She turns her head, catching his eyes. "Maybe it's indulgent to have
hope when we're still so far out."

"Or maybe we need something to sustain us," he says quietly. "Just a small hope. Enough to
keep us moving. Because maybe without that, we won't have it in us to keep going for the
rest."

Hermione's spent months attempting to banish every shred of hope to the back of her mind.

The thought that she may need it is almost more than she can bear.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for reading! Your lovely comments and support on this fic make
me smile week after week. I can't believe we're so close to the end. Until next time xo
 Chapter 45
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Both Harry and Neville insisted they come along for the meeting with George, so as soon as
they received a memo from Pansy that he would be willing to see them a few days later,
Hermione made the arrangements. She can't deny a curious mixture of excitement and
nerves, despite that she knew him so well before the war fell into complete disarray.

Because they're all so much different now.

And George not only lost family and friends, but he lost the other half of himself.

In so many ways now, he feels like a stranger. Like she doesn't know what to expect or how
the meeting might go. A part of her both dreads and mourns the fact that the version of
George Weasley who was easygoing and quick to a laugh is likely gone.

Theo's finally recovered from his time in the Malfoy Manor dungeons. Harry is mostly
healed, and Hermione knows they have Luna’s quick action to thank.

It strikes her all at once that they're far from alone anymore.

For so long, even when she had Harry at the resistance, she felt alone most of the time.

When she first moved into Malfoy Manor—when they were discussing the terms of what was
then strictly an arrangement—Hermione didn't know whether she would ever feel whole
again.

Now she has a host of people who matter to her. As soon as the thought properly registers
with a certain amount of scepticism and awe, the dread sweeps back in, seizing her heart and
insisting that she's going to lose everyone. She draws a deep breath, fingers reaching out of
habit for a weapon.

Draco's eyes meet hers from across the room, as though he can feel her distress.

And his steady gaze is enough to settle the instinct.

Harry, Neville, and Theo are sitting around the kitchen table, picking at a plate of sandwiches
Theo prepared and discussing possible outcomes from the day.

Draco slips up alongside her. "Everything alright?"

"Fine," she breathes. "Just a little anxious about how this is going to go."

"He found us," Draco says, lips twitching with a smirk. "That's half the battle, or so I'm told."
She jabs an elbow into his ribs and he catches her arm, fingers tightening. "I mean it. We'll be
okay."
"Yeah."

Hermione tries to remember a time when she wasn't afraid of anything. When she fought, day
in and day out, and fear was little more than a distant memory.

"I don't know why I'm afraid," she admits quietly, giving voice to her thoughts as she stares at
their friends grouped around the table.

"Fear is good," Draco says. "It's human. It means you care about what happens." He takes her
hand into his with a squeeze, lacing their fingers. "For so long, we've been trapped in a never
ending cycle of war—and now there's a chance for something else. A little fear is rational."

"You're never afraid," she returns.

"Wrong," he drawls under his breath. "I fear for you. For Theo. For my mother. If it looks
like I don't have any fear, it's only because it was tortured out of me for so long."

She gives his hand a squeeze in return. "I'd be the one to put him out of his misery. If only for
everything he put you through."

A shadow flashes behind his eyes, even as his face remains carefully blank.

Hermione thinks back to a time before she knew him—when she didn't think he was capable
of emotion. She knows now that she didn't know how to look. How to read the tension he
wears as a shade—the facets of his gaze that she now finds to be expressive in their own,
beautiful way.

"He's mine," is all he says, low and cool. "Not because I don't think you could kill him."

"I know."

And she does. One of the most surreal, unexpected parts about all of this is Draco's genuine
belief in her. The respect and the connection that's bloomed between them.

Her wand vibrates in her pocket—an alarm to remind her of the meeting. Draco's gaze dips to
the soft buzz and he glances at his watch. Hermione clasps her wand to silence it, feeling the
cool hilt of a blade hidden beneath it.

Just in case the meeting goes south.

In case they've been compromised.

She knows Draco well enough to suspect he's brought back-up weapons as well.

"Shall we?" Harry mutters through a grimace.

Theo snags a bite of his crust. "Have fun. Don't get yourselves all killed."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Hold the fort."

They meet Pansy at an obscure location just outside of London. Her assessing gaze roves
Potter and Longbottom for a long moment before she digs into her robes and brandishes a
small rusted silver teapot.

Draco can't help but think that all of this is a little overdone—but he remembers George
Weasley from Hogwarts. At least, he remembers that version of him.

The man was always over the top. He can't help but wonder how the war has impacted him.
How losing several members of his immediate family, including his own twin, has impacted
him.

When the Portkey glows blue moments later and Draco feels a jerk beneath his navel, the
room where they land is a study in juxtaposition.

The office is cramped, the shelves overflowing with oddities, the windows boarded up from
the inside.

He can't see anything to provide context, but it feels like they're in an attic.

The majority of the space is occupied by a large scuffed desk, stacks of papers piled in one
corner and assorted bits of stationery covering the rest of the surface.

George Weasley sits at the desk, dark frames perched on his nose and his orange hair shorn
close in a buzz cut. His eyes narrow as he takes in the four of them, but his expression
remains unreadable.

Pansy folds her arms, leaning against the nearest wall, but doesn't say a word of introduction.

When he thinks about it, Draco supposes everyone in the room knows who everyone else is
—but in an utterly bizarre turn of events, they all feel like sudden strangers. Even Hermione
shifts at his side, mouth pressed in a thin line.

The silence stretches on, seconds drifting towards a full minute, and the atmosphere in the
small room grows more uncomfortable.

Until finally Potter offers a stiff, "Hello, George."

If anything, the man's eyes narrow even further, obscuring the blue of his irises. Draco briefly
wonders whether his mind has been addled in some way. Maybe he doesn't remember any of
them.

Maybe this has all been some elaborate scheme, and they've walked into a trap after all. His
fingers hover near his wand, even as he reaches into the bonds between himself and
Hermione, tugging loose a strand of the magic in case they need to make a quick escape.

George Weasley sinks back in his seat, folding his hands across his middle. "Harry," he says,
dipping his chin into a nod as his gaze roves the rest of them. "Hermione. Neville."

His eyes land on Draco last and stay there, hard and penetrating. Draco only lifts his chin,
unblinking, and holds his stare.
If the man thinks he's going to intimidate him, he doesn't know what he's in for.

At last, still staring at Draco, he clips, "Ghost."

Draco fights the urge to flinch at the ridiculous moniker, keeping his face carefully blank. "I
imagine you've heard," he drawls, suffusing the words with cool irreverence, "that I'm no
longer with the Death Eaters."

"So they say." George snaps once, waving one hand at Draco's arm. "Show it."

It feels unnecessary, when this is the man who supposedly knows everything going on across
both sides of the war and everything in between. He obviously already knows of Draco's
defection, especially since Pansy knew the details.

But if this charade is necessary to achieve what they came here for, Draco will submit
himself to whatever ridiculous games Weasley wants to play. He unbuttons his cuff, rolling
the sleeve of his shirt up his forearm to his elbow. Displays the scarred, silvery flesh where
his Dark Mark used to be.

Weasley leans forward in his seat again, squinting at Draco's arm as though he's never seen
anything more grotesque.

"There's a spell for it, then?" he asks.

Draco stiffens, exchanging a glance with Longbottom. "A spell. Yes."

Weasley hums to himself, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "And what are you lot here for?"

A bitter retort hangs on the tip of his tongue, but to his surprise, a huff of disbelief breaks
from Potter. "You know why we're here, George." The words are coated in irritation, a
breaking to Potter's facade that Draco's unused to. "And if you're just going to sit there and
waste our time—"

"Who says I'm wasting anyone's time?"

"You know we need information on the war," Potter grits through his teeth. "What the Death
Eaters are up to—what the higher ups in the resistance are planning."

A part of Draco wants to step in, to force Potter to back down, but of the group collected in
this small ratty office, Draco has the very least influence.

George surveys Potter with cool disdain, and the expression looks unfamiliar on his once
jovial face. Draco tries and fails to place the man before them from the youth he remembers
from Hogwarts.

He wonders if the difference in himself is as stark. If his dissolution into this version of
himself was simply so slow and so close that he can't see it.

"Two of you are still in the resistance," George says with a flippant wave. "Surely you know
well enough what's going on there."
Potter grits his teeth and looks as though he's losing an internal battle before he bursts out,
"And what do you know about any of that? You, who never once fought with us. Never so
much as bothered to—"

He's cut off by Pansy's wand against his jaw, her expression hard. "Mind your tone, Potter."

Longbottom curls his fingers around Potter's shoulder. At a hard look from Draco, Pansy
lowers her wand.

If they aren't careful, all of this could escalate without warning. Clearly, Potter’s brought in
some sort of deep-seated resentment for the man before him, and whatever goodwill any of
them might once have had with George Weasley no longer exists.

"You didn't even come back when Ron died," Potter huffs.

In the deadened, tense silence that follows, Draco feels the gentle nudge of Hermione's magic
against the bonds, cool and mournful. She won't cause a scene over it—he knows her well
enough—but Potter's always been just enough of a hothead.

Draco presses back against the magic, and the meaning is clear. They're both willing to use
the bonds if it's necessary to ensure their escape from this office.

Weasley stares at Potter, a furrow tugging at the skin between his brows. For a long moment,
he doesn't respond to the anger blazing in Potter's eyes.

At length, he folds his hands across the desk. "I did not," he says, something softer in his
voice. Something like contrition. "I was indisposed."

Revulsion curls Potter's lip. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means I couldn't bear to see another of my brothers dead," Weasley snaps, the first show
of frustration—of any true emotion. "It means my fucking head wasn't on straight by any
definition of the word. It means I didn't come out of a bottle for three years. Do you think I
wanted to leave?"

"No fucking clue," Potter says, "as no one's seen you."

Longbottom thuds a fist into the side of Potter's shoulder, a less than subtle reminder that they
need this to play out in their favour. That they can dwell on the past when the future isn't at
stake.

Instinctively, Draco feels as though they need to clear the air before any of them can proceed.
And he knows he can't be the one to sort out any of this. Whatever beef Potter and Weasley
have needs to be resolved.

Pansy's observing the exchange with keen eyes, but her stance is easy, and it's enough to
reassure Draco's uncertainty.

Dragging a hand through his close-cropped hair, as though he's used to it being longer,
Weasley sighs. Quietly, he says, "I'm here now. This is what I know now—what I can offer.
What do you need to know?"

Potter scowls a moment longer, his chest lifting and falling with rapid breaths, but his
shoulders slump and he glances sidelong towards Draco.

Taking the cue, Draco says, "You know what we're doing." When Weasley doesn't respond
either way, he takes it as an affirmative. "What do we need to do next?"

It's a bold move, and one Draco's second-guessed countless times. But Weasley needs to
know they're willing to trust him—that they need the information he and his network of
informants can provide.

As entrenched as they are in the thick of it, they can only see what's immediately before
them.

George Weasley has a bird's eye view.

Weasley's eyes narrow with concentration, unblinking and fixed on Draco.

"Our channels are severely restricted," Hermione speaks for the first time, her voice soft and
imploring. "Harry and Neville aren't highly ranked in the resistance—and as leadership
deteriorates, we'll move to extract them altogether." Her eyes briefly snag on Draco's. "As
you already know, our best source inside the Death Eaters was forced to abscond."

With a great sigh, George relents. "From what I hear, Harry and Neville will want to get out
sooner rather than later. Both sides are fairly well imploding. Not to mention," he gives a
pointed glance at Harry, "you're still enough of a symbol in the wizarding community. People
will look to you—people will follow you."

Potter makes a low sound of disbelief. "I hardly think that's true."

"From my perspective," George replies, "you are."

Draco observes Potter for a moment with a twinge. He thinks back, remembering before he
and Hermione married. She'd been made to feel by the resistance like she was unimportant.
Like her role was as another fighter and nothing more.

Clearly, Potter has been forced to believe the same thing.

Even Draco knows the symbol of hope he still represents to much of the wizarding world as a
whole.

The fact that he's spent so long concealed by resistance leadership suggests Warrington
knows the same.

That he's deliberately kept Potter low.

A collective tension hangs over the room. At last, George clears his throat. "In light of your
excursion into Malfoy Manor, the Death Eaters are scrambling." The words are a balm to
Draco's ragged soul as George goes on, finally willing to speak freely with them. "The inner
circle is a mess. There's infighting between the ranks, and for the first time in years, the Dark
Lord himself has left the manor to fight. He's got a reward on your head, Ghostie."

Draco snorts despite himself. "I’m aware."

"A hefty fucking reward—so watch yourself."

Hermione stands rigid at his side, even as her magic entwines around his own as though she
might protect him with the sheer force of her will. He doesn't doubt she could.

"Meanwhile ol' Cassius Warrington grows more tyrannical by the day." George assesses the
group of them overtop his glasses. "Resistance leadership is strained, especially with
Kingsley running things in the Ministry—and doing a bang-up job of it given the
circumstances, if you ask me."

A part of Draco is relieved to hear it, when they haven't been able to get a clear gauge on
wizarding society under Shacklebolt's leadership.

As though reading his reaction and understanding how insulated they've been from wizarding
society, George elaborates.

"Any and all resentment Kingsley carries for the Death Eaters is obvious. He's cracking down
on dark side sympathisers within the Ministry itself. There's less corruption in the
departments than there has been in years."

"That's good news," Hermione says softly.

"It's very good news," George agrees, "if any of us want a world to live in after this war is
over."

Hearing the sentiment laid so plainly causes Draco to jolt. It's something he's tried not to
think about, especially relative to the life he could one day have with Hermione.

As the ranks on both sides disintegrate.

"My recommendation, which may or may not mean anything to you..." George leans forward,
his tone as serious as it's been. "Strike at Warrington and the ranks of the resistance will
crumble. Expose him for the shitbag he is—and given the way his leadership hangs by a
thread, people will walk. Without forces to command, Warrington is nothing. You'll decimate
his firepower."

A tense silence hangs over the room, and for a minute Draco forgets to breathe.

Sweep out the resistance's forces from beneath him. A fitting blow for the man who treats his
subordinates almost as badly as the Dark Lord himself does.

"So we're leaving the resistance, to be clear," Longbottom says steadily.

"Yes." Hermione answers before any of the rest, and Draco wonders how relieved she is at
the thought.
Surely, she won't want her friends caught in the rubble of impending desolation.

"If the resistance loses its fighters, the Death Eaters will steamroll through whatever
remains," Draco reasons, mind whirring with the strategy of it.

George nods briskly. "Both sides need to collapse in line. They'll cripple each other—and for
all the power they lose, this war's impact will diminish."

Draco's chest tightens at the words, despite that he knows better.

A silence falls over the group, stretching into something like despair. Like the reach to
something just out of range.

"Shouldn't be too hard," Longbottom says at last, dragging a hand across the back of his
neck. "Exposing dirt on Warrington."

"No," Hermione agrees. "He has a graveyard's worth."

Draco weighs the room, assessing George's willingness. The man runs a network of
informants, and Draco can imagine what that must take. To collect and share information to
anyone who has the coin.

"What would it take," he says softly, meeting George's gaze, "to buy your information.
Exclusively."

At the question, he hesitates, skimming each of them in turn. "I would say more than you can
afford but—" he waves an idle hand at Draco "—so I'll simply say no."

"Why?"

Irritation sweeps across George's face. "Because I won't put the lives of my informants at
risk."

"They're already at risk," Potter bites out. "All of our lives are at risk every day."

George stares at him hard, jaw clenching. "We retrieve information from Death Eaters. If we
didn't, I wouldn't be able to give you what you're asking. It's a give and take on both sides
that we have anything to pass on."

Hermione surprises him when her voice grows hard. "And we are actively trying to end this
war! Not dancing around the line, refusing to fight."

George bristles at the less than veiled implication. "We all do what we can. You took
information from Pansy for months. You both did." He lifts his hands, some of the tension
seeping from his shoulders. "What would you have me do?"

She plants her hands on the desk, leaning towards him. "I don't care what you have to do. But
if you want this war to end, both sides need to be left in an information vacuum." Her voice
drops to a whisper. "I don't care what you tell anyone but us."
Silence hangs in the room like it carries weight.

"A facade," Longbottom offers. "And both sides will think they're getting intel from you as
they always have."

Draco stares hard at Hermione, his heart beginning to thunder at the suggestion. "Meanwhile
you're funnelling everything of value to us."

George lifts a brow. "And how long is that supposed to work until they realise we're feeding
false information? I can't ask my informants to go along with this."

Potter speaks next, soft and cool. "Are your informants happy for this war to carry on
indefinitely? As long as they can pad their pockets with coin, is that it?"

Pansy, who has remained noticeably silent through the meeting, scoffs with disgust. "They
aren't soulless. Some people can't fight—and still need to live."

"I'll pay them," Draco huffs, hating the edge of desperation in his tone. "If they inform
exclusively for us. If they feed nonsense to both sides—just enough to weaken and disrupt
their operations. It won't be for long."

George sighs, looking between the small group. He shakes his head, and Draco's certain he's
going to say no.

Finally he glances at Pansy, and they share a look that Draco can't quite dissect, even
knowing her most of his life.

So much time passes that he loses track.

"If they don't want the war to end," George says at last, "they won't inform for me any longer.
If I'm in this, I'm in it. And consider it an effort to make up for all the years I was gone."

Draco can see it now—or maybe George has simply lowered his guard. The fatigue bracing
his eyes. The shadows within their blue. Even if he hasn't taken up arms with the resistance,
he's been entrapped in all of this too.

He's still hesitant to accept. Too many things could go wrong. But by passing misleading
information to both the resistance and the Death Eaters, their forces will be confused and
disorganised. It will give them the chance they need to take everything down.

"Fine," Draco says at last, feeling several sets of eyes on him. "We'll work out an agreement
for the details."

"I would prefer that," George agrees. A hint of a grin tugs at one corner of his mouth. "At
least when I die I'll know I tried to do the right thing in the end."

The words leave a bitterness in the back of Draco's mind, despite his best efforts to banish the
thought.
"I've been thinking about something George said today," Hermione says, propping herself up
on her elbow in bed. "About Harry. The role he still plays in society. Do you think George is
right?"

Draco glances up. "Yes. Why else would Warrington keep him tucked away for so long?
Potter was always seen as a symbol of the light side. A beacon of hope against the Dark Lord.
Of course Warrington would want to diminish that."

Hermione considers the thought in silence for a long moment. "I suppose they drilled into us
for so long that we were simply fighters like anyone else."

"You weren't," Draco says. "Neither of you. But he wanted you to believe that. For the same
reasons why he never took your advice seriously."

The words settle in, leaving an uneasy prickle along her spine. She remembers the tip she
passed along that no one listened to. The way Warrington hassled her for bringing Neville
back after he had been captured.

A spark of fury begins to simmer within her.

"And all along," she breathes, "Harry could have done something."

His expression falters. "Maybe. The resistance kept you both in the dark for a reason—that's
all I know."

"And we'll knock his forces out from under him. What do we have on Warrington strong
enough to dismantle the resistance?"

"Honestly?" He yanks a hand through his hair. "If the resistance is already falling apart, it
might not take as much as you think to turn their forces against him. Not if he treats everyone
like he treated you. Especially not if Potter walks."

"I suppose you're right."

He must read the frustration or the uncertainty, because Draco takes her hand in his with a
gentle squeeze. "We'll get him. We have lots on him. He blackmailed Flint and threatened his
family so he would inform, remember? Not to mention we've witnessed him meeting with
Death Eaters. He's a hypocritical piece of shit and everyone knows that. Not even Shacklebolt
wanted to stick by him."

Hermione nods, wishing she could muster some of his confidence. Draco's magic coils
around her, infusing her with a sense of comfort if nothing else, and she allows herself to sink
into him.

To push the rest of it aside and, just for now, let herself dream of a time when they might be
past all of this.

Potter and Longbottom have made it readily apparent that they no longer feel any loyalty to
the resistance. Draco suspects they haven't for a while, but they've needed to stay on as a
source of information. With Hermione out of the resistance and Draco absconded from the
Death Eaters, their direct sources have run scant.

Now, an agreement established with George, they have another option.

Which means coordinating the details of their exit from the resistance.

Draco can see it in Hermione's countenance every time someone mentions the way the
resistance is set to fall. The way her desire to protect her friends wars with the soldier she's
been forced to become.

But Merlin, just the thought of it shoots a shiver down his spine.

Almost as much as the thought of the Death Eaters crumbling.

With a few manipulations, the two sides could cripple each other to a point of disrepair—and
he almost can't stand the thought. Can't believe the way things are now.

The meeting with George Weasley shed a light on so many aspects of the situation. And if
George is truly willing to pass false information on to the resistance and the Death Eaters, it
will be one more nail in the coffin.

So much of this war has been predicated on the passing of information; he even relied on
informants himself as one of the highest ranked Death Eaters.

A part of him suspects George wouldn't have been amenable to anything if not for Potter—
and Pansy.

A nervous trepidation settles on the group of them as they convene in the war room the
following day. Draco and Hermione spent the evening filling Theo in on everything that
occurred, and they arranged a meeting as soon as they were all able.

Draco can see the tenuous threads of Hermione's hope—and he so desperately wants to fulfil
even some of it for her. But it's dangerous, when there's still so far to go and none of them
can afford to take their eyes off the goal.

"So," Longbottom says, breaking the anxious silence, "I'm getting the fuck out of there before
it burns to the ground."

Potter nods once. "Same."

"Good," Hermione says as an exhale. "Things are only going to get more desperate and more
dangerous."

Draco glances around the war room—where Theo's narrow cot sits along one wall. "We can
all try to cram in this house for the time being, but—"

"I have a house," Potter says, waving a flippant hand. "I just don't live there. Neville and I
can lay low there for a while. Merlin knows Warrington will be after us."
"What do you mean, you have a house? You've had a house all this time?"

Dragging a hand along the back of his neck, Potter shrugs. "Yeah. I've had to stay at the
resistance safehouse but... the house is plenty warded. The old Black ancestral home."

His chest grows tight for a long moment as Draco shoots Hermione a glance. "Right. I... must
have known that at one point in time. And it's safe? Positively? No one from the resistance
knows of it?"

When Potter doesn't immediately respond, instead looking to Hermione, Draco sighs. But
then he grimaces and says, "I don't think so. Just us. Everyone else who knew I had
possession of it is dead."

Another sombre pause falls over the group.

"Fine," Draco says at last. "Get out when it's safe to do so—but be prepared for the backlash.
We all need to be prepared because you'll be handing Warrington the proof he needs that
you've been working with us."

"All the more reason we need to move on Warrington as soon as possible," Hermione says,
lifting her chin. "I think what George said about it holds merit—that if we can dismantle the
resistance's forces, Warrington will fold. And what he said about you still being influential to
the rest of the resistance."

She shoots Potter another significant look, who, to Draco's surprise, frowns.

"And did we all... trust George?" he asks, a timid, apologetic note to his voice that Draco
doesn't recognise. "I mean... we haven't seen him in years, right? And all of a sudden he's
back?"

The thoughts swim in the back of Draco's mind. If anyone, he would have expected Potter to
trust Weasley’s motives given their history—but the sudden doubt gives him pause.

Draco hesitates another moment longer, delving into the thread of magic between himself and
Hermione. "Do you not?"

"I don't not," Potter clarifies quickly. "I just think we should be cautious."

Hermione's magic twines tightly around his, melding with his own and reassuring the bristle
in his spirit. "We'll be cautious," she says softly, something beseeching in her voice. "I wasn't
certain either, at first. But... I think George is still George. Maybe he wants this to come to an
end as much as the rest of us."

"Maybe," Draco allows, a twinge shooting through him as the tension grows thick. "But none
of us are running into this without caution. We'll work with him for now—but we've all
survived this long by listening to our intuition. What he can offer us is invaluable, but not if it
means we're running blindly into something we aren't prepared for."

At last, Potter blows out a breath. "Yeah. Fine. That's fine."

 With an apologetic grimace, Draco turns towards him and Longbottom. "I'm all for the two of
you getting out before the resistance falls apart. But before you go... let's find something to
put Warrington down once and for all."

A hint of amusement tugs at Longbottom's mouth. "That sounds good to me."

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for reading, and for your kind words. It means so much to have
you along for the ride as we move into the final ascent. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
 Chapter 46
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The days slide by at a precarious, stilted pace, but for the first time in months, Hermione feels
as though a sense of purpose underlies everything she does. Her time spent with the
resistance felt as though she were running in circles, doing much but accomplishing little.

While she lived in Malfoy Manor, and in the cautious days that followed their harrowing
escape, she felt like any misstep could send everything crumbling down around them.

But now they have a way forward.

The thought has taken up residence in the back of her mind like a mantra, like soothing lyrics
she can't escape whether awake or asleep.

Despite her best efforts to keep herself focused and strict, a seed of hope has sown itself in
her heart and begun to blossom. Now, no matter what Hermione does, she can't help but to
feel as though they're so close to some indeterminate goal.

She tries to remember the person she was even months ago, when the most important thing to
her was putting an end to Draco's existence. When she had nothing to drive her forward but
spite and survival, and she couldn't even allow Harry to see the person beneath the fear and
the darkness.

The reminder now leaves her cold.

Now she has not only Harry and Draco, but Neville and Theo—Pansy and Daphne. George,
maybe.

People she cares about, people she wants to protect.

People she would die for, if it means their survival.

She's taken to stretching the magic between her and Draco with a vengeance, doubling her
typical efforts, leaving herself frequently strained from the mental and magical investment.

And as though sensing how important it is that they prepare the magic between them, Draco's
returned the effort with vigour. The more they learn, the more they realise the bonds rely on
the joint strength of the bonded pair, and Hermione's magic sings with the complement of his.

In so many ways, she no longer feels alone.

Not like she has for years, trudging through one task after the next, no longer caring about
what happens to her.
Now she cares more than she wants to admit. Cares more than she has in so long, deeper than
she thought was possible anymore.

Hermione wants to live.

And she wants everyone to survive at her side.

Though some part of her knows this is all too much, too good, this camaraderie that exists
between the group of them.

Because no matter what else, this is still war.

And they all know, all too well, that war breeds casualty and tragedy. Most of the time,
Hermione can't stand the thought that they might not make it through what's yet to come.

A strange sort of energy courses through Draco as he takes in the Black family ancestral
home. It's smaller than Malfoy Manor, to be certain, but hums no less with the pulse of latent
dark magic.

The fact that Potter came into possession of the townhouse is baffling, but Draco isn't in a
mood to delve too deep into that.

Although Potter assured him the house was adequately warded and protected against
intruders, it didn't take him long to bring up the idea that Draco might stop by and imbue it
with the Black lineage's blood wards.

His eyes linger only for a moment on the tapestry covering one wall in a side room, eyes
darting briefly to ensure the circle marked Narcissa Malfoy is still noted as alive.

The rest he can't bring himself to take in.

He imagines if Voldemort had access to the tapestry, Draco would be a black singe mark by
now.

The wards themselves don't take long, and Potter and Hermione linger in quiet conversation
while he layers as many coats of protection in place as he can.

Grimmauld Place is significantly larger than his home with Hermione, but he can't shake the
uneasy feeling in his soul when he walks around the house. Like despite his pure lineage, he
isn't welcome here.

The hollering portrait of Walburga Black doesn't help matters.

Hermione's soul, thoroughly entwined with his own more often than not as they delve deeper
into the power between them, twists up with discomfort.

He doesn't mind Potter and Longbottom living here—and he imagines Theo will spend his
share of time here as well. But he entertains no ideas about relocating their base of
operations.
"You should be good," he says at last, looking up towards Potter. "I've protected the house in
a dozen or so blood wards, but as the deed owner you'll be able to come and go—along with
anyone you grant permission. Which includes anyone who's already been here, ergo the five
of us."

Potter nods once, stiffly, and opens his mouth to speak when a loud crack sounds from the
sitting room. Shouting follows at once, and the three of them rush into the room.

What Draco doesn't anticipate is to see Longbottom, coated in blood and leaning on Theo's
shoulder, grinning.

"What the fuck?" he huffs with incredulity. "What happened to you?"

"We went to Diagon Alley—glamoured," Theo says, helping Longbottom's bloody form into
one of the parlour chairs while Potter cringes. "Because Nev caught a tip that Warrington
would be headed there."

At this, Draco perks up. "Did you see him?"

"Only briefly," Longbottom says, and the humour fades from his face. "He was with a small
contingent of resistance higher ups and they were ambushed by a group of Death Eaters. I got
hit with a rogue spell before we could get out of there."

Theo reaches for the collar of Longbottom's shirt, undoing the row of buttons with a
tenderness that makes Draco want to glance away, feeling as though he's intruding. "So
ultimately, we're nowhere—except for the knowledge that the fighters have no regard for
public spaces filled with civilians."

It's an interesting observation, when for the most part the resistance and the Death Eaters
skirmish beyond the central limits of wizarding London.

"Damage?" he asks, peering down at Longbottom's injuries. To his relief, they look
superficial—but he doesn't miss the way Longbottom clamps his cursed palm to his brow as
though attempting to contain a migraine.

"Some," Theo allows. "But we didn't see all of it before we left." He draws his wand, then
rummages again in his pocket for a crumpled stack of parchment. "You'll like this."

Hermione sidles closer to him, keeping one eye on Neville and Theo, until Draco snorts.

The top page is a wanted ad with his face plastered across the front—and an absurd sum of
galleons. Significantly more than it was when he saw the posters for himself.

Even so, he shakes his head and drawls, "I'm a little offended."

Hermione's jaw drops, aghast. "That's more money than I have in my vault."

"Not true," Draco corrects mildly, "if you count our vaults."

A flush of colour brightens her cheeks. "Regardless. People will be out to get you."
Draco can't say he's particularly bothered over it, when he's been chased by enemies for
years. "This isn’t new. He’s had a price on my head since I left. All this tells me," he says,
shifting to the next page—a duplicate of the first—"is that he can't track me down on his own
so he needs others to do it for him."

A hush falls over the small group, until Potter peers down at Longbottom's wounds. None of
them look deep, and if he were genuinely injured, Theo would be more panicked.

The whole stack of parchment in Draco's hand is duplicates of the wanted poster, and he
peers closer at the fine text while Theo casts some rudimentary healing spells on
Longbottom's wounds.

Potter steps away with a snicker, and claps Draco on the shoulder. "Better you than me, mate.
I remember when they had me on those posters—Undesirable Number One."

Hermione offers him an indulgent smile, as though the recollection is something nostalgic.
Although Draco supposes maybe it is—maybe after the last five years, the beginnings of the
war now feel only mildly unpleasant in comparison.

Despite the fact that Theo has closed the slashing cut that bisects Longbottom's chest, his face
is paler than before, jaw clenched hard and the skin tight around his eyes.

"What's the matter with you?" Draco asks, nudging the toe of Longbottom's boot with his
own.

The man looks up and rolls his eyes. "I was attacked, you prat."

"Not that." Draco kicks his boot harder. "You look like you're about to toss your guts."

"Well, I'm not." Longbottom makes an effort at sitting up a little straighter, blinking some of
the fog from his stare, and smooths out his expression. "I'm fine."

Draco might almost believe him except for the way Longbottom's palm clenches—little more
than a twitch—towards a fist before relaxing again. His breathing looks too measured, the
effort a little too obvious.

And maybe he doesn't want Theo to know whatever it is, but Draco doesn't look away, staring
hard until Longbottom returns his pointed glance.

With the cock of Draco's brow, he knows he conveys the sentiment. Later.

"Both sides are descending into chaos," Draco says, peering through the small window to the
London streets beyond.

Hermione freezes, halfway through tugging on her boots. "You sound pleased."

He turns to face her. "I am. It means leadership is disorganised."

With a quiet hum, she returns to her task before rising to face him. "What do you suppose is
going on with Neville?"

Draco shrugs once, meeting her gaze. "I don't know—he won't tell me. But I know it has
something to do with his hand. With the magic of the Asp Encircle. It's affected him in some
way that he won't talk about."

"He's trying to protect Theo," she hedges.

"Theo doesn't need protecting."

Hermione prods him in the abdomen. "Neville has always been like that. He would put any
one of us ahead of himself."

"That's what I'm afraid of." They share a grimace, and Draco wraps his fingers around hers.
They've spent so much energy bolstering the magic of the bonds between them, not wanting
to be caught off guard, that he can feel it in the air between them. Like an all-encompassing
darkness, dissipating and hovering in the air.

Draco kisses her once, sinking into the feel of it, midnight and seduction. She moans, sliding
closer and bringing her body against his, their magic entangling further with the contact.

"You consistently surprise me," he murmurs against her lips. "And I can't wait to see you
unleash this."

"Us," she corrects, drawing back with a sparkle in her eye. "It's both of ours."

"We both know your raw magic is more powerful than mine. I've seen it all along."

"I've been trying a few things out," she says, snagging her lower lip between her teeth.
"Manipulating the raw bits of magic that come away."

Draco knows precisely what she means—that the pool of magic between them can only
contain so much, and after a certain point shreds of it drift free. It's the magic that hovers in
the room alongside them now. He eyes her with an indulgent smile. "That doesn't surprise me
at all."

"We've been trying to track down Warrington to find something big on him," she says, "and
none of our efforts to this point have worked." She hesitates, fidgeting with the fabric of his
shirt. "But I had a different idea."

He waits, watching as her entire body tightens with focus. Lifting one hand, she releases a
few threads of magic from her fingertips, and it shimmers in the air between them while they
watch it with bated breath.

Draco's always been intrigued with her, and only now that they've grown so close can he
admit to himself that he admired and respected her long before they were on good terms with
each other. It's been a tumultuous journey to get to this point, and now he wants to lose
himself in the depth of her power.
"I thought," she breathes, twisting her hand so that the magic swirls along in her wake, "we
could amend a tracking spell."

His voice falls as a hush. "Who are we tracking?"

Hermione's eyes snap up to meet his, and their chocolate depths swirl with purple crackles of
magic. "Pucey."

Eyeing her a moment longer, Draco longs to lose himself in her. To watch her bring the world
down to her feet. "Okay," he says, offering her as much of his magic as she needs.

"We know he's been in contact with Warrington," she says quietly, "but we don't know why.
And if we can't reach Warrington—"

"We go where we can," he whispers. "Good."

Her throat bobs with a swallow as still more magic seeps free, and as her eyes tighten with
focus, the strands entwine themselves into something sturdier, a cord that reaches from the
house across London.

"Will he be at Malfoy Manor?" she asks.

This sort of tracking magic typically requires a host of incantations and objects possessed by
the target—so the thought that she can do it simply by sheer force of will embeds heat
beneath Draco's skin.

"Don't look at me like that," she whispers with a bit of a laugh, "or we'll never make it out of
this room."

His mouth twitches. "He might be at the manor. But he doesn't live there."

She reaches for his hand, knitting their fingers together, and Draco can feel the raw magic
coursing from her skin. It's intoxicating.

"I don't know if this will work, but—"

She doesn't finish the sentence as she draws him into Apparition, and when they land
moments later, his own fingers tingle with the abundant flow of magic.

The tracking thread is stronger now, a deep purple nearly black, and it bristles with raw
power as it siphons from her. Draco can scarcely focus on the task at hand with the way her
skin glows, eyes bright yet dark at the same time.

"This way," she breathes, leading him from the dark alley where they landed.

They're on the outskirts of town, and with a wave of her hand, she establishes numerous
protective wards. The magic is so strong now, flowing so easily that it takes almost no effort.

As though the magic is bolstered by the idea of its own freedom from restriction within them.
As though it wants to be spent.
"He's very close... I thought, maybe I could convince—"

And she closes her eyes again, her focus clearly elsewhere as her expression tightens.

Draco, for his part, is more than willing to allow her to take the reins on this. He basks in the
power of her raw magic, glories in it, knowing she draws from the deep well of magic they've
accumulated together. Knowing that she's embraced that side of her that can do so much more
than she even believes.

He wants to drown himself in it.

For a long moment, nothing happens. The air hangs heavy and tense, like he could cut
through it with a spell, but Draco remains still and silent at her side, willing to provide
whatever support or grounding she needs.

It's all new magic to both of them, and he wants to watch her explore. To push her own limits.

She releases Draco's hand, bringing both of hers together; magic crackles sharply between
her palms.

Then, out of the darkness before them, Adrian Pucey appears, wide-eyed and bewildered.
He's clad in casual robes, tie loose and collar unbuttoned.

For several halting seconds he only stares at them, eyes sliding between Hermione and Draco
— and then he grapples for his wand.

"Don't," Hermione hisses, bringing up a hand to stop him.

Draco can feel the shimmer of protective magic in the air—stronger than anything he could
cast with his wand, and he knows she's channelled into something deep within herself. A
place where her own raw power merges with the combined well they've poured.

To his surprise, Pucey lowers his wand.

"What is this?" he asks, gruffly.

Draco doesn't immediately know how to respond. He's never known of a way to forcibly
summon another person by sheer will, and the thought that Hermione has drawn Pucey into
this warded location is almost more than he can comprehend.

Even knowing her capabilities.

He watches the magic slide free of her palms—notes the way Pucey's skittish gaze does the
same—and allows a hint of a smirk to cross his lips.

"This," Hermione says, eyes blazing with raw magic, "is an interrogation."

Draco watches the blood drain from Pucey's face. He opens his mouth to speak—just as
Hermione nuzzles against his magic through her end of the bond. Somehow, he understands
that she wants to take the lead on this.
Perhaps because she's so deeply entwined with the magic—perhaps because Warrington
belittled and overlooked her for so long.

Maybe she needs this. As much as he needed to be the one to deal with Yaxley.

As badly as he wants to be the one to put down the Dark Lord at last.

Pucey grinds his jaw, raw hatred coming into his stare. "What do you want?"

Beneath his anger, Draco can sense his confusion. He's survived to this point—witnessed so
many of his comrades fall during the rescue mission at the manor. And they've captured him
—unwittingly or not—alive.

"If you cooperate," Hermione says, her voice a low purr, "we'll let you go."

Scoffing, Pucey steps back from her. "Like hell you will."

Almost imperceptibly, she edges a step forward. Angles herself just slightly towards Pucey
and away from Draco. All the while, her magic still nudges against him and Draco finds
himself caught under her spell as thoroughly as he's ever been.

He manages a thick swallow, marvelling at the way his heart skitters and races in his chest.

"I only have one question for you," Hermione says, and the smile that crosses her face is
almost kind. But Draco can still see the flicker of magic in her eyes—like purple flashes of
lightning. "You aren't the one we're after today."

The words do little to dissuade Pucey's scepticism.

Still, Draco remains silent at the unspoken request between them. Briefly, he wonders
whether her magic isn't playing against his own senses too.

"I just want to know what you've been discussing with Cassius Warrington," she says quietly.
"Answer that, and we'll let you go."

Pucey pales further. "I haven't—"

"I know you have."

"I'm not telling you anything." When his fingers twitch towards his wand, Draco knows he's
weighing his odds. And in every calculation, he knows he'll come up short.

"I can force the information from you," Hermione says, allowing magic to crackle along her
fingertips. "But I promise you won't enjoy that. I think we all know that will be far more
unpleasant than if you were to simply tell us."

Another long, tense standoff occurs wherein Pucey's eyes skirt along the edges of the
clearing, assessing the magical warding heavy in the air.

"You aren't—what are you doing with this?"

"Surely you can't mean to protect him," Hermione says, allowing still more magic to drift
free, bright in the air. A deep rumble comes from somewhere beneath their feet.

Draco almost can't comprehend the sudden and all-encompassing wave of terror that flashes
in Pucey's eyes.

"You'll let me leave," Pucey says, his voice stronger. His eyes dance between them one more
but settle again on Hermione. "You'll let me live if I tell you."

"Yes," she says, ducking her chin in a nod. "I swear it."

With a deep steeling breath, Pucey nods once in return. A slow smile drags at one corner of
Draco's mouth as he catches Hermione's lips twitch.

Merlin, every part of him gets off on this. On watching her bask in her power—exploring the
depths of herself. Taking charge of the situation.

For so long, she was forced to keep herself small to avoid undue attention at the manor. Even
with the resistance, she could have never learned what she was truly capable of.

If Draco knows one thing about Adrian Pucey, it's that he's more likely to protect his own
skin than anyone else's. And if he's honest, he doesn't need to see Pucey die. Of all the Death
Eaters under his command, the man before them was one of the most amenable.

"Okay, look," Pucey says quietly, raising his hands. "I knew Warrington in school, yeah? He
tried to arrange a meeting a while back—wanted a favour and I told him not a chance. Said
he'd give up intel."

Hermione's gaze remains locked on Pucey. "What sort of intel?"

"Resistance stuff. How to catch their forces unaware."

Draco can hear Hermione's sharp intake of breath, even as raw fury builds in his own chest. It
shouldn't surprise him, after all this time, the things Warrington would be willing to do. But
to throw his own people to the wolves—

"What did he want?" she asks sharply.

Pucey's voice drops to little more than a whisper. "He wanted an out. He believes the
resistance is going to lose the war, and he wants to walk away from it all. He wanted to trade
the resistance for his own life—and I told him no."

Draco's head spins a little at the revelation, but Hermione doesn't flinch. "Why did you say
no?"

"Because the Dark Lord wants Warrington dead. You know that."

For only a moment, Pucey's gaze falls on Draco, and he can scarcely read the expression on
the man's face. Something akin to understanding. Like he knows exactly why Draco's done
all he has—and like Pucey knows why all of this needs to come to an end, too.
"And what did Warrington say when you told him you wouldn't do it?" Hermione asks, and
though Pucey no longer shows any sign of a fight, she doesn't let down her guard in the
slightest.

He shoots her a rueful glance. "He... I have a younger sister. I've managed to protect her from
most of this but—"

"And Warrington threatened her," Hermione finishes.

It's the same story they heard with Flint—when he'd been coerced into informing for
Warrington under Foray.

Pucey presses his eyes shut, briefly, pained. "Yes. So I told him I would let him know."

Hermione hums softly, tilting her head. "And did you?"

"Not yet. I haven't responded to his efforts to reach out."

"Okay." The smile she offers now is moderately warmer, some of the magic diminishing at
last. "Thank you for your honesty."

The words are tinged with something like a threat—because Draco's certain her magic tested
every word he spoke for truth. But he can't understand why Pucey would lie about such a
thing.

Hermione edges a step back, falling into place beside Draco once more, and he releases a
long breath. Feels some part of himself slide back into place.

He shoots her a glance, finding a sparkle in her eye.

"That's it, then?" Pucey asks, hovering anxiously near the edge of the wards. "I can just go?"

"You can go, and I won't bother you about this again," Hermione says, then draws a galleon
from her pocket. She imbues it with a handful of spells too quickly for Draco to catch sight of
it all. She steps towards Pucey, pressing the coin into his hand. "Though perhaps... you might
be willing to do one more thing."

When they arrive back at the house, Hermione feels exhilarated in a way she hasn't in years.
Although she released some of the pent-up magic between them, they're still swimming in
abundance, and the magic is electrifying.

Draco eyes her with a sultry combination of heat and admiration, and her skin grows hot at
his assessment as he props himself against the wall of the sitting room.

"That was impressive," he says, biting down on his tongue between his molars.

"Thank you," she says, drawing her wand as a flush creeps into her cheeks. "Just doing what
needed to be done."
"I think Pucey would have crawled on his knees had you asked."

A dash of pride tugs at her mouth as she summons a small glass vial from the kitchen.
"Please. He didn't want to tell me any of that."

Pressing her wand tip to her temple, Hermione isolates the block of memory she wants to
extract. A cool shimmering sensation runs along her spine as the recollection siphons from
her brain into the vial. Carefully bookended, from the start of the conversation to Pucey's
final admission about Warrington.

"He really is scum, isn't he?" she asks, pressing the stopper carefully into the vial.

"We've known he is," Draco drawls in reply, watching her carefully, "all along."

Hermione lays the vial on the kitchen table, duplicating it a couple dozen times in tidy rows.
Draco plucks one of the vials from the table, peering at the silvery contents within.

"So that's your plan," he says slowly. "Disseminate proof of Warrington's betrayal to the
resistance."

She nods once, stowing her wand and stepping closer. "Harry will distribute them. Most
resistance members have access to a Pensieve for intel collection." Chewing on her lower lip,
she adds, "I made certain not to overlay the memory with any bias that might raise
suspicion."

Understanding dawns on Draco's face as his head drops into a tilt. "You kept me out of the
frame. You did all of the talking."

A sudden wash of shame threatens to rise within her as she assesses his expression. "I just
thought... people in the resistance would be more likely to believe it wasn't a ruse if you
weren't there. Most of them don't like me, and with good reason—but they still hate you."

"It's brilliant," he says, placing the vial back on the table. "You're brilliant."

Just as quickly, the shame she might have felt soothes into something else entirely. "Thank
you," she says. "And for your faith in me. For trusting me to handle Pucey."

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes smoky as his hands find her hips, curl around to her arse. His
lips graze the shell of her ear. "You were fucking terrifying today."

A sudden burst of mirth slides from her lips, bright and freeing. She leans into him, rolling
her hips against his when he dips his tongue into her ear.

"I'll take that as a compliment from you," she says, breath hitching as arousal coils within her.
Already, she's tugging him towards the bedroom, cognisant of the way their friends come and
go.

She can feel the smirk rather than see it. "As you should."
Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much, as always, for reading. I appreciate you more than I can say!

As we grow nearer to the end, be sure to find me on twitter as indreamsink to keep up

with current and future projects <3
 Chapter 47
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The days that follow are as tense a waiting game as any they've experienced.

Both Harry and Neville privately announced their imminent defection from the resistance, to
be timed with the distribution of memory vials through the lower ranks of the resistance.
They've allowed only a few vials per safehouse to keep them below notice, trusting for the
word and evidence to travel quickly.

Harry picked up the vials the following morning, and he and Neville visited each of the
resistance safehouses they knew how to locate, slipping vials to the lower ranked members.
Luna was able to inform them of a few others she had visited in a healing capacity.

No resistance member has ever been fully aware of all of the other safehouses—another way
the leadership keeps the rest of them in the dark. The more Hermione thinks about it now, the
more she hates it.

Even Theo, who was outside of the inner circle, knew more about what was going on in the
ranks of the Death Eaters.

Once Harry and Neville were through, they walked from the resistance with little fanfare and
relocated to Grimmauld Place.

Now, three days later, Hermione's nerves are on edge every waking moment. Luna is the only
person they're still actively in contact with in the resistance, although Harry has urged her to
leave before everything falls apart.

Heavily insulated now, without inside knowledge of the Death Eaters or the resistance, the
situation has been encompassed by a precarious silence. They can't rely on any published
information, not even from within the Ministry itself.

Like the calm before a storm. But they don't know when to anticipate the first rumble of
thunder.

Instead, they're left to rely on George Weasley for the information he promised.

Every so often, Hermione drifts, glamoured, beyond the wards of the London house to check
for any missives from George or Pansy. Most recently, she returns empty-handed to find
Draco in the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" she asks, brows high on her forehead.

His eyes tighten with intense focus as he peels the skin from an onion. "Cooking." When she
doesn't say anything, he drawls, "I needed to keep myself occupied. It was either this or
attack someone."
Being the only other person in the house, Hermione backs from the kitchen.

Another two days pass before they finally receive word from Pansy. No one has heard
anything about the resistance—or Warrington’s response to their insidious attack.

For as much as they expected to learn something, there's been nothing. Draco can only hope
Warrington has bigger things to worry about for the time being.

When they arrive at George's office, the room has been rearranged since the time before.
Where a large desk filled most of the space, now a table stands with four seats perched
around it. A tea service complete with three tiers of finger snacks sits atop—as if it were a
damned garden party.

Draco shoots Hermione a glance, reading his own doubt reflected back at him in her eyes.
For as much as he wants to trust George Weasley, to ensure they've made the right choice in
working with the man, Draco still isn't entirely certain.

Either way, it's all they have right now. If they want any information at all, this is how they
get it.

"Welcome," George says as he strides into the room, Pansy at his side, and waves a hand
towards the table. "Please. Take a seat."

Fixing his stare on George, Draco pulls out Hermione's seat and then his own, settling at the
table beside her. Neither of them make a move for tea.

"I thought we would have a more informal visit this time," George says when the silence
stretches on. Draco tries to catch Pansy's gaze but she either doesn't see or doesn't care to
look at him. "Just the four of us."

Hermione's foot nudges against his, and he can read her meaning well enough. The last
meeting didn't go nearly as well as any of them hoped—especially when Potter started
throwing accusations.

"We're here to listen," Draco replies, keeping a mental grip on the bonds just in case. His
faith in Pansy only reaches so far when so much is on the line. "Surely you know something
of what's gone down with the resistance this past week?"

George's smile falters only for a moment. "I do. Of course I do. But please—tea."

Clenching his jaw on a retort, Draco reaches for the teapot and pours four cups. A show of
trust and respect he can hardly bear. Hermione sets a finger sandwich on her plate but doesn't
eat it.

It feels like a carefully orchestrated game.

Like Weasley still doesn't trust him, either. And maybe that's all it comes down to. That
they're both still sizing one another up, despite the mutual need and mutual acquaintances.
Despite that all of this hinges on trust.
If that's all it is, Draco can deal with that. He can deal with George's measuring stares easier
than he can deal with betrayal.

As Hermione stirs a splash of milk into her tea, she looks up with a banal smile. "Thank you
both for the tea. And the food."

"Of course," Pansy purrs, speaking for the two of them. "You're more than welcome."

And when Pansy's eyes lock on his at last, he can read her so well. Her eyes tell him play
along. And it occurs to Draco then that maybe all of this has been Pansy's doing and that
George never wanted anything to do with him in the first place.

Realisation must soften the tension in his jaw because something like reassurance crosses
Pansy's face.

George piles three sugar cubes into his tea, tasting it with a grimace. Then he takes a large
bite of a dessert square before setting the rest on his plate.

"Clever," he says without any further prolonging of the inevitable. A wash of relief sweeps
across Draco; that they won't be dancing around the reason for this meeting any longer. "Of
all the ways you could have gone after Warrington, you went for the jugular."

Hermione snickers. "It just happened to work out that way."

Draco nudges her knee with his own beneath the table. "Hermione was the genius who put it
all together."

"Tell me, if you will," George says, folding his serviette carefully, "how you two came to be
working together. And married yet."

Despite himself, a smirk tugs at Draco's lips. "You don't know everything then."

A hint of a smile appears on George's face. "Not this, at least."

It feels strangely ordinary a question to consider. As though they're any other couple existing
beyond the bounds of a war torn country. The sort of question he might expect from relatives
or friends, and not an informant on ambiguous ground.

Draco decides on an easy version of the truth. "We were both assigned to kill each other." He
casts Hermione a sidelong glance, allowing himself a brief indulgence in the recollection.
"And we tried. For months, we were at each other's throat."

Merlin, the words sound so strange now on his tongue.

Hermione offers him a slow smile, before adding, "Until he decided he didn't want me dead
after all."

"Of course not. You're too valuable," George says with a roguish grin.

Hermione points a finger at him. "Exactly."

"Not quite how it happened," Draco drawls, "but close enough, I suppose. We weren't
working together per se, but we weren't actively trying to kill each other anymore. And
eventually..."

"We ended up in too deep," Hermione breathes. "Or at least, I did. Every time I thought I was
making the right decision, it led further in the wrong direction. I suppose I felt as though I'd
lost control. Like every time I thought I was on top of things, he was manipulating my strings
after all."

They've never spoken in this way about those early days all those months ago, before they
reached a point of true admiration and respect for each other. Before they fell in love. And for
Draco now, hearing her speak of the way he'd treated her leaves a solid lump in his throat.

Because all of it is true. He manipulated her, coaxing her into the role he wanted her to fulfil.
And while he can't bring himself to regret it given where everything has landed, a stir of
shame settles in the pit of his stomach. At the time, he only wanted her for what she could
give him.

Now, he knows so much better.

"Here's the thing," he says quietly, leaning forward in his seat. "Hermione is incredibly
powerful. I had plans—and I needed her help to carry them out. Along the way, everything
changed."

George's blue eyes narrow, tightening on Draco, as though he's searching for something just
beyond reach. "Why? Why marry if you'd been out to kill each other?"

The crux of the whole situation, even back then—the marital bonds. This deep, nearly
unending swell of power between them. The strength of it rings in Draco's blood even now.

And he suddenly, implicitly knows that it's what George wants to know. Needs to know.

It's what he would want to know, were the tables turned.

if someone with whom he shared a mutual hatred for years suddenly needed something of
him.

Draco tightens his grip on the bonds and says simply, "We were wed under the ancient Black
lineage bonds."

When victory flashes in George's eyes, Draco knows he was right. That this is what George
wanted laid bare between them. The reasoning behind all of this—behind why Hermione
agreed to work with him. The only way they've managed any of this; how they ultimately
intend to bring the war to a close.

"There it is," George murmurs. "I didn't think anyone was still crazy enough to use those."

Pansy gapes at Draco, arms folded across her chest. "You didn't."
In response, Draco pulls the ring from his fourth finger to reveal the band of black magic
embedded in his skin beneath it. She reaches across the table to yank his hands towards her,
peering close at the magic before releasing him.

"Shit," Pansy whispers. "I always wondered what you said to convince her."

Hermione snickers as Draco replaces his ring. "It took him some convincing to be sure."

"Until she wound up on the run from the resistance and had nowhere else to go," he quips.

In a way, it's indulgent to consider the way things played out early on. Amusing, almost.

"Show me," says George. "The magic."

Hermione's expression is uneasy when she looks towards Draco, but they're already in this
deep. And if this is the trust they have to offer George Weasley in order to earn his in
exchange, there's nothing else for it.

So Draco reaches into the bonds, nuzzling her side only for a moment, before he releases a
surge of power.

It's enough to shake the room, a low rumble rising around them, a sudden gust swirling
through the room and sending parchment scattering in every direction.

Hermione shoots him a smile, and he can feel her amusement through the bonds as black
clouds drift through the room and obscure the ceiling. A sudden crash of thunder makes
Pansy flinch in her seat, and the cloud that stops immediately over George releases a
downpour of rain.

It only lasts a moment before they subdue the magic again, and the room sets itself to rights.
Just a taste of the power, infinite in its manipulation and control.

Drenched in his seat, George stares at the two of them for a moment before a wide grin
spreads across his face. "Brilliant," he says, clapping his hands together once. He scrubs the
water from his short hair, eyes bright. "It's dark magic, yeah?"

Draco takes a delicate sip of his tea. "Very."

At the confirmation, the room falls quiet and sombre once more. "And you're going to use it
to put an end to things."

Hermione nods once. "We are."

Pansy picks at a cucumber sandwich, a devious smile curling her painted lips. She draws her
wand and waves it at George, drying his suit in a flippant gesture.

After another moment's deliberation, George sinks back into his seat. Draco can feel the
sudden shift in the room even before George speaks. "Your play against Warrington worked.
By revealing the scum he really is—combined with the infamous Harry Potter publicly
separating himself from the resistance—you've destroyed any remaining morale and caused
many of the lower-ranked fighters to disband. Some have left England entirely to my
knowledge."

The words are a balm to Draco's ragged and ruined soul. "Good," he says quietly. "That was
Hermione's doing."

"I saw the memory." George blows out a low whistle. "Right piece of shit, isn't he?"

"He is," Hermione allows, helping herself to another cup of tea. "So where does that leave
us?"

"Essentially, it leaves Warrington and his corrupt little squad of so-called leaders, along with
a small assortment of fighters who either didn't care or didn't have anywhere to go. Squared
off against a disorganised group of Death Eaters hellbent on revenge but with a commander
who hasn't fought in the field for years and doesn't remember the first thing about magical
warfare." George lifts a brow. "Your next move?"

Draco swallows, a sudden swell in his chest threatening to choke the breath from him.

He can't believe the words as they slide from his lips, after so long. "Our next move is to take
them both out."

Hermione thins her lips in a tight line at his side. Beneath the table, her fingers lock with his
own.

George drums his fingertips atop the table, eyes sliding between them. "What do you need
from me?"

"What information has your network passed along? Where are we at in the false
dissemination?" Draco asks, curious despite himself to learn everything that's been going on
while the group of them have been suspended in a vacuum with little to no news.

"Various bits of this and that," George says with a wave of one hand. "Ambiguous and
uncertain. Nothing that could directly be traced back as a lie—but we need to maintain a front
as reliable all the same. By the time most of them learn the information is false, we'll have
moved on to the next phase... yes?"

"Yes," Draco allows.

"And," George proceeds, "I am here to pass along whatever you need. If you were to, say...
require both the resistance and the Death Eaters to be together at a certain place or certain
time..."

Silence falls over the small group as the gravity of the suggestion settles in.

The inference that they might convince both sides they'll have the upper hand in an ambush.

Draco's mind whirs at the thought that they might arrange a confrontation to end all of this at
last. That George's network could advise people from both sides to make a move at a given
point.
That all of this could end.

"Yes," Hermione says softly. "I think we'll want to do that."

Draco can feel her through the bonds. The trepidation—the anticipation. The fragile, frayed
thread of hope.

"If I might make a recommendation," George offers. Draco nods, squeezing Hermione's hand
hard. A grin spreads across his face as Pansy smirks at his side. "I suggest chaos."

The night overhead is black and overbearing, thin wisps of cloud sliding across a bright
crescent moon.

Draco crests the hill in the park near the London house, finding Neville seated at the top.
From this vantage point, he can just see the bright dance of flames in the distance along the
outskirts of wizarding London.

For a moment he only stares, watching the fire flicker against the blackness.

Neville shifts, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"They really have no qualms about anything, do they?" Draco says as he folds his arms
against the chill.

"Nope," Neville says. "Not a one. Though it does feel weird—watching from here and not
fighting."

"That it does." Draco settles himself on the hilltop next to Neville, shaking his head. All of
the usual spells will be in place to deter Muggles and prevent them from seeing the extent of
the damage. But it's increasingly evident that both sides, dwindling in strength as they are,
have grown more and more reckless with every passing day.

And here they sit while London burns.

Neville chuckles, glancing away. "Sometimes I wonder how we all got to this point. How
nothing surprises me anymore—certainly not the depth of human antagonism."

"We grew up into it," Draco replies. The words feel robotic and lifeless as they slide from his
tongue. "We didn't have a choice."

"Didn't we?"

Silence hangs, deep and insidious, for a long moment as they both contemplate the thought.

"Maybe we did," Draco says. "Or maybe some of us did."

"Some of us definitely did," Neville says. "Half of our year got out before the fighting got too
bad. Maybe we ought to have left, too. Fuck pride or courage or whatever it was that kept us
here."
"Idealism," Draco says, hooking a thumb towards his companion. Then he thinks of himself
for a moment. "I think I was just trying to stay alive."

"Ironic," Neville notes. "When it kept you in the heart of danger."

"Yeah," Draco mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. "Honestly, fuck it all. Almost six
fucking years of this bullshit—and for what?"

The thought sobers them both, and they fall silent, watching the flames leap from a building
in the distance. Draco can only imagine the fighters still desperately chasing some form of
victory or defeat.

"For nothing," Neville says eventually. "For absolutely nothing at all. Is Theo at the house?"

"Yeah. He's playing cards with Hermione and Potter."

The words sound strangely foreign as they leave his mouth. For so many years, Draco has
been embroiled in conflict, always moving from one fight to the next, always as many steps
ahead as it takes to survive.

Now they're on the periphery, watching the war as outsiders despite everything they've done
in ushering it towards its demise. Waiting for the right time to tug loose the final threads and
watch everything collapse.

"I'm surprised the Aurors haven't done anything about this yet, to be honest," Neville says,
waving towards the distant flames. "Kingsley's been strengthening the DMLE. Calling in
Aurors from the continent to try and bring things under control."

"Good," Draco says. "He was a good choice for Minister."

"He will be," Neville agrees. "Once all of this is over. He's the leader we should have had
years ago. Things might have been different."

The sentiment allows some measure of peace to drift into Draco's fraught soul. That no
matter what else, if England is able to regain some sense of dignity once all of this is through,
this wasn't all for nothing.

Even if Draco never again finds his own solace here.

"What are you doing out here anyway?"

Neville shrugs once. "Dunno. Bit of a headache. Thought I'd get some fresh air."

Draco turns to assess him, from the tension in his shoulders to the shadows beneath his eyes.
And his blasted palm, still as infused with magic as it was when they did the spell to reach
Theo's mind.

"Something's wrong," he says. "Right? With you."

For a long moment, Neville doesn't respond. He sits still enough on the hill that Draco might
think he didn't even hear him if not for the fact that the night around them is silent.

"Are you dying?" Draco asks.

"We're all dying," he quips. "But no, I don't think so. Not to my knowledge."

Although Draco doesn't want to push if he doesn't want to talk about it, he needs to know if
Neville is unable to fight. If the upcoming confrontation will be forcing him into something
he can't handle.

"Sometimes I think about magic," Neville goes on, staring at the swirling vortex in his palm.
"And all the ways it impacts us even when we don't realise it. The ways it affects our lives as
magical beings."

"Deep," Draco notes.

"And," he goes on, jabbing an elbow into Draco's ribs, "that almost all of it goes on
independently of any of us who would seek to wield it. Magic doesn't need us—not in the
same ways as we need it. It never will."

Frowning, Draco mulls over the point, wondering what it has to do with the spell that Neville
enacted with the Asp Encircle.

Maybe nothing. Maybe it's simply stealing his sanity.

"Suppose you're right," he says at last. "But it's symbiotic. All magic comes from the earth.
Without us to draw it and wield it, everything would go stagnant. The balance of everything
would be uneven."

"And do you think any of this is even now?" Longbottom presses. "Wielders slaughtering
other wielders over... what? The right to use magic? The longevity of power in anyone's
given blood stream? Some giant fucking game of who can be more vicious than the other?"

"Of course not. Magic's been out of balance here for years."

"It's broken," Neville says, and his voice is hoarse. He drops his face into his hand, shaking
his head slowly. "It's all fucking broken."

For a moment, Draco's thrown back to months before when the man at his side had been his
prized prisoner. He thinks of the lengths he went to—the lengths he would have gone to—in
order to extract information he thought he needed at the time. The way he treated someone
he's come to view as a friend.

A sudden and deep swell of shame rises within him, a nauseating sludge in his soul.

"I'm sorry," he blurts, the words breaking free of their own accord. "For everything I did to
you."
Neville jerks his head up in surprise, and as they stare at each other for a long moment,
Draco's shocked to see his eyes grow glossy. His own throat warms.

"Never mind that," Neville says softly at last. "You were doing what you thought you needed
to do. We've all done fucked up things. I don't hold it against you."

When he opens his mouth, the words slide free before he can think better of it. "I know you
don't. But you honestly should. For a long time, I forgot to think of anyone but myself."

"I'm not going to." Neville stares at him hard. "You've given me an out. A way to live beyond
this. That's enough."

"Right."

They both glance away, discomfort prickling along Draco's skin as his gaze lands back on the
distant fighting, though the flames have guttered down now below the horizon. He wonders
whether the Aurors have arrived.

It strikes him as strange that the Ministry now has the power to subdue some of the fighting
—when for years, the war carried free reign across London and beyond, encouraged by a
corrupt and immobile Ministry.

The night air is cold on his bare skin, and Draco considers returning to the house when
Neville speaks again. He's staring at his palm again, tracing the magic with a fingertip.

"Tell me something," he says softly. "If you knew a thing... and you knew it could ruin
someone's final days on earth... would you tell them?"

The question strikes him square in the chest, and Draco squints at the moon. "Do I have the
right to tell them? Do I care what they think?"

"I don't know. And yes." Neville hesitates, then adds, "If someone thought to tell you
something like that, would you want to know? Or would you rather remain ignorant and
enjoy the time you have left?"

The dilemma weighs heavily on his chest, but at last Draco says, "No. I don't think I would
want to know. Not after everything we've been through—knowing the fragility of life. I think
I would simply want to carry on with the people I care about."

Time stretches out between them as Draco's mind turns the conversation over again, and
minutes pass before either of them speak.

"Yeah," Neville says at last. "I think I'd do the same. What good is knowing something is
going to happen if there's no way to stop it? If the person doesn't need to... I don't know, tie
up any loose ends or anything."

"Why does this not feel hypothetical?" Draco asks softly.

"It isn't." Neville shrugs, rises to his feet, and dusts himself off. "But it also isn't relevant. I'm
going to head back to the house."
Draco stares after him for a long moment before he stands to follow.

"Have you heard from Narcissa?"

Draco looks up, brows lifting, and his eyes land on Hermione's. "A couple of weeks ago, yes.
Why?"

"Okay." She settles on the edge of the bed, picking at a thread on the quilt as she
contemplates her next words. "I was just curious. She and your father are doing well?"

"I don't know about my father." He drops down next to her. "I don't know how involved he's
been in things since I left."

"Do you..." Hermione falters, reaching for his hand. "Do you think you want to warn him?"

Idly, Draco laces their fingers though he doesn't immediately respond. "I've gone back and
forth on it. Because if he doesn't believe me, he'll tell the Dark Lord of our plans and we can't
have that."

Hermione meets his gaze, hoping to convey her intentions in earnest. "I think you should. At
the very least, have your mother talk to him. She'll be devastated to lose him. And I think you
can rely on her to be careful about it."

"Yeah." Raking a hand through his hair, he reclines on the bed and tugs her down with him.
Hermione waves a hand to douse the lights and allows herself the indulgence, tucking close
into his chest. His low voice against her hair shoots through her. "I don't know. I can't just
allow him to walk into this without knowing. But it's a precarious line because at the end of
the day, I don't know if I can trust him."

"I think your mother understands that," she says. "Hopefully well enough to keep him
without giving up all that she knows."

It's a narrow line, because if he says the wrong thing his father will turn on him in an effort to
seek Voldemort's favour for himself. They don’t know the extent of the matter, and Hermione
knows he hates this situation all the more for it. That, for everything he's done—his original
hopes of protecting his family—it's all been corrupted from his original purpose.

The fact that he even has to consider whether it's safe to protect his father from what's
coming.

"At the end of the day," he says softly, "I don't think I could live with myself if I didn't try. If
I never had a chance to clear the air."

Provided he makes it through.

The thought sits uncomfortably between them.

"Merlin, I can't believe all of this has happened,” he says. “That we're actually talking about
these things."
"George just needs us to choose a date," she breathes.

"Everyone's scattered right now," Draco says. "The resistance is still reeling, and the Death
Eaters are as disorganised as we can hope to find them. I think we need to move soon."

"Luna came by last night while you and Neville were outside," she murmurs, a smile tugging
at her mouth. "Apparently Cassius sent her out to find some healing supplies, so she did and
brought them here instead of back to the resistance. She's officially moving into Grimmauld
Place for the time being."

Draco releases a low laugh. "Good. We don't want her caught with the resistance when
everything goes down."

"No," Hermione says, "and Harry least of all. No matter that he says they're just casual, I
think he's grown to care about her. I think he's just afraid of how things will play out."

He hums, considering the thought, then says, "I used to think I didn't care about anyone else.
My mother—maybe Theo. Now I feel responsible for keeping everyone safe. Especially
you."

"That's because," she whispers, "you aren't as bad as you think you are." She presses a kiss to
his mouth, finding his gaze searing through her. "And for the record, everyone is capable of
keeping themselves safe. Even me."

She tugs on the magical thread between them, nudging him through the other side. He
rewards her with a teasing smile.

"I know you are," Draco says, twisting their magic up together. His expression falls stoic.
"But there's nothing left here for me if you don't make it through. The only reason I want to
survive this war is because you deserve a better life than I've given you."

Her chest tightens at the words, heart throbbing until it hurts. She stares at him, brushing her
fingers along his cheekbone, and kisses him again, deeper.

"You've already given me so much more than I thought I would have," she says softly.
"You've given me a chance at something different, when I thought I was going to die in this
war, just another fighter. I want something else too, more than anything—with you. But you
don't owe me anything."

She can read the emotion deep in his eyes as he gazes at her, shaking his head. "On the
contrary," he says, hands tightening around her hips, "I owe you everything."

Her own eyes sting with the hot press of tears. "I love you."

"I love you," he replies gruffly, shifting her onto her back. He gazes down at her, tugging the
hem of her jumper upwards, "and I want to spend the rest of our lives making sure you know
that."

"I do," she whispers, arching her back as he tugs the garment over her head, hands dropping
to her jeans. She reaches for his shirt, the pair of them making quick work of each other's
clothes as they close the space between them.

Draco's bare skin on her own sears her flesh, her heart racing a desperate cadence as his
mouth finds hers, tongue delving between her lips and tangling with her own. Desire throbs
in her core as she winds her legs against his hips, his hardening cock nudging against her.

But he draws back, eyes meeting hers in the dark. Presses a kiss to her jaw. Trails his mouth
along her collarbone, each of her breasts, down along her abdomen.

A low moan slides from her lips when he kisses her inner thigh, spreading her legs apart. His
breath is warm on her core as she arches from the bed, arousal hot beneath her skin.

"Draco," she gasps, lacing her fingers through his hair as her eyelids flutter.

Her walls clench, desperate for the friction, for the heat she longs to find on the other side of
his touch.

"Hermione," he murmurs back, the tip of his tongue flicking out to meet her clit. She tightens
her grip on his hair, a whimper breaking free when he drags his tongue the length of her.

As he buries himself between her legs, coaxing her pleasure forth, Hermione gives in,
allowing herself to dissolve under his hands and mouth. Nonsensical cries slide from her lips
as he focuses his efforts, every touch setting her body alight.

She gasps his name, legs trembling, heart racing, vision darkening as he pushes her closer to
the edge.

And when Hermione spills over, her body releasing and mind transcending, she loses herself
for long moments. Heavy breaths fall from her lips, head sinking into the pillow, and she eyes
Draco with a lazy smile as he plants a kiss to her inner thigh.

His grey eyes gleam as he drags his tongue along his lips, and she tugs him close into a kiss.

For a moment, she can't comprehend the ways everything has changed. How Draco has
become the epicentre of her life—her other half in so many ways.

Emotion stings at her eyes as she stares at him, her chest tightening painfully. She presses a
kiss to his jaw, his throat, his chest, averting her gaze lest he see the stormy tumult within her.

He pulls her atop him, bringing her into another kiss that threatens to ravage her soul. And as
she sinks down onto him, melting into him and the way he makes her feel, Hermione allows
everything else to drift free. For all of her fears and doubts to fall from her like an outgrown
cloak.

She gives in, losing herself in the moment, relinquishing everything she needs to control in
favour of this, of them together against everything else.

When she breaks under his touch, the tears slip free. Burying her face in his neck, heavy
breaths falling from her lips, she whispers, "Please don't leave me alone."
 "I won't," he says, etching the words against her skin with his lips.

"Promise me," she breathes.

It isn't a promise he can make—not a promise she can expect. But he makes it anyway.

"I promise."

Hermione drifts to sleep in peace despite the lingering unrest in her soul.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for reading, as always. It means more than I can say, and your
lovely comments always make me smile. Home stretch?
 Chapter 48
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

"I want to show you something."

Hermione looks up at the sombre tone of Draco's voice, something tightening within her.
"What is it?"

For a long moment, he doesn't respond, and she can't help but think this is a bad thing. He's
always so smooth and self-assured that on the rare occasion his vulnerability rears its head,
there's always a reason.

"Will you take a short trip with me?" he asks.

"A trip?" Hermione turns back to the house, surprised. "But we have that meeting later with
—"

"It won't take long," he says, offering a hand. "Please."

She doesn't know how to deny such a request, nor does she want to. But Hermione can't
rationalise the stinging in her heart as she acquiesces, his larger hand engulfing hers.

And she has only a moment for her confusion before she feels the Portkey activate.

When they land, the air feels different. The cold chill of London has been replaced by
warmth and humidity—something that feels entirely at odds with the sullenness in her soul as
they prepare for a battle that could be the end of them all.

Draco's eyes track her as she takes a step away, cautious, hesitant, as though he doesn't know
how she will react.

It hits her all at once when the hint of salt on the air registers.

"Draco," Hermione says, steeling herself for the truth, "are we in Australia?"

He doesn't immediately respond, dropping his head into a thoughtful tilt. "I know you haven't
wanted to come out here because you don't want to think too far ahead. But I just..." His
voice drops away to nothing, pain flickering through his eyes. "I wanted to remind you what's
at stake here. What's still ahead of you after all of this comes to an end."

Despite herself, she can't take his words at face value. Can't help but to dig deeper, to indulge
the warning bells in the back of her mind.

"What are you saying?" she whispers. "We'll be able to do all of this together."

Something like a smile, but unbearably sad, crosses his face. "Just in case we aren't together."
"We'll be together," she grinds out, but even to her own ears the words sound desperate. "We
have everything planned out—we've got the bonding magic and—"

"And the Dark Lord knows about it now. We'll probably be fine," he says, cutting her off, but
the gentle words carry a cool finality. "But I want you to remember everything else you have.
In case things go sideways."

A trick. Bringing her here—showing her where her parents have been for all these years—is
all a sort of trick to convince her to put herself first when they face the inevitable conflict to
come.

He's always been cunning. Forever a strategist.

"We're going to survive this together," she reiterates, clenching her jaw hard lest she start to
cry. "And don't you dare try to claim otherwise."

His eyes are soft but he doesn't flinch. "If only one of us makes it out, Hermione, it's going to
be you."

She can hear all of the words he isn't saying. That if it comes to it, he'll put her safety ahead
of his to make sure she survives.

"Not acceptable," she breathes. "You aren't allowed to leave me alone."

"You'll be alright without me," he says, clipped and emotionless, and she wishes she could
break open the shield with which he's cloaked himself. "You're the one who deserves to
survive. To see a life beyond all of this."

"I don't—" The words slide out as a gasp, a borderline sob, and she wraps her arms across her
front as if she might hold the pieces of herself together. As if, in any plane of existence, she
might be able to carry on without him at her side. "I can't—I don't want to be here."

"I've looked into it," Draco says as if she hasn't spoken, the line of his jaw hard. It occurs to
her that this is how he keeps himself together. How he can move towards what's coming with
his head on straight. "Spells and counter-curses to undo whatever you might have done to
your parents' memories. I have a notebook of research tucked away in the house for you. You
have options—and you can get them back. To be honest, I'm quite certain the bonds are
strong enough that you would simply be able to use the magic to counteract the spell you cast
originally."

"I won't be able to get you back," she grinds out. When he only glances away, pursing his
lips, she exclaims, "Look at me! You are not leaving this world without me!"

Draco blinks at her.

"It's a contingency," he says softly, and the words are less convincing than any she's ever
heard him utter. "Just in case things go downhill. I need you to make sure you get yourself
out."

"Then we'll both get out."

Through several shattering heartbeats, they scowl at each other. But Hermione refuses to give
on this—she can't.

"What good is all this powerful magic we've built if it doesn't help us stay together in the
end?" she asks, scarcely a breath.

Draco shakes his head, half-hearted, and his shoulders fall. "I never meant to make it out of
this. You knew that from the start."

"You promised me," she whispers, "that whatever happens, we'll fight together. Because no
matter what you might think, I won't be okay without you. You're the most important person
in my life, and I can't even begin to think how I might go on without you."

Silent tears prickle at the corners of her eyes and slide free of their own accord, streaking
tracks down her cheeks as she stares at him unblinking.

He releases a sigh, pulling her close into his chest. "It isn't my plan to leave you alone. I want
to make it through this, if for no reason other than to see what might wait for us on the other
side. But I simply don't want to leave you with any illusions. And if it comes to you or me, I
have to put you first."

"That doesn't sound like you," she sniffs, swiping at her tears.

Draco releases a wry, humourless laugh. "You're right. It doesn't. At least, the version of me
before I had you."

"Don't leave me," she breathes. Squeezes his hand tight. "Please. Have some faith in us."

"I have endless faith in you," he says quietly. "I only know that we've lost the element of
surprise we could have used when we first took the bonds. He knows we're coming, and he
knows what we're capable of. He'll have strengthened the obscure magic that protects him—
and even I don't know how it operates."

"We know we can beat him."

His eyes slide up to meet hers, glossy storm-cloud grey. His fingers twist to entwine with
hers, and he nods off towards the distance.

A sudden wave of trepidation seizes her chest as she follows his gaze, some part of her afraid
of what she might see. Even as she knows—moments before she spots them.

Hermione sees her dad first, a full head of unruly curls like her own, and she can scarcely see
her mother through the sudden blur of her vision. She grapples hard at Draco's hand,
squeezing tight, unable to bear the sight of her parents after so long.

After the way she removed herself from their memories, sent them across the world, and went
six long years without seeing them again.

Not even once.

"I can't," she gasps, despair a bitter twist in her heart as it plays a mournful rhythm. "I can't
approach them."

Because she knows deep within that she can't allow herself this. Not until everything is done
and dealt with. Not until the war no longer haunts her as a permanent fixture in her life, and
she can begin to come to terms with everything she's done.

With the person she is now.

"It's okay," Draco says, pressing his mouth against her curls. "You don't have to do anything
now. I just wanted you to see—to know that they're still here. And no matter what else,
they're still your parents. They'll remember you if you want them to. They'll accept you, and
forgive you for whatever you fear they might not."

Hermione swipes the tears away, determined to make the most of this moment, even though
every second of it is bittersweet.

She almost forgot what they looked like, trapped for so long in her memory.

Even now, years later, her mother is beautiful; dark, expressive eyes and a bright smile. As a
girl, Hermione could always understand exactly how her father fell for her mother. And her
father, tall and sturdy, a dimple in one cheek, always quick to a smile and full of knowledge.

She watches as they draw closer, walking the path ahead of them, carefree smiles on their
faces as they engage in easy conversation. Hermione watches, unable to stem the flow of
tears. And only for a moment, her father's focus lands on her.

Just for a second, his smile falters—but then it returns. Something warm and reassuring, and
though she knows he doesn't remember her, it doesn't matter. Because he's still her father, and
no magic can undo that.

"I can't do this," she gasps, clenching Draco's hand harder, almost unwittingly, in her grip.

"You can," he says. "And soon you will."

And she knows right then that whatever game he meant to play in showing her this, whatever
resolve he meant to inspire, he's achieved it. Because at this moment, all Hermione wants is
the chance to come back, to set things right with her parents after six long years.

She's missed them more than she allowed herself to think about. More than she can rightly
comprehend.

Her heart feels like it might simply burst through her chest in its haste, and she doesn't know
how to set herself to rights after this.

Tugging Draco close as her parents carry on down the road, as though her life hasn't just
undertaken a monumental shift simply at the sight of them, she gives herself over to her grief
on the edge of the park.

"I hate you for this," she breathes, clinging to the fabric of his shirt.
"I know."

"And I'll never forgive you if you aren't with me when we help them."

Sadness flashes in his eyes, belying the smirk that tugs at his mouth. "I know," he says again.
"But you don't need me for anything that comes next. I promise."

"You're wrong," she whispers, turning back to face him. He brushes the tears from her cheeks
and she lets him, despite that she feels hollow with every second that ticks past. "And if you
don't fight to stay with me for everything after this, I'll haunt you from this world into the
next, Draco Malfoy."

"After a good long while, I hope," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her brow.

His flippancy stings, even though she knows why he's doing it. Why he's acting as though it
doesn't matter if he doesn't survive.

Because they knew all along their chances were slim. They've always known the odds are
against them, and even now, even when the end could be so near, that hasn't changed. Their
biggest challenge is still ahead, still looming with every breath they take.

And no matter what power they possess, there are still so many variables. Their enemy still
seeks to end them instead of allowing them near enough to end him.

Fear keeps her from sleep every night as the final confrontation draws near. And no matter
what they do, no matter how many details they organise, how many times they go through
everything that is to come.

They still don't know if they'll make it out of this in one piece.

If Draco wants to make sure she stays alive, she'll only have to fight harder to ensure it's him
who comes through this.

Because Hermione's never been afraid of death. Not for years. But what she does fear is
taking on the world alone, without him at her side. And she knows with every thread of her
being that she can't let that happen, no matter how the battle goes.

"Okay," she breathes at last, drawing strength from the idea that she might one day see her
parents again. That they might not hate her forever, and that she might be allowed some small
shred of hope. "I've seen what I needed to see. And we'll come back. After."

"After," he agrees, bringing her close to him. "We'll figure this out, just like everything else."

She notes he doesn't say anything more about it—and so neither does she. And maybe they
can pretend just a little longer that everything will go right and they might finally get a
chance at the life she dreams of night after night.

The days slide past, and Hermione doesn't know what to make of them anymore.
Every detail feels as though it's arranged.

George and his network of informants have passed along false information to what remains
of the resistance. To the discordant mob that used to be the Death Eaters.

The magic in the bonds is strengthened in such cohesive force that Hermione can hardly
focus on anything else.

And all around her, the mood is subdued.

Harry and Luna are seated on the sofa in quiet conversation while Theo and Neville linger in
the kitchen. Draco sinks into a seat at the kitchen table across from Hermione, scrubbing a
hand through his hair.

He plants a blank sheet of parchment and a self-inking quill on the table in front of him,
dropping his head over the back of his chair. As one, the room's focus shifts towards him.

"Is there any reason," he drawls, "why we're prolonging this?"

"No," says Neville, pulling up a seat at the table. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking..." Draco straightens in his seat, drumming his fingernails on the table. "That
we're putting off the inevitable because none of us is ready to face that this is going to
happen. And that it might not go well."

Theo meets Hermione's gaze, shifting on the spot. She can't help the way she searches out
Harry and Luna, her heart seizing in her chest.

"Of course it isn't going to go well," Neville says gruffly. "But what, out of the last five years,
has gone well?"

Before Draco can respond, before the rest of the room can wrap their heads around it, Neville
reaches for Draco's parchment and quill, situating it in front of himself. He scrawls two
words on the page.

Two days.

Neville gives the rest of the room a moment to object, and when no one says anything, he
rolls it up into a tight scroll and hands it to the owl perched inside the window ledge.

They all watch through the window for long minutes after the bird vanishes, and Hermione
becomes acutely aware of her pulse beating behind her ears.

"Two days," Draco says, giving voice to the sentiment, the fear that's taken the room.
"George will make it happen." His eyes drift up to find Hermione's, and his foot nudges hers
under the table. "I don't know about anyone else, but I could use a fucking drink."

An hour later, Draco sips his third glass of whisky at the kitchen table, observing Theo and
Neville involved in the most obscure yet pedantic game of cards he's ever seen.
"I don't think either of you really know the rules," he comments, leaning back in his seat. It's
been so long since he's allowed himself to unwind even a little—aside from the few
wonderful days he spent with Hermione in Spain—and the whisky feels smooth on his
tongue.

He's always forced himself to maintain a level head. To keep his guard up no matter what.

And now, safe within his own wards, feeling on the precipice of something that will either go
well or it won't, a not-insignificant part of him wants to enjoy an evening with the people he's
come to view as friends.

"We know the rules, you just have to learn them," Theo scoffs, nearly knocking Neville's
potted plant to the floor as he reaches across the table. Draco catches the pot and sets it gently
on the floor.

"I don't want to play," Draco says, eyelids fluttering shut. "It looks like shite anyway."

Neville squints at the cards in his hand, and Draco can't tell whether he's attempting to make
a play or if his vision is blurry from the alcohol. They've each had more to drink than him,
and Draco considers whether he ought to have a few sober-up potions on hand just in case
something happens.

He sinks deep into his seat. Instinctively, he reaches for the thread of magic that connects him
and Hermione, relieved to find her tangle with him.

Sometimes the days when he operated alone, refusing to let anyone else in, feel like a vague
memory in light of how thoroughly things have changed. It's surreal in so many ways.

He jerks his focus back to the game when Theo smacks Neville's hand away from the deck.

"It's not your draw," he clips.

"It absolutely is," Neville retorts.

"Not," Theo huffs. "I still have a play."

Draco rolls his eyes. "This is absurd. Where did you even learn this game anyway?"

For a moment, neither of them speaks as they communicate something silent.

Then Neville says, "Seventh year. We learned it from a book of card games Theo found in
some dusty corner of the library."

Draco's gaze slides between them, caught off guard. He had known the two became close
back then but never thought to ask about it.

Now, he feels the stinging of shame that he didn't.

"How did that happen, anyway?" he asks softly. "You two."

Theo's expression shifts with discomfort, and he lays his cards face down on the table.

"It was when the Carrows became especially bad." He hesitates, focus sliding to Neville.
"You remember how it was, Draco—they wanted us to do their dirty work for them."

Draco remembers. Even with all the atrocities he's committed in service to the Dark Lord, he
can still remember what they were forced to do. The young students' screams.

"Yeah," he says, voice hoarse.

"This one," Theo goes on with a nod across the table, "kept stepping in to take punishments
for the lower years. Bloody Gryffindors."

The air falls sombre and Neville offers a half-hearted chuckle. "Let's just say I spent a couple
of months growing familiar with Theo's Cruciatus." Then his face softens. "Until he stopped."

"I was sick of your dumb face," Theo says with a snicker. "And one of the others figured out
a way to mimic the effects of the spell well enough to appease the Carrows. Everything but
the pain."

"You did?" Draco's head snaps to face him. "No one ever told me about that."

"Yeah, mate." Theo's cheeks grow pink. "No one knew if you would give up the game to
Snape and the Carrows. You were the most loyal of us."

A deep pool of shame swells within the pit of his stomach. Suddenly, he finds he can't look at
either of them and his cheeks burn. It strikes him all at once as though the thought carries
physical weight that he started pushing Theo away even then.

They've been friends since childhood—or maybe Draco was never the friend Theo really
needed.

Not if he's learning of all this now. That Neville was there for Theo when Draco wasn't.

His fingers tighten around the glass of whisky, and he takes a swig only for something to do,
the sharp burn of it hot in his veins.

"I wouldn't have done that," he says at last, and he wonders if they believe him. "Not to you."

"Yeah," Theo says softly, clapping a hand to Draco's shoulder. "I know that now. But at the
time... I mean, we all would have paid if they found out what was really going on. Merlin..."
He releases a low, humourless chuckle. "There was a time when all of that felt so important.
Getting through Hogwarts with Death Eaters running the school. And look at all that waited
for us."

The air remains stifled, tense with the memories swirling around them.

"It isn't any wonder we tried to find ways to distract ourselves back then," Neville says,
gesturing towards the card game they're playing now. "And I guess we sort of just fell into
something."
Theo clears his throat, leaning back in his seat. "When the war got bad and the sides became
black and white, Neville and I lost contact for a long time. Until one day we saw each other at
a skirmish and... I don't even remember exactly how it all went down. But it was shortly after
that I fell into the role with Foray."

Draco wonders why he never asked after all these details before. Maybe in light of everything
else going on, it didn't feel as important.

He leans forward, not quite able to meet either of their eyes. "I apologise that I wasn't there.
Not like I should have been. Those last years feel like a blur now after everything else." He
glances at Neville, brows furrowing. "And I'm glad he had you."

"Fuck off," Theo huffs. "You had enough on your plate. We all did. I never held it against
you."

He's never deserved a friend like Theo Nott, but Draco is just selfish enough to want to keep
him anyway. "I was just... I don't know. Worried after my parents. Stressed out about
everything going on at the manor when the Dark Lord set up camp. Merlin, it is weird how
everything felt so bad then. We had no idea what was coming."

"None," Theo says softly. He reaches for his cards, a grim smile tugging at his mouth as he
glances from Draco to Neville. "But we all know better now what really matters."

Neville's answering smile is the quiet reassurance Draco's soul needs. "That we do."

Hermione finds Harry and Luna in the yard, the pair of them perched on a picnic table they
scrounged from a secondhand store. The moon is high in the cloudless sky, and Hermione
settles herself at Harry's side.

"Hello, Hermione," Luna says softly, peering up at the sky. "Lovely night, isn't it?"

Hermione wonders how Luna's survived this long without losing that whimsical side that's
always struck her as unique—while simultaneously, she's glad of it. That despite all the
things this war has ruined, it hasn't killed Luna's spirit.

And she knows Harry has a soft spot for the blonde as well. Maybe he has for longer than
he's admitted to her.

Until recently, there was no sense in having hope for anything. Now, she wants to think that
Harry and Luna might have a chance at a future together.

If all that comes of this is a chance for her friends to be happy in a different world, she'll take
it.

This war has never been any real sort of existence for any of them. For Harry, who spent his
childhood embroiled in misery, then escaped to the wizarding world only to realise he had a
vastly powerful nemesis since he was a child. Even then, they ought to have seen it coming—
but as children they never expected everything that was to come.
That they would spend all of their youth and early twenties fighting for their lives.

And for Luna, bright and eccentric, a dreamer more than anyone Hermione knows. She hasn't
had much opportunity to spend time with Luna, separated as they were in different
safehouses, but she can still see the spark in her that war hasn't quite managed to dull.

All at once, Hermione mourns the life they could have had. If the war had ended at the Battle
of Hogwarts as they'd hoped.

She tries to imagine the sort of people they would have grown into, and she can only imagine
they're all shades of who they might have been.

For the last few years, she's tried to avoid even thinking about things like this. Dwelling on
what ifs and what could have happened is dangerous in a world of strife, when every day
counts and she's been forced to keep focused on any given task ahead of her.

As a result she's never allowed herself to think of the future—but the past haunts her like an
unwanted guest.

Now, as they watch the war's hold on England wane and combust, everything feels so much
more real. Like something else might actually be within reach at last.

Hermione can't decide whether the thought is hopeful or heartbreaking.

She thinks of Neville, remembers the soft but brave young boy he had been—and looks now
to the trained killer the war has produced. Of Theo, who she never knew, but knows he never
wanted to play a role in this war.

And Draco... who isn't even remotely the spoiled young boy he had been when she first met
him at eleven.

They've all had to adapt, but she doesn't think all of it has been for the best.

Hermione forces a smile, realising she hasn't answered. "It's a beautiful night," she murmurs.
The air is chilly with winter's touch, but they've cast temperate spells on the yard. It's a rare
clear night where they can see a few stars spotting the sky, and Hermione finds herself
searching the night for something she can't name.

Luna sighs, resting her head on Harry's shoulder. He glances towards her before wrapping her
into his arms, and Hermione's smile grows a little truer. Harry doesn't say anything, and she
recognises the part of him that's quiet and pensive, exhausted by the world around him and
searching, desperately, for a spot of reprieve.

"I think it will be nice when all of this is over," Luna says quietly. "And I try to tell myself
everything will be alright, because even if it isn't, I'd rather spend my final days with peace in
my heart than worrying about an outcome I can't control."

Melancholy seizes Hermione's heart tight like a vise, even as a few pieces crumble for each
of her friends.
Exhaustion grows within him as the night creeps towards dawn, and by the time the rest of
them return to Grimmauld Place, Draco has managed to subdue most of his anxiety.

He finds Hermione settled on the sofa, a sleepy smile on her face as he takes the seat next to
her.

Hermione remains silent, and he wonders whether she's thinking about her parents. About
their friends. About what's coming for them in the days to come. He can't imagine a world
where she isn't.

It was a low move to take her to Australia—to show her what she could have if she fights to
survive this. But Draco can't bear the thought of her dying to keep him safe—when he's done
the most horrific things of them all to survive.

He wonders whether she'll hold it against him if he doesn't survive the altercation to come.

The thought hits him in the chest harder than he expects.

There's no legacy for him at the end of all of this, he already knows. He's known that for
years, and knows that most people will only remember him for the negative he caused. For all
the death he wrought at Voldemort's right hand.

But Hermione... if he dies in two days, she might remember him for the piece of shit he's
always been—and not all of these memories they've built together. The future they've allowed
themselves to dream up.

He can't handle the thought.

"Have a drink with me," he says, reaching for a partial bottle. He summons two empty
glasses, pouring a small measure into each, trying to ignore the shake in his hand. To her
credit, Hermione doesn't mention it either.

She takes one of the glasses from him, pressing it against his own.

His eyes burn.

"To what comes next," he says, the words a hoarse whisper. He can't meet her gaze as he
takes a swig, focusing on the hot burn of the whisky as it runs down his throat and heats his
insides.

She remains silent for a long moment after she sets her glass down, then says, "To us." Her
eyes are bright but clear when he forces himself to look at her. "To something beautiful
coming out of this mess."

A breath catches in his chest, and moisture stings at the corners of his eyes. A wry huff of
laughter slides free. "To everything we've accomplished."

A soft smile lingers on her lips. "To love in the midst of war."
 It's the most cliche of all, and if his heart didn't hurt so much, he might roll his eyes. He only
captures her mouth in a kiss, something cold and desperate nudging at the back of his mind.
That she needs to survive above all else, and he'll do anything within his power to make sure
it happens.

Chapter End Notes

Please note: Chapter 49 will not post next week, but two Tuesdays from now on May
30th. It's a big one, and I want to be sure I have the time to give you all the best chapter
I can. Thanks for understanding <3

And thank you all so much for reading. I really hope you enjoyed today's chapter - the
thought of this story coming to an end is getting to me lol. Take care friends xo
 Chapter 49
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione jolts awake from a restless sleep, mind and heart racing with the after-effects of a
nightmare. The sky is still dark beyond the window, only the slightest hint of pale yellow
beginning to rise above the horizon.

Draco's eyes are fixed on her in the darkness. His lids are heavy, the skin beneath them
shadowed, and his lips part to speak though he remains silent.

It feels too early to be awake, while at the same time, like she's missed something important.
Like time has no bearing.

"Did you sleep?" she asks, voice hoarse.

He shakes his head a little, blinking hard, as though he can't quite keep his eyes open.

Hermione presses her eyes shut again for a long moment. "You need to get some sleep."

Magic shimmers in the room, floating in the air above the bed, and she wonders whether she
released some shreds of the bonding magic in her sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time.

"Can't," he says at last, sinking half of his face deeper into his pillow. "Tried."

Her heart sinks at the uncertainty in his voice. For as long as they've been together, he's been
nothing if not sure of himself, of the steps they've taken to reach this point. Now, his eyes on
her are lost, as though he doesn't know where they are. Where they're going.

A sudden burst of panic swells within her. She sucks in a sharp breath, the situation crashing
down on her all at once.

"We can do this," she whispers, uncertain whether it's for his benefit or his own. "It's going to
be fine."

Draco doesn't respond, his gaze remaining on her.

"We're prepared," she insists.

At last, he says, "And if it isn't? If we're not?"

An impulsive thought hangs on the tip of her tongue, and though she doesn't dare speak it,
she knows it's on his mind as well. The thought is almost surreal.

Then they'll die.

And all of this—everything they've done to try and end the war, to restore some sense of
order to the world around them—will be for nothing.

Her eyes spike with hot tears, but she doesn't have the energy to push them back.

"Then at least we'll be together," she whispers. Because it's all she can manage.

It's the only reassurance she can find. That if they're going to die today, they won't be alone.

It does little to console the despair in her soul.

Because they don't know what's ahead of them, and none of them know if they'll see another
sunset. If they'll wake up again tomorrow.

They've tried so hard and so long to keep the melancholy at bay, and now that Hermione's
allowed herself down this road, the fracture in her heart spreads wide.

All of a sudden, she doesn't have any more words.

She only stares at Draco, silent tears spilling across her cheek and into her pillow, and she
wishes all of this were a nightmare, that none of this had truly happened. That she might
simply wake up into a different existence entirely.

He reaches for her, as if to brush away the tears, but drops his hand partway.

They need to be strong and united today, if ever, but a wall of fatigue crashes down that she
can feel through both sides of the bond. As though they've reached the edge of their
capabilities, moments too soon.

So she blinks back the tears as well as she can, shifting slightly towards him; an effort to seek
comfort in his presence if nothing else.

Draco releases a sigh, wrapping her into his arms, and draws her close. She can feel his
heartbeat, rapid against his cool skin, and there's this. That he's alive. They're both still alive,
against all the odds they've already faced.

Neither of them knows what the day will hold, but she has nothing left to hold onto but this.

She rests her cheek against his heart, winds her arms around him, and lets her eyes fall shut.
His lips brush her temple, a barely there touch, and through the bonds she can feel everything
they can't speak out loud.

It's tentative and on the verge of helpless, but it's all she has.

And she clings to that last thread as she slides back into sleep.

All of Draco's thoughts and motivations are a riot of chaos, and he wishes they would settle.
He didn't sleep a wink, too many fears keeping him from rest. He already knows he'll regret
it, but there's nothing for it. The sun is up, the day is upon them—and he has no choice but to
proceed forward according to the plan.

It won't be the first time he's fought without sleep.

The only thing that concerns him is that his reflexes are slow, his body and mind sluggish,
and if he puts Hermione in danger over it he'll never forgive himself.

She sits at the kitchen table, staring down a partial bowl of cereal though her skin is a little
green.

"How would you feel," she says without looking up, "if your last meal was a soggy bowl of
cereal?"

Draco grimaces at the morbid statement. "Best not let it be the last."

Still, she vanishes the bowl and rises to her feet, slipping away towards the bedroom. They've
both been on edge for the past two days, despite the number of battles they've been involved
in over the years.

It should feel instinctive. But something about today doesn't feel like anything else.
Something about knowing what's in the works—how this could all play out if the details go
as they should.

Hermione's despair makes it along the bond to reach him, and Draco lingers in the doorway
with a sigh. She pulls on her leather boots from her days in the resistance, loading herself up
with as many blades as he's ever seen on her at once. Never mind the way extraneous magic
has been pouring off her for days.

That there's so much raw magic built up between them that Draco sometimes finds himself
suffocating under the power of it.

He’s always known them to be her armour.

"Hey," he says softly, sinking into the bed at her side. He grazes her fingers with his own,
relieved when she links her hand with his. "We're going to do this, and it is what it is. Yeah?"

"Yeah," she breathes. "I just—there are so many things that could—"

"There's nothing more we can do." He forces himself to meet her gaze. "And stressing out
about matters beyond our control isn't going to help anything."

"You didn't sleep."

Draco shrugs, glancing away. "I'll be fine."

He doesn't know how to tell her that fear kept him awake all night. Fear that he might never
again see her. That he didn't want to squander his last hours with her in something so
frivolous as sleep.